
_ P f? 4 o- / ,C 

Class J < - 

Book 



THE 






COMPLETE WORKS 



OF 



L. E. LAN DON 



CONTAINING 



ROMANCE AND REALITY, 

FRANCE SC A CARRARA, 

TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY 

LIFE, 
ETHEL CHURCHILL, 
THE BOOK OF BEAUTY, 



IMPROVISATRICE, 
THE TROUBADOUR, 
VENETIAN BRACELET, 
GOLDEN VIOLET, 
VOW OF THE PEACOCK, 
EASTER GIFT, &c, &c. 



TWO VOLUMES IN ONE. 



BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY. 

NEW YORK : J. C. DERBY. 
1856. 






In Exchange 
Brc"A/:a Onr >rsity 
08T % 1 1S33 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



PREFACE. 



Rousseau says, nobody reads prefaces. I 
suspect there is more truth in the assertion 
than one is quite willing to admit ; for a pre- 
face is a species of literary luxury, where an 
author, like a lover, is privileged to be ego- 
tistical ; and really it is very pleasant to dwell 
upon our own thoughts, hopes, fears and feel- 
ings. But all this is laying a very " flatter- 
ing unction to our souls;" for who really 
enters into our thoughts, cares for our hopes, 
allows for our fears, or sympathizes with our 
feelings ] The gratitude and the modesty of 
an author are equally thrown away. Our 
readers only open our pages for amusement: 
if they find it, well and good — if not, our 
most eloquent pleading will not make them 
read on. The term " courteous reader" is as 



much a misnomer as any ot the grandilo- 
quent titles of the Great Mogul, Emperor 
of the World — which means a league round 
Delhi. 

Prefaces want reform quite as much as 
Parliament: so I beg to retrench the grati- 
tude, modesty, &c, usual on such occasions. 
Piron used to observe, that the introductory 
speeches made when a member was elected 
to the French Institute were quite superflu- 
ous, and that the new Academician needed 
only to say, "Messieurs, grand merci ,•" while 
the Director should answer, " 77 rfy a pas de 
quoi." I am sure that when the author be- 
gins his "grand merci" to the public, that 
public may very well reply "II rty a pas da 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



CHAPTER I. 

"It was an ancient venerable hall."— Crabbe. 
" This is she, 
Our consecrated Emily."— Wordsworth. 

Such a room as must be at least a century's 
remove from London, large, white, and wain- 
scoted ; six narrow windows, red curtains most 
ample in their dimensions, an Indian screen, 
a present in which expectation had found 
"ample space and verge enough" to erect 
theories of their cousin the nabob's rich lega- 
cies, ending, however, as many such expect- 
ations do, in a foolish marriage and a large 
family ; a dry-rubbed floor, only to have been 
stepped in the days of hoops and handings ; 
and some dozen of large chairs covered with 
elaborate tracery, each chair cover the busi- 
ness of a life spent in satin stitch. On the 
walls were divers whole length portraits, 
most pastoral-looking grandmammas, when a 
broad green sash, a small straw hat, whose 
size the very babies of our time would dis- 
dain, a nosegay somewhat larger than life, a 
lamb tied with pink riband, concocted a shep- 
herdess just stepped out of an eclogue into a 
picture. Grandpapas by their side, one hand, 
or rather three ringers, in the bosom of each 
flowered waistcoat, the small three-cornered 
hat under each arm ; two sedate-looking per- 
sonages in gowns and wigs, and one — the 
fine gentleman of the family — in a cream- 
coloured coat extending a rose for the benefit 
of the company in general. Over the chim- 
ney-piece was a glass, in a most intricate 
frame of cut crystal within the gilt one, which 
gave you the advantage of seeing your face 
in square, round, oblong, triangular, or all 
shapes but its natural one. On each side the 
fire-place was an arm chair; and in them sat, 
first, Mr. Arundel, reading the county news- 
paper as if he had been solving a problem ; 
and, secondly, his lady dozing very comfort- 
ably over her knitting : while the centre of 
the rug was occupied by two white cats — one 
worked in worsted, and surrounded by a 
wreath of roses — the other asleep, with a 
blue riband round her neck ; and all as still 
and quiet as the Princess Nonchalante — who, 
during her lover's most earnest supplication, 
only begged he w r ould not hurry himself — 
could have wished. 

The quiet was not very lasting, for the fire 
Was stirred somewhat suddenly, the chairs 
pushed aside somewhat hastily, the cat dis- 
turbed, but without any visible notice from 
7 



either reader or sleeper. " My aunt asleep— 
my uncle as bad !" exclaimed Emily Arundel, 
emerging from the corner, where she had been 
indulging in one of those moods which may 
be called melancholy or sullen, out of temper 
or out of spirits, accordingly as they are 
spoken of in the first or second person ; and 
Emily was ) r oung, pretty, and spoilt enough 
to consider herself privileged to indulge in 
any or all of them. 

The course of life is like the child's game — 
" here we go round by the rule of contrary" — 
and youth, above all others, is the season of 
united opposites, with all its freshness and 
buoyancy. At no period of our existence is 
depression of the spirits more common or 
more painful. As we advance in life our du- 
ties become defined ; we act more from neces- 
sity, and less from impulse ; custom takes the 
place of energy, and feelings, no longer 
powerfully excited, are proportionably quiet 
in reaction. But youth, balancing itself upon 
hope, is forever in extremes : its expectations 
are continually aroused only to be baffled ; 
and disappointment, like a summer shower, 
is violent in proportion to its brevity. 

Young she was — but nineteen, that plea- 
santest of ages, just past the blushing, brid- 
ling, bewildering coming out, when a courtesy 
and a compliment are equally embarrassing; 
when one half of the evening is spentinthinking 
what to do and say, and the other half in re- 
penting what has been said and done. Pretty 
she was — very pretty : a profusion of dark, 
dancing ringlets, that caught the sunbeams 
and then kept them prisoners ; beautiful dark 
gray eyes with large black pupils, very mir- 
rors of her meaning; that long, curled .eye- 
lash, which gives a softness nothing else can 
give ; features small, but Grecian in their re- 
gularity ; a slight delicate figure, an ankle fit for 
a fairy, a hand fit for a dutchess, — no marvel 
Emily was the reigning beauty of the county. 
Sprung from one of its oldest families, its 
heiress too, the idol of her uncle and aunt, 
who had brought her up from infancy ; accus- 
tomed to be made much of, that most captivat- 
ing kind of flattery, — it may be pardoned if 
her own estimate was a very pleasant one. 
Indeed, with the exception of young gentle 
men she had refused, and young ladies she 
had rivalled, Emily was universally liked* 
kind, enthusiastic, warm, and affectionate, 
her good qualities were of a popular kind ; 
and her faults — a temper too hasty, a vanity 
too cultivated — were kept pretty well in th 



8 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



background by the interest or affection, by 
the politeness or kindness, of her usual circle. 
To conclude, she was very much like other 
young- ladies, excepting that she had neither 
lover nor confidant : a little romance, a little 
pride, and not a little good taste, had pre- 
vented the first, so that the last was not al- 
together indispensable. 

Her father had been the youngest brother, 
and, like many other younger brothers, both 
unnecessary and imprudent; a captain in a 
dragoon regiment, who spent his allowance 
on his person, and his pay on his horse. He 
was the last man in the world who ought to 
have fallen in love, excepting with an heiress, 
yet he married suddenly and secretly the 
pretty and portionless Emily Delawarr, and 
wrote home to ask pardon and cash. The 
former was withheld on account of the latter, 
till his elder brother's unexceptionable marriage 
with Miss Balgrave, and her estate, gave him 
an interest in the family which he forthwith 
exerted in favour of Captain Arundel. But 
a few short years, and the young officer died 
in battle, and his widow only survived to 
place their orphan girl in Mr. and Mrs. Arun- 
del's care, to whom Emily had ever been 
even as their own. 

Mr. Arundel was a favourable specimen of 
the old school, when courtesy, though stately, 
was kind, and, though elaborate, yet of 
costly materiel ; a well-read, though not a 
literary man — everybody did not write in his 
day— generous to excess ; and if proud, his 
consciousness of gentlemanlike descent was 
but shown in his strictness of gentleman- 
like feelings. The last of a very old family, 
an indolent, perhaps an over-sensitive temper 
— often closely allied — had kept him a quiet 
dweller on his own lands; and though, from 
increasing expenses without increasing funds, 
many an old manor and ancient wood had 
developed those aerial propensities which mo- 
dern times have shown to be inherent in their 
nature, and had made themselves wings and 
flown away, yet enough remained for dignity, 
and more than enough for comfort : and in a 
county where people had large families, Emily 
was an heiress of considerable pretension. 

His lady was one of those thousand-and- 
one women who wore dark silk dresses and 
lace caps — who, after a fashion of their own, 
have made most exemplary wives ; that is to 
say, they took to duties instead of accomplish- 
ments, and gave up music when they married 
— who spent the mornings in the house- 
keeper's room, and the evenings at the tea- 
table, waiting for the guests who came not — 
who rose after the first glass of wine — whose 
bills and calls were paid punctually, and 
whose dinners were a credit to them. In 
addition to this, she always knitted Mr. Arun- 
del's worsted stockings with her own hands, 
was good-natured, had a whole book of re- 
ceipts, and loved her husband and niece as 
parts of herself. 

Few families practised more punctuality 
and propriety, and perhaps in few could more 
happiness, 01 rather content, be found. Oc- 



casionally, Mr. Arundel's temper might be 
ruffled by pheasants and poachers, and his 
wife's by some ill-dressed dish ; but then there 
were the quarter sessions to talk of, and other 
and faultless dinners to redeem aught of 
failure in the last. Sometimes Emily might 
think it was rather dull, and lay down the 
Morning Post with a sigh, or close her novel 
with a hope ; but in general her spirits were 
buoyant as her steps, and the darling of the 
household was also its life and delight. But 
to-night, the third rainy evening of three rainy 
days, every flower in the divers china bowls, 
cups, vases, was withered ; the harp was out 
of tune with the damp; and Emily betook 
herself to the leafy labyrinth of a muslin 
flounce, la belle alliance of uselessness and 
industry. 



CHAPTER II. 

" And haunted to our very age 

With the vain shadow of the past."— Mazepjpfa. 

" Who knocks so late, 
And knocks so loud at our convent gate 1" — Scott. 

But one rosebud and half a leaf of the 
flounce were finished, when it was hastily 
restored to the work-box, the ringlets involun- 
tarily smoothed back, both uncle and aunt 
awakened, for a carriage had driven rapidly 
into the court ; a loud ring at the gate, and a 
loud barking of the dogs, had announced an 
arrival. In less than two minutes Mr. Dela- 
warr had entered the room, and been installed 
in a seat near the fire; Mrs. Arundel had va- 
nished ; and her husband had called up his 
best manner, his kindest, to w r elcome one 
who, though an old friend, had been mostly 
recalled to his memory by the newspaper. 
The visiter was as graceful as brief, ra- 
ther accounting than apologizing for his sud- 
den intrusion, by saying that an accident to 
his carriage had made him late, and turned 
him from the direct road ; and that, though a 
sportsman no longer, he could not be so near 
without coming to see if his old instructer in 
the game laws had quite forgotten the feats 
of other days. Now this was both vrai and 
vraisemblabk enough ; for, to do Mr. Delawarr 
justice, if there had been mention made of 
the declining health of the member for Avons- 
ford, and of his friend's influence in that 
town, at whose entrance stood the ancient 
family house, it only gave inclination a mo- 
tive, or rather an excuse for indulgence. 

Very different was the impression produced 
on all the party. Mr. Arundel could not con- 
ceal his surprise, or rather emotion, to see in 
the pale, mind-worn brow — the elegant but 
indolent movements of the man of forty, so 
little trace remaining of the bright-eyed and 
bright-haired, the lively and impetuous fa- 
vourite of nineteen; still less in the worldly, 
half-studied, half-sarcastic tone of his conver- 
sation, did any thing recall the romance, the 
early enthusiasm, which once rendered the 
interest he inspired one of anxiety. But Mr. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



Arunde* forgot that the most sparkling wines 
soonest lose *hat sparkle. The impetuosity 
of youtn becomes energy in manhood, and 
Mr. Delawarr's stormy political career was 
one to call forth every talent : circumstances 
form the character, but, like petrifying waters, 
they harden while they form. 

To Mrs. Arundel he was the same as any 
other guest — one who was to eat, drink, and 
sleep in her house; all her hopes, fears, "an 
undistinguishable throng," rested with her 
cook and housemaid. 

Emily had at first shrunk back, in that in- 
tuitive awe which all little people at least 
must have experienced — the feeling which 
fixes the eye and chains the lip, on finding 
ourselves for the first time in the presence of 
some great man, hitherto to us as an histori- 
cal portrait, one whose thoughts are of the 
destinies of nations, whose part seems m the 
annals of England, and not in its society. If 
such there be, who can come in contact with 
a being like this without drawing the breath 
more quickly and quietly, they have only less 
excitability than we have ; and for them tant 
pis or tant mieux, according to that golden rule 
of judgment, as it turns om. This, however, 
wore off; the attention o! a superior is too 
flattering to our vanity not to call it forth, and 
Emily soon found herself talking, smiling, 
and singing her very best : not that Mr. De- 
lawarr was, generally speaking, at all like the 
knights of old, voues aux dames. Married 
metaphorically to his place in the ministry, 
and actually to the daughter of Lord Ethe- 
ringhame ; too worldly to be interested, too 
busy to be amused ; young ladies were very 
much to him what inhabitants in a borough 
without votes are — nonentities in creation. 
But sentiment, like salt, is so universal an 
ingredient in our composition, that even Mr. 
Delawarr, years and years ago, had looked at 
a rainbow to dream of a cheek, had gathered 
violets with the dew on them, and thought 
them less bright than the eyes to which they 
were offerings, had rhymed to one beloved 
name, and had felt one fair cousin to be the 
fairest of created things. That cousin was 
Emily's mother, and her great likeness to her 
called up a host of early fancies and feelings, 
over which he scarcely knew whether to sigh 
or smile. He might smile to think how the 
lover had wasted his time, and yet sigh to 
think how pleasantly it had been wasted. 
But Mr. Delawarr knew well, 

' 'Tis folly to dream of a bower of green. 
When there is not a leaf on the tree:" ' 

and, turning from the past to the present, a 
little judicious appreciation of his host's cla- 
ret and conversation obtained, before they 
parted for the night, more than a hint that 
Mr. Arundel's influence in the borough was 
at the disposal of the man who so well under- 
stood his country's true interests. Still, Emily 
was not forgotten ; and the next morning she 
looked so like her mother while pouring the 
cream into his coffee, that the invitation he 
gave her to visit Ladv Alicia in London was 
Vol. I.— 2 



as sincere as it was cordially expressed. And 
when they gathered, with old-fashioned cour- 
tesy, on the stone steps of the ancient hall, to 
give their parting greeting, as the carriage 
drove off with true English haste, never did 
man leave his character more safely behind 
him. Mr. Arundel went to read a pamphlet 
on the corn laws with double-distilled admi- 
ration, after his own conviction had been 
strengthened by that of one of his majesty's 
ministers ; Emily went to her favourite lime- 
walk, to wonder what Lady Alicia was like, 
to dream of the delights of a "London sea- 
son," to admire Mr. Delawarr's manner, — in 
short, he need only not have been a politician, 
(the very name was a stumbling-block to a 
young lady's romance,) and he would have 
been erected into a hero fit for a modern novel, 
a destiny not exactly what he anticipated. 
Mrs. Arundel was as thoroughly satisfied as 
either, perhaps more so, for she was satisfied 
with herself — a supper, sleeping, and break- 
fast, got through without a blunder ; so to her 
housekeeper she went " in her glory." 



CHAPTER III. 

" Two springs I saw."— Mooke. 

" Good night— how can such night be good !" — Shelley. 
"Night, O, not night: where are its comrades twain— si- 
lence and sleep 7"— L. E. L. 

Snow-dropped, crocused, and violeted 
spring, in the country, was beginning to con- 
sider about making her will, and leaving her 
legacies of full-blow T n flowers and green fruit 
to summer, when a letter from town arrived, 
franked by Montague Delawarr, M. P., say- 
ing that as the spring was now commencing in 
town, perhaps Miss Arundel would remember 
a hope she once gave, and comply with the 
request contained in the note which the said 
Mr. Delawarr had the honour of enclosing. 

The note expressed the usual number of 
fears, honours, and pleasures, which usually 
accompany invitations ; was written in a hand 
of even more than usually elegant unintel- 
ligible expansiveness ; was on pale sea-green 
paper, sealed with lilac wax ; and came from 
Lady Alicia. Now this was a most disinte- 
rested act; for the member had recovered, and 
taken that step of all others which ensuics 
existence, purchased a life annuity ; and it is 
a well know 7 n fact in physiology, that annui- 
tants and old women never die. But Mr 
Delawarr had taken an interest in his young 
relative ; he knew his house was one of the 
most elegant, his wife one of the best-dressed 
woman in London, and that she never spent 
an evening at home, — could he do more foi 
Emily than open such a vista of fetes and 
fashions to her futurity ? 

If any of the party at Arundel House hesi- 
tated about the invitation's affirmative, it was 
herself. Her aunt had a great notion of giv- 
ing young people as much pleasure as possi 
ble, for they would have no time for it aftei 
they were married; and her uncle, kind and 



10 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



affectionate, only thought of his favourite's 
enjoyment, perhaps her advantage. Like 
many men of quiet manners, and still quieter 
habits, his imagination was active in the ex- 
treme, and had been but little put out of its 
way by either worldly exertions or disappoint- 
ments. Thus, before his first egg was finish- 
ed, Emily had refused three baronets, looked 
coldly on a viscount, had two earls at her feet ; 
and if the object of this revery had not de- 
stroyed her own good fortune by speaking, 
she was in a fair way of becoming a dutchess. 

But though to Emily London was as much 
an El Dorado as novels and novelty could 
make it; yet if her first exclamation was de- 
light, her second was, " But, my dear uncle, 
you will miss me so ;" and a long array of 
solitary walks and lonely rides rose almost 
reproachfully to her mind. This, however, 
the uncle would not admit ; and youth, if not 
selfish, is at least thoughtless ; so a few mi- 
nutes saw Emily bounding up stairs, with spi- 
rits even lighter than her steps, to answer the 
important billet which she had already conned 
over till she could have repeated it from the 
" Dear Miss Arundel" at the beginning, to the 
"Alicia C. F. G. Delawarr" of the signature. 
Many a sheet of paper was thrown aside in 
various stages, from two to ten lines — twice 
was the ink changed, and twenty times the 
pen, before a note worthy of either writer or 
reader could be effected : but time and the post 
wait for no man, and necessity was in this 
case, as in most others, the mother of inven- 
tion. 

The next week passed, as such weeks al- 
ways do, in doing nothing, because so much 
is to be done — in packing and unpacking, till 
the Labyrinth of Crete was nothing to that 



morning came again, and Mr. Arundel was 
now to leave his niece. 

" O pleasure ! you're indeed a pleasant thing;" 

and our heroine was setting off in pursuit of 
it, as miserable as any young lady need be. 
The last sight of the panels of the old yellow 
coach was the signal for another burst of 
tears, which extended to three stages to-day, 
and perhaps would have reached to a fourth, 
had she not been roused to anger by her maid's 
laughter, whose gravity, though most exem 
plary in the outset, now gave way to the mirth 
excited by the rapidity with which a ponderous- 
looking person, outside a stage-coach, had 
lost hat, umbrella, and bundle, while the 
vehicle rolled rapidly over them. There is 
something very amusing in the misfortunes of 
others. However, — to borrow an established 
phrase from those worthy little volumes, en- 
titled The Clergyman's, Officer's, and Mer- 
chant's Widows, when the disconsolate relict 
is recalled from weeping over the dear depart- 
ed, by the paramount necessity of getting one 
of her fourteen children into the bluecoat 
school, — " the exertion did her good ;" and 
she was soon sufficiently amused to regret 
when the darkness shut out all view save the 
post-boy. 

Adventures never happen now-a-days ; there 
are neither knights nor highwaymen ; no 
lonely heaths with gibbets for finger-posts ; 
no hope of even a dangerous rut, or a steep 
hill; romance and roads are alike macada- 
mised ; no young ladies are either run away 
with, or run over ; — and Emily arrived in 
inglorious safety among the argand lamps and 
rosewood tables in Mr. Delawarrs drawing- 
room — was properly welcomed — introduced — 



of trunks ; in farewell calls, in lingering took a hasty dinner, for her host was hurry- 
ing to the House, and her hostess to the opera 
— was supposed to be very much fatigued — 
installed into a very pretty little boudoir — and 
found herself in a seat by the fire, tired 
enough for an arm-chair, but too much excited 
for her pillow ; and she leaned back in that 
most soothing state of indolence, fireside's fan- 
tasies — while her uncle's wig, Lady Alicia's 
black velvet hat, Mr. Delawarr's kindness, &c. 
floated down the " river of her thoughts." 
But the thrse hours before, of, and after mid- 
night in a fashionable square, are not very 
favourable to a revery, when the ear has 
only been accustomed to the quiet midnights 
of the country — where the quiet is rather 
echoed than broken by the wind wandering 
among boughs of the oak and beach, and 
whose every leaf is a note of viewless and 
mysterious music. But in London, where 
from door to door " leaps the live thunder;" 
the distant roll of wheels, the nearer dash of 
carriages, the human voices mingling, as if 
Babel were still building — these soon awa- 
kened Emily's attention — even the fire had less 
attraction than the window ; and below w T as a 
scene, whose only fault is, we are so used 
to it. 

In the middle of the square was the garden, 
whose sweep of turf was silvered with moon 



walks, in careful commendations to the gar 
dener of divers pet roses, carnations, &c. ; 
and more than three parts of the time at her 
uncle's side, who every now and then began 
giving good advice, which ahvays ended in 
affectionate wishes. 

The morning of her departure arrived — cold, 
rainy, miserable, but very much in unison with 
Emily's feelings. A great change in life is 
like a cold bath in winter — we all hesitate at 
the first plunge. Affection is more matter of 
habit than sentiment, more so than we like to 
admit ; and she was leaving both habits and 
affections behind. There were the servants 
gathered in the hall, with proper farewell 
faces ; her aunt, hitherto busy in seeing the 
carriage duly crammed with sandwiches and 
sweatmeats, having nothing more to do, began 
to weep. A white handkerchief is a signal 
of distress always answered ; and when Mr. 
Arundel took his place beside his niece, he 
trad nothing but the vague and usual consola- 
tion of "Love, pray don't cry so," to offer for 
f he first stage. 

But the day and Emily's face cleared up at 
iast; her uncle was still with her, the post-boys 
drove with exhilarating rapidity, and night 
found them seated by a cheerful fire, with 
a good supper and better appetite. The 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



11 



light ; around were the dark shining laurels, 
and all the pale varieties of colour that flower 
and shrub wear at such a time, and girdled in 
by the line of large clear lamps, the spirits of 
the place. At least every second house was 
lighted up, and that most visible, the corner 
one, was illuminated like a palace with the 
rich stream of radiance that flowed through 
the crimson blinds ; ever and anon a burst of 
music rose upon the air, and was lost again 
in a fresh arrival of carriages ; then the car- 
riages themselves, with their small bright 
lights flitting over the shadowy foot passen- 
gers, — the whole square was left to the care 
of the gas and the watchman, before Emily 
remembered that she had next day to do jus- 
tice tc her country roses. 



CHAPTER IV. 

"Past twelve o'clock, and a cloudy morning."— The 
Watchman. 

"Her elegant and accomplished ladyship."— Morning 
Post. 

Emily just rose an hour too soon the next 
morning— miming, that breaker of spells and 
sleep. There was the garden dingy and dusty, 
the green trees with a yellow fever, and the 
flowerincr shrubs drooping as if they had been 
crossed in love of the fresh air. The milk- 
man was, jailer-like, going his clanking 
rounds ; and, instead of gay equipages, wait- 
ing for the graceful figures, that passed over 
the steps lightly as their blonde, — now stood 
a pail, a mop, and a slipshod domestic, whose 
arms, at least, said much for the carnations 
of London. Around, like the rival houses of 
York and Lancaster, some white, some red, 
stood mansions whose nobility was certainly 
not of outward show, and setting forth every 
variety of architecture, save its own peculiar 
beauty, uniformity; and windows on which 
" the dust of ages" had gathered, and even 
that only dimly seen through smoke and fog 
— those advantages of early rising in London. 
The sun, the nurserymaids, and children had 
all come out before Emily was summoned to 
the breakfast-table, where a French soubrette 
— who made, as only her nation can do, a 
pretty face out of nothing, with an apron 
whose pockets were placed a Venvie and a 
cap put on dfaire mourir — was pouring out 
coffeefor the very fair, very languid, and very 
lady-like Lady Alicia, who, enveloped in a 
large shawl, was almost lost in that and the 
pillowed arm-chair. 

Few women, indeed, think, but most feel ; 
now Lady Alicia did neither:, nature had 
made her weak and indolent, and she had 
never been placed in circumstances either to 
create or call forth character. As an infant she 
had the richest worked robes, and the finest of 
lace caps ; the nurse was in due time suc- 
ceeded by the nursery governess, whose situ- 
ation was soon filled by the most accomplish- 
ed person the united efforts of fourteen 
countesses could discover. Pianos, harps, 



colour-boxes, collars, French, Italian, &c. &c. 
duly filled the school-room: but for music 
Lady Alicia had no ear, for dancing no lik- 
ing, for drawing no taste; and French and 
Italian were, it must be owned, somewhat 
unnecessary to one who considered her own 
language an unnecessary fatigue. At eight- 
een she came out, beautiful she certafnly 
was ; highly accomplished — for Lady F., her 
mother's intimate friend, had several times 
confidentially mentioned the names of her 
masters ; while Lady C. had expressed her 
approbation of the reserved dignity which led 
the daughter of one of our oldest families to 
shun that display which might gratify her 
vanity but wounded her pride. 

All was prepared for a ducal coronet at 
least; when the very day after her presenta- 
tion, her father went out of town, and the 
ministry together; and three long useless 
years were wasted in the stately seclusion of 
Ethringhame Castle; where the mornings in 
summer were spent at a small table by the 
window, and in winter by the fire, putting in 
practice the only accomplishment that re- 
mained — like a ghost of the past — cutting 
out figures and landscapes in white paper, 
whose cold, colourless regularity were too 
much in sympathy with herself for her not to 
excel in the art. The middle of the day was 
devoted to a drive, if fair — if wet, to wonder- 
ing whether it would clear. Dressing came 
next, — a mere mechanical adjustment of cer- 
tain rich silks and handsome jewels, where 
vanity was as much out of the question, as 
if its own peculiar domain had not been a 
looking-glass : with no one to attract, and 
still dearer hope, no one to surpass, cut bono? 
for, after all, vanity is like those chemical 
essences whose only existence is when called 
into being by the action of some opposite 
influence. 

During dinner the earl lamented the inevi- 
table ruin to which the country was hasten- 
ing ; and, after grace had been said, the count- 
ess agreed with him, morover observing, that 
dress alone was destroying the distinction of 
ranks, and that at church silks were commoner 
than stuffs. Here the conversation ceased, 
and they returned to the drawing-room ; the 
countess to sleep — Lady Alicia to cut out 
more paper landscapes. 

Twice a year there was a great dinner, to 
which she was regularly handed down by the 
old Marquess of Snowdon, who duly impressed 
upon her mind how very cold it was; and, in 
truth, he looked like an embodied shiver, 

At one-and-twenty an important change 
took place. Lady Alicia was summoned 
from a little paper poodle, on whose white 
curls she had been bestowing peculiar pains 
by the drawing-room doors being thrown 
open with even more than their usual solem 
nity, and she was informed, by his own man- 
that his lordship requested her presence in the 
library : the surprise was sufficiently great tc 
make her cut off her little dog's tail. 

The ex-minister was too important a person 
to be kept waiting, at least in his own family t 



12 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



what he now wanted in quantity of authority, 
he made up in quality. She descended into 
the large Gothic room dedicated to the learning 
of past ages, and the dignity of the present; 
a large round table stood in the middle, co- 
vered with political panphlets, cut open at 
least most carefully, and a newspaper lying 
on a folio volume of Bolingbroke's. In a 
large arm-chair, with the Peerage in one hand, 
and an open letter in the other, whose seal, 
though broken, still showed the crimson glory 
of the coat of arms, sat Lord Etheringhame; 
and on the other side, in a chair equally erect, 
and in her person still more so, was the lady- 
mother. What circumstance could have oc- 
casioned such a change in the castle's domes- 
tic economy — a matrimonial tete-d-tete at such 
unusual hours, and in such an unusual place 1 ? 
What but a circumstance that has authorized 
many extraordinary proceedings — an offer of 
marriage 1 Lady Alicia took the seat assign- 
ed her by a wave of his lordship's hand. 

"The consequence of our family," said her 
father. 

"The advantages of such a union," ob- 
served the mother. 

" The solitude to which my philosophical 
and literary pursuits — " here the retired states- 
man paused. 

" Well aware of the excellent principles 
instilled into your mind," exclaimed mamma. 

" Connected with some of the first people 
in the kingdom," ejaculated papa. 

" Fastidious as my daughter must be," and 
Lady Etheringhame drew up a la giraffe. 

" So desirable a political connexion," and 
his lordship looked at his daughter and his 
pamphlets. 

" I shall be freed from the weight of so 
much maternal anxiety ;" but her ladyship 
was stopped in her parental display by the 
positive declaration of — 

" And now, Alicia, shall I write an answer as 
affirmative as suits the dignity of our house ?" 

Alicia said nothing and looked less. 

" We will spare her confusion," said the 
countess. 

"You may retire," said the earl. 

Lady Alicia was as much bewildered as it 
was in her nature to be ; but she made up 
her mind to ask her mother what they wanted 
with her in the library, and seated herself to 
cut out another little poodle. 

The dinner-bell rang, and Lady Ethering- 
hame entered. 

" Alicia, my love, wear your turquoise set 
to-day : of course, I should wish you to ap- 
pear to advantage on Mr. Delawarr's first 
visit." 

It was as if all the astonishment of her life 
was to be crowded into one day; for on retiring 
to her toilette, her handmaiden, the very re- 
erse of her mistress, extremes meet, (vide 
Lara and Jaqueline,) by dint of compliments 
and insinuations, succeeded at length in draw- 
ing from her something like a question-; and 
with all her father's eloquence and mother's 
anxiety, Alicia only now began to suspect a 
husband : n the case, and that the library au- 



dience and the turquoises referred to Mr. De- 
laware 

D el a war r Hall was the nearest seat to 
Etheringhame Castle, and the families had for 
years run through every possible variety of 
opposition and alliance. Between the present 
proprietors there had existed rather civility 
than cordiality. Lord Etheringhame's opinions 
were as hereditary as his halls ; innovation 
was moral rebellion : the change of a fashion, 
a symptom of degeneracy ; he would as soon 
have destroyed his pedigree as his pigtail ; 
and looked on every new patent, whether for 
a peerage or a pie-dish, as another step to ruin; 
in short, he held just the reverse of the poet's 
opinion — with him, not whatever is, but what- 
ever had been, was right. 

Sir Walter, on the contrary, was a man of 
plans and projects : he refurnished his house, 
and talked of the march of intellect; cut 
down a plantation of old oaks in search of a 
lead mine; put in French windows instead 
of Gothic, on which his mother died of cold, 
or grief; married his first wife for fancy, and 
talked of sentiment; his second for money, 
and talked of liberality, and deprecated vain 
pride of birth; he lost money by taking shares 
in a canal, which to have made profitable must 
have cut just across his own park ; subscribed 
to a book society, and was eloquent about 
encouraging genius ; had a newly invented 
stove in his hall ; and novelty to him was 
what antiquity was to the other — each, like cha- 
rity, covered a multitude of sins. But, above 
all, Sir Walter's great pride was his son, who, 
already far beyond his competitors, gave as- 
surance of the distinguished career he ran in 
after-life. Two things were at this period 
necessary for Montague Delawarr, — to get 
married, and returned for the county. 

The baronet's dressing-room had a view of 
the castle. No wonder that Lady Alicia 
suggested herself to his mind. Montague 
was now in the country ; and if St. Valentine 
could aid St. Stephen, why married he in- 
tended to be, some time or other ; so the let- 
ter of proposal was written, and the result 
had been as favourable as they could wish. 

Seven o'clock came, and with it Sir Walter 
and his son. The dinner-bell to-day was in- 
deed to be " the tocsin of the heart." With 
something more like emotion than she had 
ever felt in her life before, Lady Alicia Lor 
raine made her appearance, and a very fair 
appearance it was ; both figure and face were 
fine, her dress elegant, and the turquoises so 
becoming that when Montague took his seat 
by her at table, he began to think the wife 
herself was something in the matrimonial 
contract about to be made. The delusion, 
by a little maternal arrangement, hints of 
timidity, &c, lasted very respectably till af- 
ter the wadding, when, with as little blush- 
ing and as much blonde as possible, the name 
of Lorraine was changed for that of Dela- 
warr. They were the happiest couple spoken 
of. Sir Walter had presented his late wife's 
emeralds, and his son had them reset ; the 
bride's beauty quite inspired Sir Thoma* 






ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



13 



Lawrence ; and Mr. Delaware was returned 
for the county. 

In the midst of a brilliant public career he 
had little time to discover whether his house- 
hold divinity was very like those of old — a 
statue. Lady Alicia was good-natured — that 
good-nature which is composed of a soft 
smile, a low voice, indulgence of every 
kind — self among the number; for the rest, if 
her mind had a feature, it was indolence ; and 
her cashmere, character, and carriage were 
alike irreproachable. 

Such was the lady with whom Emily had 
to encounter the dangers of a tete-a-tete. It 
passed off better than she hoped. Lady Ali- 
cia liked to be amused, and her young com- 
panion was soon encouraged to be amusing. 
Their arrangements were speedily made ; 
they were to dine with Lady Etheringhame; 
his lordship's magnificent funeral had filled a 
column in the paper three years before; the 
dowager took to study her health, and lived 
in town to be near her physicians — and with 
a little illness and a great deal of complaint, 
managed to live on. The morning was to be 
devoted to milliners, shopping, &c. ; both 
went to prepare for the drive ; Lady Alicia 
convinced that Miss Arundel was a very 
charming girl, and Miss Arundel wondering 
if fairy tales were true, and whether her host- 
ess was a snow woman animated by a spell. 



CHAPTER V. 

" The bondage of certain ribands and gloves." 

* * * * 

" Your gown is a most, rare fashion, i' faith." 

* * * * 

11 These pelican daughters."— Shakspeare. 

Shopping, true feminine felicity ! how ra- 
pidly it passed the morning away — how in a 
few short hours were Emily's ideas expand- 
ed ! Here she blushed for her sleeves, there 
for her flounces : how common seemed the 
memory of her red-rose wreath beside her 
newly acquired taste for golden oats 1 The 
bonnets that were tried on, the silks that were 
unfolded, the ribands that were chosen, — till 
she went home happy in a hat, whose dimen- 
sions far exceeded the shields of any of her 
forefathers, and having chosen a ball dress, 
on whose composition, the milliner assured 
her, genius had exhausted itself. 

Lady Etheringhame, being now a constitu- 
tionalist, dined rather early : and Emily, her 
head like a kaleidoscope, full of colours, with 
not a little disdain, put on the blue silk she 
had thought blue celeste at least in the country. 
What a march does a woman intellect, i. e. 
taste, take in the streets of London ! 

Exactly at five they were at the dowager's 
door — exactly five minutes after they were 
seated in her dining-room ; and Emily began 
to consider whether she or the wine-coolers 
was most chilled — whether Lady Ethering- 
hame's black satin or herself were stiffest — 
and whether she weighed her words as she 

Vol. I. 



did her food in the little pair of scales by hei 
side. They adjourned to the drawing-room, 
and sat "like figures ranged upon a dial- 
plate." The French clock on the mantle- 
piece ticked audibly — Lady Alicia dosed — 
their hostess detailed symptoms and reme- 
dies, and eulogized mustard-seed, — while 
Emily sat like a good child playing propriety, 
and looking the listener at least. Ten o'clock 
came at last, and with it the carriage. 

" I am afraid, mamma, you are so tired," 
said the daughter. 

"How much we give to thoughts and things our tone, 
And judge of others' feelings by our own !" 

" I hope Miss Arundel will do me the 
honour of accompanying you on your next 
visit." 

A stately bend from the elder — a low 
" many thanks" — a good night — and the visit 
was over. 

" Is it possible," thought Emily, " a visit in 
London could be so dull 1" 

The next morning was more amusing — 
visiter after visiter came in ; for Lady Alicia, 
like most indolent people, preferred any one 
else's company to her own, — all could enter- 
tain her better than she could entertain herself. 
An elderly gentleman gone off with a cough, 
and a lady of no particular age with a pro- 
phecy. 

" Well, take my word for it, those girls will 
never marry ; marriage is like money — seem 
to want it, and you never get it." 

The Cassandra was scarcely departed when 
the objects of her oracle appeared — Mrs. Fer- 
gusson and her two daughters. Nothing could 
be more correct than the externals of these 
young ladies — large curls, large sleeves, still 
larger bonnets, words like the poet's idea of 
adieu, or the advice to make good children — 
" to be seen, not heard," — and faces indicative 
of elegant indifference. 

Mr. Fergusson had made his fortune, and 
Mrs. F. now meant to make her way in the 
world ; her society was to be refined and ex- 
alted ; she resolved on getting people to her 
house, and going to people's houses, whose 
names as yet were all she knew of them ; and 
by dint of patience, perseverance, and pushing, 
she had, to a great degree, succeeded. Is it 
not Locke the great philosopher who says, the 
strokes of the pickaxe build the pyramid 1 ? 
But these social contracts were subservient to 
one great end — domestic economy. Mrs. Fer- 
gusson had a family of six daughters ; and to 
get these well married was the hope and aim 
of her existence, " the ocean to the river" of 
her thoughts. By day she laid plans, by 
night dreamed they had succeeded. To this 
point tended dresses, dances, dinners; for this 
she drove in the park — for this waited out the 
ballet at the opera — for this Mr. St. Leger 
found his favourite pale de cceur des tourterelle* 
perfect at her table; for this Mr. Herbert, 
twice a week during last April, was asked to 
a family dinner — un dine sans facons est unc 
perftdie, though in a different sense to what 
the poet des vlaleaux intended : for this, op 
B 



14 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Mr. Hoggart, a Scotchman — who wore a blue 
coat, which he always began to button when 
economy was talked of — did mamma impress 
what a treasure her Elizabeth was, and how 
well she supplied her place at home. [By- 
the-by, what an odious thing is a blue coat 
with brass buttons, shining as if to stare you 
out of countenance, and reflecting in every but- 
ton a concave composition, which you recog- 
nise as a caricature of yourself. No lady 
should dance with a man who wears a blue 
coat and brass buttons.] For Mr. Rosedale 
did Laura wear vestal white, when every one 
else was a la Zamiel, and a cottage bonnet — a 
cottage ornee, to be sure — when every other 
head was in a hat. 

Still, two seasons, besides watering places, 
has passed away fruitlessly; and the Misses 
Fergussons, of whom two only had yet passed 
the Rubicon of balls, operas, &c, coming out, 
were still the fair but unappropriated adjec- 
tives of the noun-matrimonial husband; still 
it was something to be " ready, aye ready," — 
the family motto. Of them nothing more can 
be said, than that Laura was pretty, and en- 
acted the beauty; Elizabeth was plain, and 
therefore was to be sensible ; the one sat at 
her harp, the other at her work-box. 

Now, Mrs. Fergusson thought a visit to 
Lady Alicia a sad waste of time : there were 
no sons, no brothers, at least as bad as none — 
for the earl was in the country, the younger 
abroad; still she was too little established in 
society for neglect. So, collecting a few facts 
and fancies, putting on her most fatigued face, 
she began talking, while the daughters sat 
such complete personifications of indifference, 
that Mrs. Granville might very well have ad- 
dressed her ode to either of them. 

" Mrs. De Lisle's rooms were so crowded 
last night — very brilliant. Still, alas !" — 
(here Mrs. Fergusson looked philosophically) 
— "the weariness of pleasure; but these dear 
girls were in such requisition, it was nearly 
day before we left. Conceive my fatigue." 

"Why, then," said her hearer very quietly, 
" did you not leave before ?" 

" Ah, Lady Alicia, how little do you under- 
stand the feelings of a mother! Could I 
break in upon their young pleasures 1 Be- 
sides" — and here her voice sank to a whisper 
— " I do own my weakness ; yet what mater- 
nal heart but must be gratified by such admi- 
ration as was excited by my sweet Laura ! It 
is dangerous to a young head ; but she is so 
simple, so unpretending." 

" Very true," said -her ladyship. 

Now came one of those audible pauses, 
the tickings of the death-watch of English 
conversation. This was broken by Mrs. Fer- 
gusson's asking a question. How many are 
asked for want of something to say ! The 
questions of curiosity are few to those of po- 
liteness. 

" Pray, when do you expect your brother, 
Mr. Lorraine, in England '?" 

" Ah, Edward ! Delawarr told me he was 
coming at last. He is to stay with us." 

Mrs. Fergusson now, for the first time, 



looked at Emily, who, occupied in consider- 
ing whether the Misses Fergusson were deaf 
or dumb, or both, was quite unconscious of 
the scrutiny. 

A marriage and a death concluded the visit. 

" Well !" ejaculated Mrs. Fergusson, as 
soon as the carriage gave security to that flow 
of soul entitled confidential conversation, "to 
think of the luck of some people — there will 
this Miss Arundel be living in the house with 
the Hon. Edward Lorraine." 

No one knew bettsr than this lady the dan- 
gers or advantages of propinquity. 

" I hate that odious dark hair, and ringlets 
too, so affected ; but she is not pretty," said 
Miss Laura. 

" There is nothing in her," said Miss Eliza- 
beth, who piqued herself on discrimination of 
character. 



CHAPTER VI. 

" I love a devious path that winds askance, 
And hate to keep one object still in view ! 
The flowers are fragrant that we find by chance— 
And in both life and nature I would rather 
Have those I meet than those I come to gather." 

The Brunswick. 

" Ah, 'tis a pleasure that none can tell, 
To feel you're the wild wave's master." 

" Impossible ! If his highness would but 
consider" — 

" I never considered in my life, and am not 
going to begin now. I cross the river, if you 
please, before yon black cloud." 

" We must put back — we cannot allow a 
stranger to perish." 

" Gentlemen of the sail, I can assure you it 
is not my destiny to be drowned ; fulfil youi 
agreement, or forfeit your dollars." 

One of the most pertinacious of the boat- 
men now began to mutter something about a 
family at once large and small. 

" I can endure no more : when a man be- 
gins to talk of his wife and family, I consider 
his designs on my purse and time to be quite 
desperate. Descendants of the sea-kings ! I 
am sure I shall not drown ; and if you do, I 
promise to increase your donation, till your 
widows may erect a church and belfry o ring 
a rejoicing peal over your memory; and thus 
I end the dispute." 

So saying, the young Englishman rose from 
the deck, where he had lain wrapped in his 
cloak and his thoughts — and putting the sullen 
steersman aside, took the helm into his own 
hands. A few moments saw the little vessel 
gallantly scudding through the waters, dash- 
ing before her a shower of foam like sudden 
snow — and leaving behind a silver track, like 
a shining serpent, called by some strange spell 
from its emerald palace, and yet bright with 
the mysterious light of its birthplace. The 
river now like an allied army, swollen with 
the gathered rains of many weeks, was dark- 
ened on one side by an ancient forest, black as 
night and death, and seeming almost as eter- 
nal. It was swept, but not bowed, by a 






ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



15 



mighty wind, now loud as mountain thunder, 
and now low with that peculiar whisper which 
haunts the leaf of the pine — such as might 
have suited the oracles of old — an articulate 
though unknown language, — and ever and 
anon rushing from its depths till the slight 
bark was hidden by the driven waters ; while 
overhead hung one dense mass of cloud — a 
gathered storm, heavy as the woods it over- 
shadowed. The banks on the other side were 
as those of another world ; there arose rocks 
covered with coloured lichens, or bare and 
showing the rainbow-stained granite, and be- 
tween them small open spaces of long soft 
grass, filled with yellow flowers ; and here 
and there slight shrubs yielding to the wind, 
and one or two stately trees which defied it. 
Still, the tempest was evidently rolling away 
in the distance ; a few large drops of rain 
seemed to be the melting of the light which 
was now breaking through its cloudy barrier; 
already the moon, like the little bark beneath, 
was visible amid surrounding darkness, and 
at last illuminated, encouragingly, the deck 
and its youthful master, whose noble and ro- 
mantic style of beauty suited well a scene like 
this. 

The excitement of the moment had given 
even more than its ordinary paleness to his 
cheek, while its character of determination re- 
deemed, what was almost a fault, the feminine 
delicacy of his mouth ; the moonlight above 
was not more spiritual than the depths of his 
large blue eyes ; and the rain that had washed 
his hair only gave even more glossiness to the 
light auburn w T aves that shadowed a forehead 
whose flowing line was that of genius and 
of grace : it was a face and figure to which 
the mind gave power, and whose slight and 
delicate proportions had been effeminate but 
for the strength which is of the spirit. 

Successful daring makes its own way; and 
when the dangerous bend of the river was 
passed, and the wind had gradually wailed 
itself to rest like a passionate child, his boat- 
men were as elated as if the triumph had been 
their own. They reached the landing-place, 
ruled by an old oak, beneath whose shade the 
sea-kings must have stood ; the crew went on 
to the little village, whose houses were already 
those of promise ; while Edward loitered after, 
languid with the luxury of exertion, and the 
softness of the now lulled and lovely night. 
The moon was yet very young — that clear dia- 
mond crescent which looks as if undimmed by 
the sorrows, or unsullied by the crimes, which 
will fill even the brief period of her reign 
over earth : but there was ample light to show 
his way across a vast field, where every step 
he took filled the air with fragrance, — for the 
ground was covered with those fairy flowers, 
the lilies of the valley — their ivory bells bowed 
the slight stalks by thousands, and their snow 
was like frost-work — as if winter had given 
her only loveliness to summer. 

As he approached the village, the wild cher- 
ry trees surrounded it like an orchard, the 
boughs covered with crimson profusion, and 
the cottage where he stopped was crowned 



with flowers; for here the turf-sods, which 
form the roof, are the nursery of numberlesa 
blossoming plants, all fair, and most of them 
fragrant. The door opened, a bright hearth 
was glowing with its wood fire of the odo- 
riferous young pine branches ; and the hostess 
was quite pretty enough to make the short 
scarlet petticoat, and red handkerchief which 
gathered up her profusion of light tresses, 
seem the most becoming of costumes. 

The game had the perfection of wild-heath 
flavour ; and the rich peach brandy was most 
exhilarating to the wet and weary. After sup- 
per they gathered round the hearth. Many a 
tale was told of wood and water spirit, with 
all the eloquent earnestness of belief. The 
national song Gaule Norge was sung, as peo- 
ple always sing national songs after dinner — 
with all their heart, and as much voice as they 
have left ; and Edward Lorraine went to bed, 
when nothing was wanting but an audience, to 
have made him declaim most eloquently on 
the excellence of unsophisticated pleasure. 

The next day he rose early to join in the 
chase of an elk ; an animal rarely seen even in 
that remote part. The band of hunters were 
young and bold, and there was just enough of 
danger for excitement. Many a deep valley 
and dark ravine did they pass, when a loud 
shout told that their prey was at hand. Front- 
ing them, on a barren and steep height, stood 
the stately creature, his size thrown out in bold 
relief by the clear blue sky behind : he tossed 
his proud antlers defyingly, as if he were con- 
scious of the approaching enemy — when sud- 
denly he turned, and dashed down the oppo- 
site side. Their game was now secure ; gra- 
dually they narrowed their circle, till they 
quite hemmed in the little dell where it had 
taken refuge. Their noiseless step might have 
defied even an Indian ear, and a few scattered 
trees concealed them. The stag was lying 
amid the grass ; his horns, in forcing a pas- 
sage through the woods, had borne away their 
spoil : and a creeping plant, with large green 
leaves and small bright blue flowers, had 
wound round them, as if the victim were 
bound with wreaths for sacrifice. Another 
moment, and the hunters rushed forward ; five 
spears were in its side at once. Awakened 
more than injured, the elk sprung up. One 
incautious youth was thrown on the ground in. 
a moment, while it made for the thicket where 
Edward was hid. 

He had meant to have witnessed rather than 
have joined in the attack ; but the danger was 
imminent — his life was on a chance — the shot 
rang from his pistol — and the next moment 
he felt the large dark eye of the dying animal 
fix on his, and it lay in the death agony at his 
feet, for the bullet had entered its forehead. 
His comrades gathered round, received the 
reward he had promised, and prepared for 
supper in the woods, while Edward stood 
gazing on the gallant stag. 

It was fifteen years since one of the kind, 
had been seen in the district. A few hours 
and a few dollars finished his brief reign in 
the woods; and Lorraine thought a little sadly. 



16 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



on trie bold and the lonely which had fallen 
to gratify his curiosity. 

Your moralizing is, after all, but a zest to 
pleasure ; and his remorse was more than 
mitigated by the applause bestowed on his 
address and presence of mind, — till the horns 
of the elk came to be viewed with very self- 
satisfactory feelings. Active pleasures, how- 
ever, had their day ; and Edward soon began 
to prefer wandering amid the mighty forests, 
till he half believed in the spirits of which 
they were the home ; or he would lie for hours 
embedded in some little nook of wild flowers, 
amid the rocks that looked down on the river — 
a wild soaring bird the sole interruption to his 
solitude. But one cannot practise poetry for- 
ever; and he soon found he was declining 
rapidly from the golden age of innocent plea- 
sure to the silver one of insipidity. So one 
fine morning saw him bribing his driver, and 
urging the pretty little brown horses of the 
country to their utmost speed, on his way to 
England. The sea-port was gained — the wind 
as favourable as if that had been bribed too — 
and in a fortnight he was at Hull, quite as 
pleased to return to his native land as he had 
been to leave it. 

This journey to Norway may be considered 
the specimen brick of Edward Lorraine's life 
and character ; for the season before, he had 
been le Prince chert of the Park and Pall Mall 
— his dressing-room was one mirror — his sofas 
pink satin — his taste was as perfect in beauty 
as it was in perfume — his box at the opera 
exhaled every evening a varying atmosphere ; 
it was not the night of Medea or Otello, but 
that of the heliotrope or the esprit des violettes ; 
— he talked of building a rival Regent street 
with his invitation cards — and actually took 
a cottage " all of lilies and roses" at Rich- 
mond, as fitting warehouse for his pink and 
bl-ue notes, " sweets to the sweet," — and drove 
even Mr. Delawarr out of his patience and 
politeness, by asking who was prime mi- 
nister. 

But, alas, for the vanity of human enjoy- 
ment ! we grow weary of even our own per- 
fection. About July, fashion took a shade 
of philosophy — friends became weary, we 
mean wearisome — pleasures stale — pursuits 
unprofitable — and Lorraine decided on change ; 
he was resolved to be natural, nay, a little 
picturesque; all that remained was the how, 
when, and where. He thought of the lakes — 
but they are given up to new-married couples, 
poets, and painters ; next, of the Highlands — 
but a steamboat had profaned Loch Lomond, 
and pic-nics Ben Nevis : of Greece he had 
already had a campaign, in which he had 
been robbed of every thing, from his slippers 
to his cimeter — and had returned home, leav- 
ing behind his classical enthusiasm, and bring- 
ing back with him an ague. He took up the 
Gazetteer in desperation for a Sories, and laid 
it down delighted and decided : next day he 
set off for Norway. 

In his mind the imagination was as yet the 
most prominent feature ; it made him im- 
petuous — for the unknown is ever coloured 



by the most attractive hues ; it made hire 
versatile — for those very hues, from theii 
falsehood, are fleeting, and pass easily from 
one object to another; it made him melan- 
choly — for the imagination, which lives on 
excitement, most powerfully exaggerates the 
reaction; but, like a fairy gift, it threw its 
own nameless charm over all he did — and a 
touch, as it were, of poetry, spiritualized all 
the commonplaces of life. His was a cha- 
racter full of great and glorious elements, but 
dangerous ; so alive to external impressions, 
so full of self-deceit — for what deceives us as 
we deceive ourselves 1 To what might not 
some dazzling dream of honour or of love 
lead 1 It was one that required to be subdued 
by time, checked by obstacles, and softened 
by sorrow ; afterwards to be acted upon by 
some high and sufficient motive to call its 
energies into action — and then, of such stuff 
nature makes her noblest and best. As yet 
his life had, like that of the cuckoo, known 

"No sorrow in its song, 
No winter in its year." 

His beauty had charmed even his stately 
lady-mother into softness ; and he was the 
only being now on earth whom his brother 
loved. Young, noble, rich, gifted with that 
indefinable grace which, like the fascination 
of the serpent, draws all within its circle, but 
not for such fatal purpose — with a temper 
almost womanly in its affectionate sweetness 
— with those bold buoyant spirits that make 
their own eagle-wings, — what did Edward de 
Lorraine want in this world but a few diffi 
culties and a little misfortune 1 



CHAPTER VII. 

" Un bal ! il fallait de grandes toilettes." 

Memoir es sur Josephine . 

"Midnight revels— on their mirth and dance intent, 
At once with joy and fear her heart rebounds." 

Milton 

Thk boudoir was a very pretty boudoir ; 
the curtains at the window were rich rose 
colour, the paper a pale pink, and the fire-place 
like the altar of hope — one sparkling blaze. 
On the mantel-piece two alabaster figures 
supported each a little lamp, whose flame was 
tinted by the stained flowers ; some china 
ornaments, purple and gold, and a vase filled 
with double violets, were reflected in the 
mirror. On the one side was a stand of moss 
roses, on the other a dressing-table, and a 
glass a la Psyche, over whose surface the wax 
tapers flung a soft light, worthy of any com- 
plexion, even had it rivalled the Caliph 
Vathek's pages, whose skins "were fair as 
the enamel of Frangistan." In short, it was 
one of those becoming rooms which would 
put even a grace in additional good humour. — 
By-the-by, what a barbarous, what an un- 
charitable act it is, of some people to furnish 
their rooms as they do, against all laws of 
humanity as well as taste ! We have actually 



ROMANCE AND REALITY 



VI 



seen 100ms fitted up with sea-green, and an 
indino-coloured paper : what complexion could 
stand it? The most proper of becoming blushes 
would be utterly wasted, and perhaps at the 
most critical moment. Mrs. Fergusson never 
would let her daughters visit at Lady Carys- 
fort's, on account of the unabated crimson of 
her walls and furniture: as she justly ob- 
served, the dancers looked like ghosts. For 
ourselves, when we furnish our rooms, we 
have decided on a delicate pink paper; it 
lights up well, and is such a relief to the 
foreground of whites, reds, and blue. The 
hangings, &c. certainly of French rose : win- 
dows are favourite seats ; and who knows 
how much may be effected in a tete-a-tete, by 
the crimson shade of the curtain flitting over 
a fair cheek a propos? But we are patriotic 
people, and write treatises for the Society of 
Useful Knowledge. 

Emily Arundel stood by the dressing-table. 
The last curl of her dark hair had received its 
last braid of pearls ; the professor of papillotes 
had decided, and she quite agreed with kim, 
that a la Calypso best suited with her Grecian 
style of feature. The white satin slip, over 
which floated the cloud-like gauze, suited 
well with the extreme delicacy of her figure ; 
and the little snow-slipper would not have 
disgraced the silver-footed Thetis, or Cinde- 
rella herself. The bouquet de vols shed its last 
tears on the cambric parsemcs de lis — and 
Emily turned from her glass with that beau 
ideal of all reflections, " I am looking my very 
best!" 

" Really, Emily, you are very pretty," said 
Lady Alicia, when she entered the drawing- 
room. Emily quite agreed with her. 

The carriage soon whirled them to Lady 
Mandeville's; a proper length of time elapsed 
before they penetrated the blockade of coach- 
es ; a most scientific rap announced their 
arrival, and Emily's heart went quicker than 
the knocker. The old song says, 

" My heart with love is beating — " 

of pleasure, should be added. But soon ad- 
miration was the only active faculty. The 
noble staircase w T as lined with the rarest 
greenhouse plants ; she might have gone 
through a whole course of botany before they 
arrived at the drawing-room, — for two quad- 
rilles and three waltzes were played while 
they stood on the stairs. As they entered, 
an opening in the figure of the dance gave a 
transient view of nearly the whole length of 
the apartments. It was a brilliant coup d'adl: 
mirrors, like the child's nursery-song, "up to 
the ceiling, and down to the ground," reflected 
an almost endless crowd — the graceful figures 
" in shining draperies enfolded," the gay 
wreaths round the heads of the young, the 
white waves of feathers on their seniors — the 
silver light from the moon-like lamps flashed 
back from bright gems and brighter eyes ; the 
rich decorations — alabaster vases, their deli- 
cate tracery like the frost-work of winter, filled 
with the flowers of summer — the sweep of 
the purple curtains — the gold mouldings, and 
Vol. I.-3 * 



a few beautiful pictures — while all terminated 
in a splendidly illuminated conservatory. 

Emily had plenty of time to " sate herself 
with gazing," — for Lady Alicia quietly seated 
herself on a sofa, and seemed to trust to fate 
about finding either hostess, or partner for her 
protegee, who at last began to think the mere 
spectator of pleasure ought to be a philoso- 
pher. We have heard of the solitude of the 
wide ocean, of the sandy desert, of the path- 
less forest ; but, for a real, thorough, and en- 
tire knowledge, far beyond Zimmerman's, of 
the pleasures of solitude, commend us to a 
young damsel doomed to a sofa and female so- 
ciety, w r hile quadrille after quadrille is formed 
in her sight, and the waltzes go round, like 
stars with whose motions we have nothing 
to do. 

The crowd was now beginning rapidly to 
disperse : true, there was more space for the 
pas seul ; but fatigue had quenched its spirit — 
curls showed symptoms of straightness — iht 
bouquets had lost their freshness, and so had 
many a cheek. At this moment Lady Mande- 
ville came up ; and a shade, the least in the 
world, on the brow of her young visiter, 
showed a discontent which, in her heart, she 
thought such a chaperone as Lady Alicia 
might w T ell justify. Never was kindness more 
gracious in its courtesy than hers. " Captain 
St. Leger, Miss Arundel ;" and the next minute 
Emily prepared smile and step : one at least 
was thrown away; her partner, strong in the 
consciousness of coat, curls, and commission, 
the best of their kind, deemed it risking the 
peace of the female world unnecessarily to adc 
other dangers to those so irresistible. During 
le Pantalon he arranged his neckcloth ; VEte, 
drew his fingers through his curls ; la Poule, 
he asked if she had been that morning in the 
park ; during la Pastorelle prepared for his pas 
seul; and during la Finale, recovered the trou- 
ble of dancing, gave his arm, and, as the car- 
riage was announced, handed her into it. " A 
ball is not always the comble de bonheur" t6 
papas, says the author of the Disowned ; " noi 
to their daughters either," could have added 
Emily Arundel. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

"And music too-dear music, which can touch 
Beyond all else the soul that loves it much. r — 3Ioor.fi. 

"Your destiny is in her hands," ay, utter- 
ly: the Society for the Diffusion of L T seful 
Knowledge does not depend more on its ency- 
clopaedia, Mr. Brougham — the new tragedy on 
Macready — the balance of Europe on the duke 
— none of these are so utterly dependent as a 
young lady on her chaperone. She may be a 
beauty — but the Medicean herself .would re- 
quire announcing as Venus : we all see with 
other people's eyes, especially in matters oil 
taste. She may be rich — but an heiress, like 
a joint stock company, requires to be properly 
advertised. She may be witty — but bon-mots 
reauire to be repeated rather than heard for a 
B2 



IS 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



reputation ; and who is to do this but a chape- 
rone ] — that being of delicate insinuations, of 
confidential whispers, of research in elder bro- 
thers, of exclusiveness in younger ones — 
she of praises and partners for her own pro- 
tegee, of interruptions, ifs, and buts, for 
others. But, as Ude says of a forcemeat ball, 
" ilfaut un genie pour cela" and to that Lady 
Alicia made no pretension. 

Evening after evening Emily stepped into 
the carriage with all the slowness of discon- 
tent, and Sung off robe and wreath, on her re- 
turn, with all the pettishness of disappoint- 
ment. In the mean time her uncle was quite 
edified by her letters : she spoke with such 
regret of the country, with its simple and in- 
nocent pleasures, how different to the weari- 
ness which attended London dissipation ; she 
was eloquent on the waste of time, the heart- 
lessness of its pursuits; she anticipated with 
so much delight her return to the friends of 
her youth, that they scarcely knew whether to 
be most enchanted with her affection or her 
sense. What a foundation mortified vanity is 
for philosophy ! 

The opera was the only place where she 
had experienced unmixed gratification : from 
her first glance at its magnificent outline — its 
sea of white waving plumes, with many a 
bright eye and jewelled arm shining like its 
meteors, its beautiful faces, seen in all the ad- 
vantage of full dress — full dress, which, like 
Florimel's magic girdle, is the true test of 
beauty — to the moment when she lingered to 
catch the last swell of the superb orchestra — 
she was " under the wand of the enchanter." 
Emily possessed what, like songs and son- 
nets, must be born with you, — a musical ear; 
that sixth sense, in search of which you may 
subscribe to the Ancient Music and the Phil- 
harmonic, you may go to every concert — you 
may go into ecstasies, and encore every song 
— you may prefer Italian singing, talk learn- 
edly of tone and touch, all in vain — a musical 
ear is no more to be acquired than Lady H.'s 
beauty or Mrs. TVs grace. 

"What a pity," said old Lord E., a man 
whom a peerage spoilt for a professor, whose 
heart had performed Cowley's ballad for the 
whole succession of prima donnas, — " what a 
pity you have not seen Pasta — a Greek statue 
stepped from its pedestal, and animated by the 
Promethean fire of genius ! Why is not such 
personified poetry immortal ? My feeling of 
regret for my grandchildren half destroys my 
enjoyment of the present; it is the feeling of 
a patriot, Miss Arundel. Every other species 
of talent carries with it its eternity ; we enjoy 
the work of the poet, the painter, the sculptor, 
only as thousands will do after us; but. the 
actor — his memory is with his generation, and 
that passes away. What a slight idea even I, 
who speak as a last year's eyewitness, can 
give of her magnificent Semiramide, defying 
even fate — of the deep, passionate love, ever 
the ill-requited, expressed in her Medea; her 
dark hair bound in its classical simplicity 
round her fine head, her queen-like step — Miss 
Arundel, I am very sorry for you;" and he 



stopped in one of those deep pauses of emo- 
tion, when the feeling is too great for words. 

At this moment Sontag burst upon the ear 
with one of those iEolian sweeps of music so 
peculiarly her own : " Can any thing be more 
exquisite 1" exclaimed Emily. 

"Granted," returned Lord E.; "musical 
talent is at its perfection in her — the finest na- 
tural organ modulated by first-rate science; 
but where is the mind of Pasta? It is folly 
to compare beings so opposite : like the child, 
when asked which he preferred, some grapes 
or a nectarine, I answer ' both.' The one is a 
woman of genius — the other a most lovely 
creature, with the finest of voices." 

"How beautiful she is!" rejoined Emily, 
adhering with true feminine pertinacity to her 
opinion, though very willing to choose new 
ground for her argument. 

" First of all, allow me to observe, I hate to 
hear one woman praise another's beauty ; they 
do it with such a covenanting air of self-sa- 
crifice, such vainglorious setting forth of — 
' Tljgre you see I am not the least envious.' 
Secondly, I beg to differ from you : I remem- 
ber anxiety was wound up to its highest of 
expectation when the fair songstress first ap- 
peared : she advanced to the front of the stage 
— her white arms in that half-crossed, half- 
clasped attitude, which so deprecatingly ex- 
presses female timidity — a burst of applause 
went round in compliment to those superla- 
tively snowy hands and arms ; next, she made 
a step forward, and in so doing displayed a 
foot, small enough for the slipper which the 
stork so maliciously dropped to waken the 
Egyptian king from his revery — and a second 
round of applause announced due appreciation 
of that aerial foot; finally, the eyes were 
raised, and the face turned to the audience, but 
the face was received in deep silence : that 
first opinion was the true one. But wait till 
the next scene, and we shall agree — for our 
admiration of Malibran is mutual." 

" My first impression of her," said Emily, 
" was very striking ; it was at an evening con- 
cert, which, like many others — when some 
three-drawing-roomed lady enacts patroness, 
and throws open her house for the sake of 
tickets, strangers, and a paragraph — was ra* 
ther dimly lighted. Malibran was seated in 
an open window, round which some creeping 
plant hung in profuse luxuriance ; the back- 
ground was a sky of the deepest blue and 
clearest moonlight — so that her figure was 
thrown out in strong relief. Her hair was 
just bound round her head, with a blue wreath 
quite at the back, as in some of the antique 
figures of the nymphs, who seem to have 
wreathed the flowers they had gathered. She 
was pale, and her large darK eyes filled with 
that lustrous gaze of absorbed attention only 
given to music. I thought, what a lovely pic- 
ture she would have made !" 

But here a song commenced ; and the si- 
lence enforced by a schoolmistress was not 
stricter than that Lord E. held it a duty to ob- 
serve during singing. 

By-the-by, both in print and parlance, how 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



19 



much nonsense is set forth touching " the 
English having no soul for music !" The love 
of music, like a continent, may be divided 
into two parts ; first that scientific apprecia- 
tion which depends on natural organization 
and highly cultivated taste ; and, secondly, 
thal^love of sweet sounds, for the sake of the 
associations linked with them, and the feel- 
ings they waken from the depths of memory : 
the latter is a higher love than the former, and 
in the first only are we English deficient. The 
man who stands listening to even a barrel-or- 
gan, because it repeats the tones '• he loved 
from the lips of his nurse" — or who follows 
a common ballad-singer, because her song is 
familiar in its sweetness, or linked with touch- 
ing w r ords, or hallowed by the remembrance 
of some other and dearest voice — surely that 
man has a thousand times more " soul for mu- 
sic" than he who raves about execution, chro- 
matic runs, semi-tones, &c. We would liken 
music to Aladdin's lamp — worthless in itself, 
net so for the spirits which obey its call. We 
love it for the buried hopes, the garnered 'me- 
mories, the tender feelings, it can summon 
with a touch. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Very good sort of people.— Common Conversation. 
A liltle innocent flirtation.— Ibid. 
" Enamoured of mine own conceit." — Lord Stirling. 
A fancy ball ! Pray, where is the fancy 1 — Rational 
Question. 

Is it not Rochefoucault who says, " There 
are many who would never have fallen in love, 
nad they not first heard it talked about]" 
What he says of love may extend to a great 
variety of other propensities. How many 
gastronomes, with mouths never meant but for 
mutton and mashed potatoes, dilate learnedly 
on the merits of salmis and sautes — but far 
less as matter of taste than flavour ! How 
many a red-cheeked and red-jacketed squire 
exchanges the early hours of the field for the 
late hours of the House, from that universal 
ambition called example! And what but that 
powerful argument, " why, everybody gives 
them," ever made Mrs. Danvers give parties] 
Without one of the ordinary inducements 
which light up the saloon, and cover the sup- 
per-table with spun-sugar temples ; — she had 
no son, for whom an heiress was to be drawn 
from her " bright peculiar sphere" in the 
mazes of a mazurka — no daughters making 
waltzes and window-seats so desirable ; not 
so much as a niece, or even a disposable se- 
cond cousin ; — without one grain of esprit de 
societe, or one atom of desire for its success; 
-—the Morning Post might have eulogized 
forever the stars that made her drawing-room 
"a perfect constellation of rank, beauty, and 
fashion," — and before Mrs. Danvers had read 
one-half of the paragraph, she would have 
forgotten the other. She had a good-natured 
husband, a large fortune, and a noble house 
in an unexceptionable street; and in giving 



parties, she only fulfilled the destiny attached 
to such possessions. 

Their year was the most uniform of time's 
quietest current. In February they came up 
to town, for three reasons: they had a family 
house, to which the family had come up for a 
century past, — and they were none of those 
new-light people who so disrespectfully differ 
from their grandfathers and grandmothers; 
secondly, all their neighbours came to town, 
— for their neighbourhood was too aristocratic 
not to be migratory : and, thirdly, Mr. Dan- 
vers represented a borough which was very 
prolific in petitions, road-bills, &c. In town 
they remained till near August, when Mr. 
Danvers went to Scotland to shoot grouse ; 
and Mrs. Danvers consoled herself during 
his absence at their seat by wondering how 
much the children of her parish-school and 
shrubs had shot up while she was away, 
and by superintending the housekeeper's 
room— where, with almost a dash of senti- 
ment, she saw to her husband's grouse being 
potted, and a whole array of white jars filled 
with pickles as acid as Mr. Roger's temper and 
tongue, and with preserves as sweet as Sir 
Walter Scott's letter of thanks — (by-the-by, 
they say he keeps a set lithographed) — for the 
first copy of some young poet's first effusion. 
Partridges and Mr. Danvers reappeared in 
September. He shot before Christmas and 
hunted after; while the rest of the time was 
disposed of by dinners and drowsiness in the 
afternoon; but we must add, with every 
morning given to kind and useful employ- 
ment, — for their tenants might have changed 
landlord and lady some dozen times, and yet 
have changed for the worse. 

But to return to May and its multitudes. 
Mrs. Danvers was in a black velvet dress, 
mutually pertinacious in their adherence to 
each other — and diamonds which only requir- 
ed new setting to have made her the envy of 
half her acquaintance, three parts of whom 
were already crowding her superb rooms. 
Emily first went through a languid quadrille, 
with a partner whose whole attention was 
given to his vis-d-vis, and then resumed her 
seat by Lady Alicia, melancholy and medita- 
tive, when her attention was attracted by that 
most musical inquiry of, " W 7 ho is that pretty 
dark-eyed girl 1 — a very wood-nymph beside 
that frozen water-spirit Lady Alicia Dela- 
warr'?" The reply was inaudible; but a 
moment afterwards Mrs. Danvers presented 
Mr. Boyne Sillery. " Miss Arundel for the 
next quadrille." 

With such an introduction, what partner 
but would have been graciously received 1 
Perhaps, had not Emily's judgment been a 
little blinded by the diamond dust which va 
nity flings in the eyes, Mr. Boyne Sillery 
might not have appeared such a very nice 
young man. He was precisely of an order 
she had too much good taste to admire — he 
was, to use the expression of a French critic 
applied to Moore's poetry, trop parfume ,- 
there was an occasional glisten on his curls, 
that savoured too much of a professor and 



20 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Phuile aux mille Jleurs ,• his tailor was evi- 
dently a person- of great consideration in his 
eyes — that was but gratitude; and his chance 
mention of acquaintance was too carefully 
correct — that air of the Court Guide which so 
.nuch betrays the parvenu or debutant. But 
Emily was in no mood to be critical. During 
the quadrille they progressed as rapidly as an 
American settlement. He gave her his arm 
to the supper-room: grapes, pineapple, jelly, 
and pretty speeches blended amicably to- 
gether. Afterwards their engagement was 
extended to a waltz. They talked of the 
Corsair — the exquisite picture of Parris's 
Bridemaid in the British Gallery — and ended 
with Italy and moonlight; when she was 
shawled, cloaked, and handed to the carriage 
with a most exquisite air of anxiety — but not 
till her partner had learned the number of 
Lady Alicia's opera-box, and that they were 
going the following evening to Mrs. William 
Carson's fancy ball. 

Alas! for the weakness and vanity of the 
female sex. Mile. Hyacinthine quite marvelled 
at her young lady's animation as she unbound 
the wreath of lilies from her hair, and receiv- 
ed a caution about to-morrow's costume : 
such an injunction had not passed Emily's 
lips for weeks. 

Even in this world of wonders, there are 
two subjects of our especial marvel ; — how 
people can be so silly as to give fancy balls ; 
and still more, how people can be so silly as 
to go to them. With a due proportion of the 
coldness of our insular atmosphere entering 
like a damp sea-breeze into our composition, 
we English are the worst people in the world 
to assume characters not our own — we adapt 
and adopt most miserably — and a fancy ball 
is just a caricature of a volume of costumes, 
only the figures are somewhat stiffer and not 
so well executed. 

Emily was that evening, by the aid of shin- 
ing spangles and silver gauze, an embroidered 
sylph ; and in attempting to be especially 
airy and graceful, was, of course, constrained 
and awkward. However, Mr. Boyne Sillery 
assured her she looked like the emanation of 
a moonlit cloud ; and she could not do less than 
admire the old English costume, by which 
she meant the slashed doublet and lace ruff 
of her companion. On they went, through 
the most ill-assorted groups. Young ladies 
whom a pretty ankle had seduced into Swit- 
zerland, but who now walked about as if 
struck by sudden shame at their short blue 
silk skirts. Sultanas radiant in their mo- 
thers' diamonds, which they seemed terribly 
afraid of losing; and beauties in the style of 
Charles the Second, wholly engrossed by the 
relaxation of their ringlets. 

But if the ladies were bad, the cavaliers 
were worse. Was there a youth with a bright 
English colour, and a small nose with an ele- 
vated termination, " he stuck a turban on his 
brow, and called himself Abdallah." Was 
there a " delicate atomy" of minute dimen- 
sions and pale complexion, he forthwith 
strutted a hardy Highlander. But our very 



pages would grow weary were we to enume- 
rate the solemn Rochesters, the heavy Buck- 
ingham^, contrasted by Spaniards all slip, 
slide, and smile — and officers with nothing 
warlike about them but their regimentals. 
The very drawing-rooms partook of the gene- 
ral discomfort : one was fitted up as a Turkish 
tent, where, a propos des Turcs, the visiters 
drank Champagne and punch ; while a scene 
in Lapland, terribly true as to chilliness, was 
filled with ecarte players and most rheumatic 
draughts. The master of the house wander- 
ed about, looking as if he longed to ask his 
way ; and the mistress, who was queen of 
some country — whether African or Asiatic it 
would have been difficult from her dress to 
decide — courtesied and complimented, till she 
seemed equally weary of her dignity, drape- 
ries, and guests. 

To Emily the scene was new — and novelty 
is the best half of -pleasure. Mr. Boyne Sil- 
lery was too attentive not to be agreeable. 
Attention always is pleasant in an acquaint- 
ance till we tire of them. Moreover, he was 
very entertaining, talked much of ever} r body 
and well of none; and ill-nature is to conver- 
sation what oil is to the lamp — the only thing 
that keeps it alive. Besides, there were two 
or three whispers, whose sweetness was good, 
at least in the way of contrast. 

Mr. Boyne Sillery was seventh, eighth, 01 
ninth, among a score of divers-sized children 
— in a large family, like a long sum, it is 
difficult to remember the exact number. His 
father was the possessor of some half-dozen 
ancestors, a manor, and landed property worth 
about twelve hundred a year. He married 
the daughter of a neighbour whose purse and 
pedigree were on a par with his own — the 
heiress of two maiden aunts, one of whom 
left her a set of garnets, three lockets, and 
the miniature of an officer ; the other a book 
of receipts, and three thousand pounds, which. 
together with what her father gave, was pro- 
perly settled on the younger scions of the 
house of Sillery. 

Had Mr. S. studied Malthus more, and 
multiplication less, it would have greatly 
added to the dignity and comfort of his house- 
hold. As it was, he had to give up his hunt- 
ers, and look after his preserves. His wife 
took to nursing and cotton velvet — and every 
fiftieth cousin was propitiated with pheasants 
and partridges, to keep up a hope at least of 
future interest with the three black graces, 
"law, physic, and divinity;" nay, even a 
merchant, who lived in Leatherlug Lane, was 
duly conciliated at Michaelmas by a goose, 
and at Christmas by a turkey ; the more pa- 
trician presents being addressed due west. 

" There is a tide in the affairs of men ;" 
and the tide on which Francis Boyne Sillery's 
fortune floated was of esprit de vanille. A 
cousin, Colonel Boyne, of whom it was enough 
to say, the first ten years of his life passed 
beside his mother's point apron ; the second 
at a private tutor's, with seven daughters, all 
of whom entertained hopes of the youthfu 1 
pupil ; the third series in a stay-at-home regi 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



21 



merit, whose cornets and captains were of too 
delicate material to brave the balls and bullets 
of " outrageous fortune ;" and the last few 
years at Paris, a slave to the slender ankle 
and superlative suppers of an Opera-dancer. 
Her reform, in a convent, and the necessity 
of raising his rents, brought the colonel to 
England. Soon after his arrival, that patent 
axletree of action, the not knowing what to do 
with himself, domesticated him during some 
weeks of the shooting season at Sillery House, 
where, not being a sportsman, all the benefit 
he derived from September was having his 
morning's sleep disturbed, and seeing par- 
tridges that would have made the most ex- 
quisite of sautes, drenched with an infantine- 
looking pap called bread sauce. 

His attention, among the red-cheeked, red- 
nanded, and large-eared race, that formed the 
olive plantation around his cousin's table, was 
drawn to his namesake, Francis Boyne Sil- 
lery, by one day missing from his dressing- 
table a large portion of the most exquisite 
scent, with which he endeavoured to coun- 
teract the atmosphere of goose and gunpowder 
'.hat rilled Sillery House. 

Mischief in a large family, like murder in 
the newspapers, is sure to come out. It was 
soon discovered that Master Francis, having 
his delicate nerves disturbed by the odour 
exhaled from Messrs. Day and Martin's 
blacking, had poured the esprit de vanille over 
the pumps with which he attended a neigh- 
bouring dancing-school. 

Great was the indignation excited. With 
the fear of a lost legacy before their eyes, his 
mother burnt the shoes — his father took the 
horsewhip — when Colonel Boyne interfered, 
with a eulogium on the naturally fine taste 
of the boy, and a petition to adopt a youth 
whose predilections were so promising. 

A week afterwards, the colonel left for 
London, and with him Francis — the grief of 
whose departure was such as is generally felt 
by mothers on the marriage of their daughters, 
or fathers at the loss of supernumerary sons. 
Colonel Boyne took a house in Dutchess street, 
and a pretty housekeeper — walked St. James's 
and Bond streets — kept both wig and whisker 
in a state of dark-brown preservation — and 
wore Hoby's boots to the last. Francis had 
too much of the parasite in his nature ever 
to loose his original hold ; and after a few 
years of dread, touching a lady and her daugh- 
ter who lived opposite, and spent an unjusti- 
fiable part of their time at the window — and 
some occasional terrors of the housekeeper, 
his cousin died, leaving him all he had, and 
not a little disappointment. A few hundreds 
a year, and a few more at the banker's, were 
all that remained of the wasted property of 
the indulged and the indolent. 

But youth, even of the most provident spe- 
cies, rarely desponds. Mr. Boyne Sillery had 
enough to quiet his tailor and his perfumer — 
find he lived on, in the hopes of an heiress. 
Ln the mean time — as Wordsworth says, 

"Each man hag come object of pursuit, 
To which he sedulously devotes himself,"— 



being too prudent for gambling, too poor for 
la gourmandise, too idle for any employment 
demanding time, too deficient for any requiring 
talent — he took to flirting, partly to keep his 
hand in for the destined heiress he was to 
fascinate, and partly as a present amusement. 
He spoKe in a low tone of voice — a great 
thing, according to Shakspeare, in love affairs ; 
he was pale enough for sentiment — made a 
study of pretty speeches — and was apt at a 
quotation. Did he give his arm to a damsel, 
whose w T hite slipper became visible on the 
crimson-carpeted staircase, it was 

"Her fairy foot, 
That falls like snow on earth, as soft and mute." 

If he hesitated a moment, it was to fill up the 
pause with 

" 0, what heart so wise, 
Could, unbewilder'd, meet those matchless eyes?" 

Did the fair dame wear flowers in her dark 
hair, he talked of 

" Lilies, such as maidens wear 
In the deep midnight of their hair." 

If she sang, he praised by whispering that 
her voice 

"Bore his soul along 
Over the silver waters of sweet song." 

Dearly did he love a little religious contro- 
versy ; for then the dispute could be wound 
up with 

" Thou, for my sake, at Allah's shrine, 
And I at any god's for thine." 

This propensity had brought on him an absurd 
nickname. A young lady, whose designs on 
another he had thwarted for a whole evening 
by a course of ill-timed compliments — and 
the prosperity of a compliment, even more 
than of a jest, 

" Must lie i' the ear of him who hears it," — 

called him Cupid Quotem ; and the ridi- 
culous is memory's most adhesive plaster. 

It -was some half a dozen evenings or so 
before Emily was quite tired — but the past 
pleasant had degenerated into the present 
wearisome, that sure prophecy of the future 
odious — when, on the fifth evening, as he was 
leaning over her chair at the Opera, and, either 
in the way of idleness or experiment, his 
speeches were more than usually sentimental ; 
by way of diversion, Emily began question- 
ing : and "Who is in that box? Do you 
know that person in the pit?" turned the 
enemy most scientifically. 

Next to saying sweet things, Mr. Sillery 
loved saying sour; judge, therefore, if he 
was not entertaining. 

A headache induced Lady Alicia to leave 
before the opera was half over. While wait- 
ing in the crush-room, Mrs. Fergusson and 
her daughters stopped to exchange those little 
nonentities of speech called civilities. 

" Quite an attache" said Miss Fergusson, 
in an audible sneer, as she turned from Emily 
and Mr. Boyne Sillery. 

That night Emily meditated very seriously 
on the propriety of repressing attentions of 
which she was tired. It is curions to observe 



22 



MISS LANDON'S WORKb. 



how soon we perceive the impropriety of 
departed pleasures. Repentance is a one-faced 
Janus, ever looking- to the past. She thought 
how wrong- it was to lead on a young man — 
how shameful to trifle with the feelings of 
another — and how despicable was the cha- 
racter of a coquette. She remembered some- 
thing very like an appointment — no, that was 
too harsh a term — she had unguardedly men- 
tioned the probability of their taking a lounge 
in Kensington Gardens. Thither she deter- 
mined not to go, and resolved in her own 
mind to avoid future quadrilles, &c. She 
went to sleep, lulled by that best of mental 
opiates — a good resolution. 



CHAPTER X. 

" Collecting toys, 

As children gather pebbles by the deep."— Milton. 

" Well," said Mr. Brown, with that ironical pleasantry 
common to intense despair, "that is what I call pleasant." 
— The Disowned. 

There needed very little diplomacy to per- 
suade Lady Alicia to exchange the study of 
natural history in Kensington Gardens for its 
pursuit in Howell and James's, where brace- 
lets made of beetles, and brooches of butter- 
flies, are as good as a course of entomology. 
A gay drive soon brought them to that empo- 
rium of china and chronometers — small, as if 
meant to chime to fairy revels — of embossed 
vases, enamelled like the girdle of Iris, and 
in which every glass drawer is a shrine 

" Where the genii have hid 
The jewell'd cup of their king Jamshid." 

Truly, the black sea of Piccadilly, in spite 
of mud and Macadam, is, from four to five 
o'clock in the season, one of those sights 
whose only demerit is its want of novelty. 

The carriage, entering at Stanhope Gate, 
first wound its way through a small but bril- 
liant crowd — vehicles, from which many a 
face glanced fair 

" As the maids 

Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken shades," 

in Mokanna's gathering from Georgia and 
Circassia, and drawn by horses whose skins 
were soft as the. silks and satins of their 
owners — steeds like the one which owes its 
immortality to its Macedonian victor, curbed 
by the slight rein and yet slighter touch of 
some patrician-looking rider, whose very ap- 
pearance must be a consolation to those me- 
lancholy mortals who prose over the degene- 
racy of the human race — cabriolets guided 
apparently as the young prince was waited on 
In the palace of the White Cat, by hands 
only, or rather gloves, varying from delicate 
primrose to pale blue. 

Then the scene itself — the sweep of light 
verdure, the fine old trees which in Kensing- 
ton Gardens formed the background of the 
distance, the light plantation of flowering 
shrubs on one side, the fine statue of Achil- 
les, looking down like a dark giant disdainfully 



on the slight race beneath ; the siendei an 
elegant arches through which the chario 
wheels rolled as if in triumph ; the opening 
of the green park, ended by the noble old 
abbey, hallowed by all of historic association ; 
the crowded street, where varieties approxi- 
mated and extremes met; the substantial 
coach, with its more substantial coachman, 
seeming as if they bore the whole weight of 
the family honours; the chariots, one, per- 
haps, with its crimson blind waving and giv- 
ing a glimse of the light plume, or yet lighter 
blonde, close beside another whose olive-green 
outside and one horse told that the dark-vested 
gentleman, seated in the very middle, as if 
just ready to get out, is bound on matters of 
life and death, i. e. is an apothecary. Then 
the heavy stages — the omnibus, which so 
closely resembles a caravan of wild beasts— 
and, last descent of misery and degradation, 
the hackney coaches, to which one can only 
apply what Rochefoucault says of marriages 
— " they mav be convenient, but never agree- 
able." 

Of the pedestrians — as in telling a gentle- 
man faults in the mistress he married that 
morning — the least said, the soonest mended. 
No woman looks well walking in the street : 
she either elbows her way in all the disagree- 
ableness of independence, or else shuffles 
along as if ashamed of what she is doing; 
her bonnet has always been met by some un- 
lucky wind which has destroyed half its shape, 
and all its set : if fine weather, her shoes are 
covered with dust, and if dirty, the petticoat 
is defyingly dragged through the mud, or, 
still more defyingly, lifted on one side to 
show the black leather boot, and draggled in 
deepest darkness on the other. No female, 
at least none with any female pretensions, 
should ever attempt to walk, except on a car- 
pet, a turf, or a terrace. As for the men, one 
half look as if they were running on an er- 
rand or from an arrest, or else were creeping 
to commit suicide. 

So much for the pavement. Then the shops 
on either side, can human industry or inge- 
nuity go farther] Ah, human felicity! to 
have at once so many wants suggested and 
supplied ! Wretched Grecian daughters 
miserable Roman matrons ! to whom shop 
ping was an unknown pleasure, what did, 
what could employ them ] Harm, no doubt j 
for 

" Satan finds some mischief still 
For idle hands to do." 

But, without that grand resource, how they 
got through the four-and-twenty hours, like 
the man with the iron mask, remains a mys- 
tery. 

At Howell's Emily was aroused from the 
contemplation of a bracelet formed of bees' 
wings united by lady-birds — by seeing Lady 
St. Leon, a large, good-natured person— one 
of those who take up a chariot or a sofa to 
themselves — one of those fortunate beings 
who have never had a cross but a diamond 
one in the world — one who, as a child, was 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



23 



amusing enough to be papa's pet, and pretty 
enough to be mamma's. She fell in love at 
sixteen, with the very person she ought, — the 
heir of the estate which adjoined her father's; 
she was wedded in a month, had a fine large 
family, none of whom were ever ill ; had 
sons, with an uncle to adopt every one but 
the eldest, and daughters predestined to be 
married, and who fulfilled their destinies as 
soon as possible. She never contradicted her 
husband, who never contradicted her; and 
they had gone on to fifty, equally fat and for- 
tunate together. No wonder her ladyship's 
good humour was enough for herself — and 
other people. 

While discussing with the old lady the 
effects of an east wind, and the rival merits 
of liquorice and lemon lozenges, who should 
she see examining the sentiments and seals but 
Mr. Boyne Sillery ; and whose conversation 
should she overhear but that passing between 
him and a young guardsman, who was be- 
stowing on him his idleness and his company. 

"Pray," said Captain Sinclair, " who is 
that pretty girl whose peace of mind you have 
Deen annihilating the last night or two ?" 

"In good truth, I hardly know — a Miss 
Arundel — a wood-nj^mph, the daughter of 
either a country squire or a clergyman — 
equipped, I suppose, by a mortgage on either 
the squire's corn-fields or the parson's glebe 
land — sent with her face for her fortune to 
see what can be done during a London season 
in the way of Cupid and conquest." 

"I am at a loss," said his companion, " to 
understand your devotion." 

"It was a mixture of lassitude and experi- 
ment, carried into execution by a little Chris- 
tian charit} 7 ' : she appeared entirely neglected 
— and your nobodies are so very grateful ! 
But I find the fatigue too much : moreover, 
one should never let pleasure interfere with 
business. Last night, at the opera, one of 
those crushes which bewilder the uninitiated, 
did wonders for me with a pretty (by cour- 
tesy) little Oriental, whose forty thousand 
pounds have lately been suggesting them- 
selves in the shape of anew system of finance." 

" And what oriental lure can tempt you to 
risk your complexion in the city V 

" O, a removed one : Miss Goulburn." 

Louisa Emma Anastasia Goulburn had 
fewer drawbacks than most heiresses. Her 
father was one of those aborigines whose 
early history was, like most early histories, 
involved in considerable obscurity. " No- 
thing in life became him like the leaving it;" 
for he left one fair daughter and forty thou- 
sand pounds to benefit posterity. A senti- 
mental friendship formed at school with a 
damsel some years her senior, whose calcu- 
lating talents Mr. Hume himself might envy, 
induced her, on her friend's marriage, to settle 
with her in Harley street; and this friend 
having neither brother nor brother-in-law, the 
fair Louisa Emma remained, rather to her own 
surprise, unappropriated at four-and-twenty. 
As to characteristics, she had none ; and, to 
nse a simile to describe her, she was like that 



little volume "The Golden Lyre," whoso 
only merit was being printed in golden letters. 

"Rich, silly," said Mr. Boyne Sillery, 
" what rational man could wish for a more 
pattern wife ] I am now going to Kensington 
Gardens to meet her, where, by-the-by, I also 
expect Miss Arundel — one rival queen is often 
useful with another." 

"Well," said Captain Sinclair, "I think 1 
should be amused by a scene between your 
sylph and your gnome : my cabriolet waits at 
the corner — shall I drive you ?" 

" Agreed," rejoined Mr. Sillery, pausing a 
moment to make choice of two seals, one a 
kneeling Cupid — and to decide whether it 
was an apple or a heart which he held in his 
hand, would have puzzled an anatomist or a 
naturalist — with the motto a vous.- — the other, 
an equally corpulent Cupid chained, the in- 
scription "at your feet." "I always con- 
sider," observed our calculating cavalier, 
" billets the little god's best artillery : the 
perfumed paper is a personal compliment, 
and your fair correspondent always applies 
the seal to herself: like the knights of old, 
I look to my arms." 

A prolonged gaze on the mirror opposite, a 
satisfactory smile, and our two adventurers 
left the shop — like Pizarro, intent on a golden 
conquest. Emily's lip was a little bitten, and 
her colour not a little heightened, as she 
emerged from the expanse of Lady St. Leon's 
ermine. What a pity it is to throw away a 
good resolution ! 



CHAPTER XL 

" Yet mark the fate of a whole sex."— Pope. 
" Look on this picture, and on this." — Shakspeare. 
" T beg to deny the honourable gentleman's assertion." 
— Debates: Morning Chronicle. 

The pleasantest, indeed the only pleasant 
parties, at their house were the small dinners, 
in which Mr. Delawarr excelled: it was said 
he rather picqued himself upon them. Among 
the many distinguished in mind, body, and 
estate, whose countenances were most fre- 
quently reflected in the covers to the dishes, 
(most unprepossessing mirrors they are,) was 
a Mr. Morland, a self-acting philosopher, i. c. 
one whose philosophy was exerted to his own 
benefit — that philosophy we are so apt only 
to exert for others. He was a widower, had 
eschewed politics — never gave advice, bti 
often assistance — read much, but wrote r.ot at 
all — bought a few pictures — had the perfec- 
tion of a cook — loved conversation ; and c 
little judicious listening had made Miss Arun- 
del a first-rate favourite. 

Considering how T much the ears are culti- 
vated with all the useless varieties of " lute, 
sackbut, and psaltery," it is wonderful their 
first great quality should be so neglected ; 
it shows how much common sense is over- 
looked in our present style of education. 
Now, considering that it is the first step tu 
general popularity — (that general popularity 



2* 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



to be turned, like a patriot's, to particular 
account) — considering that it is the great 
general principle of conciliation towards East 
Indian uncles and independent aunts, it shows 
how much real utility is forgotten, when the 
science of listening is not made a prominent 
branch of instruction. So many act on the 
mistaken principle, that mere hearing is list- 
ening—the eyes, believe me, listen even bet- 
ter than the ears — there ought to be a professor 
of listening. We recommend this to the 
attention of the London University, or the new 
King's College; both professing to improve 
the system of education. Under the head of 
listening, is to be included the arts of oppor- 
tune questionings and judicious negatives — 
those negatives which, like certain votes, be- 
come after a time affirmatives. 

Mr. Morland. — " So you were at Lady Man- 
deville's ball last night 1 The primeval curse 
is relaxed in favour of you young ladies. How 
very happy you are !" 

Emily rather differed in opinion: however, 
instead of contradicting, she only questioned. 
"I should really like to know in what my 
superlative felicity consists." 

Mr. Morland. — "You need not lay such a 
stress on the monosyllable my .• it is the lot 
of your generation ; you are young, and youth 
every hour gives that new pleasure for which 
the Persian monarch offered a reward ; you 
are pretty" — Emily smiled — " all young la- 
dies are so now-a-days" — the smile shadowed 
somewhat — " you have all the luxury of idle- 
ness, which, as the French cooks says of le 
potage, is the foundation of every thing else." 

Emily. — " I am sure I have not had a mo- 
ment's time since I came to town — you cannot 
think how busy I have been." 

Mr. Morland. — " Those little elegant no- 
things — those rainbow-tinted bead-workings 
of the passing hours, which link the four-and- 
twenty coursers of the day in chains light as 
that slender native of Malta round your neck. 
I'll just review a day for you : Your slumber, 
haunted by some last night's whisper 'fairy 
sound,' is broken by the chiming of the little 
French clock, which, by waking you to the 
music of some favourite waltz, adds the mid- 
night pleasures of memory to the morning 
pleasures of hope. The imprisoned ringlets 
are emancipated ; ' fresh as the oread from 
the forest fountain,' you descend — you breathe 
the incense of the chocolate — not more I hope 
— and grow conversational and confidential 
over the green tea, which, with a fragrance 
Deyond all the violets of April, rises to your 
Jp, ' giving and taking odours.' A thousand 
little interesting discussions arise — the colour 
of the Comte de S.'s moustache — the captiva- 
tion of Colonel F.'s curls : there are partners 
to be compared — friends to be pitied — flirta- 
tions to be noted — perhaps some most silvery 
speech of peculiar import to be analyzed. 

"After breakfast, there are the golden 
plumes of your canary to be smoothed — the 
purple opening of your hyacinths to be 
watched — that sweet new waltz to be tried 
on the harp, or Mr Bayly, that laureate of the 



butterflies, has some new song. Then there 
are flowers to be painted on velvet — tne new 
romance to be read — or some invention of 
novel embellishment to be discussed with 
your M'lle. Jacinthe, Hyacinthe, or whatever 
poetic name may euphoniously designate your 
Parisian priestess of the mirror. 

" Luncheon and loungers come in together 
— a little news and a little nonsense — ana 
then you wonder at its being so late. The 
carriage and the cachemire are in waiting — 
you have been most fortunate in the arrange- 
ment of your hat — never did flowers wave 
more naturally, or plumes fall more gracefully. 
Your milliner has just solicited your attention 
to some triumph of genius—you want a new 
clasp to your bracelet — 

1 Visions of glory, spare my aching sight !' 

Complexion and constitution are alike revived 
by a drive in the Park — a white glove rests 
on the carriage-window — and some ' gallant 
gray' or chestnut Arabian is curbed into 
curvets and foam by its whispering master. 

" I will allow you to dream away the din- 
ner-hour — what young lady would plead guilty 
to an appetite 1 Then comes that hour of 
anxious happiness — that given to the political 
economy of the toilette. I rather pique my- 
self on my eloquence ; but ' language, 0, 
how faint and weak !' to give an idea of the 
contending claims of tulle, crape, &c. &c. 
We will imagine its deliberations ended in 
decision. Your hair falls and curls like a 
sudden shower of sunshine, or your dark 
tresses are gathered up with pearls.. You 
emerge, like a lady lily, delicate in white — 
or the youngest of the roses has lent its colour 
to your crape : your satin slipper rivals the 
silver-footed Thetis of old ; and in a few mi- 
nutes you are among the other gay creatures 
' of the element' born of Collinet's music ; 
and among the many claimants for your hand 
one is the fortunate youth. Midnight passes, 
and I leave you to your pillow, 

' Gentle dreams, and slumbers light.' 

" So much for your past — now for your 
future. The season is nearly at an end — the 
captured coronet has crowned your campaign 
— parchments are taking the place of paste- 
board ; you are bewildered in blushes and 
blonde — diamonds and satin supersede your 
maiden pearls and gauze — another fortnight 
and you are being hurried over the continent 
with all the rapidity of four horses and felicity, 
or else giving a month to myrtles, moonlight, 
and matrimony. Of your consequent happi- 
ness I need not speak : 'tis true your duties 
take a higher character — you have a husband 
to manage — a visiting-list to decide — perhaps 
have the mighty duties of patroness to balls, 
charities, concerts, and Sunday-schools to per- 
form. But I have finished : — the advantages 
of a house and carriage of your own, the ne- 
cessity of marriage, I trust you are too well 
educated a young lady not fully to under- 
stand." 

" Now, out upon you, Miss Arundel !" said 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



25 



Laay Mandeville — a lady, both of beauty and 
bel esprit, who sat near her, " to encourage, by 
smile and silence, so false a painter of our 
destiny. Do you not see the veiled selfish- 
ness of such sophistry 1 Our said happiness 
is but the excuse of our exclusion. When- 
ever I hear a man talking of the advantages 
of our iL-used sex, I look upon it as the pre- 
lude, to some new act of authority," 

Mr. Delawarr. — "Ah! you resemble those 
political economists who, if they see a para- 
graph in the paper one day rejoicing over the 
country's prosperit3 r , examine its columns the 
next to see what new tax is to be suggested." 

Lady Mandeville. — " On grounds of utility 
I object to such a false impression being made 
on Miss Arundel's mind ; it is her destiny to 
be miserable, and I were no true- friend did I 
not act the part of a friend, and impress upon 
her the disagreeable necessity." 

Mr. Morland. — " Then you would join in 
the prayer of the Indian heroine, in the Prairie, 
' Let not my child.be a girl, for sorrowful is 
the lot of woman !' " 

Lady Mandeville. — " Most devoutly. Allow 
me to revise Mr. Morland's picture, and, for 
Jeanne qui rit, give the far truer likeness of 
Jeanne qui pleure. I will pass over the days 
of pap and petting, red shoes and blue sash, 
as being that only period when any thing of 
equality subsists between the sexes ; and 
pass on to the time when all girls are awk- 
ward, and most of them ugly — days of back- 
boards and collars, red elbows, French, Italian, 
musical and calisthenic exercises. Talk of 
education ! What course of Eton and Oxford 
equals the mental fatigues of an accomplished 
young lady ] There is the piano, the harp — 
the hands and feet equally to be studied — one 
to be made perfect in its touch, the other in 
its tread ; then, perhaps, she has some little 
voice, which is to be shaken into a fine one — 
French and Italian are indispensable — geo- 
graphy, grammar, histories ancient and mo- 
dern ; there are drawings, in crayons and 
colours — tables to be painted, and also screens 
— a little knowledge of botany and her cate- 
chism, and you have done your best towards 
giving your daughter that greatest of bless- 
ings, as the Edinburgh and Westminster Re- 
views call it, a solid education. It is true, 
as soon as the great purpose of feminine ex- 
istence, marriage, is accomplished, the labour 
and expense of years will be utterly forgotten 
and wasted ; but you have not the less done 
your duty. Emerged from the dull school- 
room, the young lady comes out : period of 
heart-burnings and balls — of precaution and 
pretension — of the too attractive younger bro- 
ther — of the too necessary elder one — time of 
love and lectures — the Mount Ararat between 
the purgatory of the schoolroom, and the 
paradise of an eligible offer: 

' The horizon's fair deceit, 
Where earth and heaven but seem, alas! to mee ' 

(do not feel my spirits equal to dwelling on 
the wretchedness of an unappropriated debu- 
'antei that last stage of maiden misery ; but 
Vol. I.-4 y 



suppose our aspirant safely settled in some 
park in the country, or some square in town — 
Hymen's bark fairly launched — but 

'Are the roses still Iresh by the bright Bendemeer V 

A woman never thoroughly knows her depend- 
ence till she is married. I pass also the jea- 
lousies, the quarrels, the disgusts, that make 
the Catholic questions and corn-bills of mar- 
ried life — and only dwell on one in particular 
some irresistible hat, some adorable cap, some 
exquisite robe, has rather elongated your mil- 
liner's list of inevitables — I always think the 
husband's answer greatly resembles the judge's 
response to the criminal, who urged he musi 
live, — 'I do not see the necessity.' Is no 1 
this just the reply for a husband when the fait 
defaulter urges she must dress 1 How will 
he ejaculate, 'I do not see the necessity.' 
Truly, when my milliner sends in her annua' 
account of enormities, like Corneille's Curia- 
tius, i j 9 ai pitie de moi-meme? " 

No debate ever ending in conviction, it is 
of little consequence that here the conversatior 
was interrupted by that rise of feminine stock* 
which usually takes place during the seconc 
o-lass of claret. 



CHAPTER XII. 

" I am the most unlucky person in the world.''— Com 
?non Exclamation. 

"People always marry their oppesites." — General Hi 
mark. 

" Coaches all full," said a little bustling 
waiter, who popped about like a needle 
through a seam. " No horses to be had, — 
all at the races, — very bad day, sir, — very bac 
indeed !" 

"Confound the wet!" somewhat hastilj 
ejaculated Mr. Lorraine, resuming his statior 
at the window, which looked into a narrow 
little street, now almost Venetian with a canal 
in the middle. The rain came down in tor- 
rents, — not a creature was passing; he had 
not even the comfort of seeing a few people 
drenched through : somebody was dead in 
the shop opposite, so that was shut up : he 
turned to the room, — there was not a glass tG 
enliven its dark dingy lilac walls ; the chairs 
were with those black shining sliding seats, 
in contempt of all comfort ; the fireplace was 
filled with shavings; and a china shepherd 
and shepherdess, clothed in " a green and 
yellow melancholy," Avere the penates of the 
mantelpiece. How stimulating to be thrown 
on one's own resources ! — unfortunately, they 
are like 

" Spirits from the vasty deep. 
But will they come when you do call to them :" 

No resource but that of swearing came tc 
Edward's help ; and he paced the little room. 
most unpatriotically consigning the climate 
of his native land, the races, the horses, the 
inn, and himself, to the devil. At last, he 
went in search of the landlord, whom he found 
standing dismally at the door, apparently en 
gaged in counting the rain drops. 
C 



26 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" Are you sure no horses are to be pro- 
cured 1 — how unlucky !" 

" All my luck, sir," said the disconsolate- 
looking master of the Spread Eagle ; " it is 
just like me, — my best horses knocked up at 
the races, — they might have been as lame as 
Lhey pleased next week ; but I am so unlucky 
— I hav'n't fifty pounds in the world ; but if I 
had ten in the Bank of England, there would 
be a national bankruptcy, on purpose that I 
might lose it; and if I were to turn under- 
taker, nobody would die, that I mightn't have 
the burying of them: it's just my luck 
always." 

Edward's sympathy was interrupted by the 
roll of wheels. A phaeton drove up to the 
door, and in its owner he recognised his young 
friend Lord Morton ; and a few minutes suf- 
ficed to persuade him to take his seat, and 
accept an invitation to Lauriston Park. It 
never rains but it pours, and a pouring shower 
is always a clearing one ; so it proved, and a 
beautiful evening was darkening into a still 
more beautiful night, as they entered Lauris- 
ton Park. 

Certainly our English parks are noble 
places; and. a most disrespectful feeling do 
we entertain towards the nobleman who sells 
his deer and ploughs up his land. Why 
should he be so much richer or wiser than 
his grandfathers'? Before thern swept acres 
upon acres of green grass — a deep sea of ver- 
dure; here some stately oak, whose size 
vouched for its age — an oak, the most glorious 
of trees, — glorious in its own summer strength 
of huge branches and luxuriant foliage, — 
glorious in all its old associations, in its con- 
nexion with that wild, fierce religion, when 
the Druids made it a temple, — and thrice 
glorious in its association with the waves and 
winds it is its future destiny to master, and 
in the knowledge that the noble race have 
borne, and will bear, the glory of England 
round the world. It may sound like the after- 
dinner patriotism of the Freemason's Tavern ; 
but surely the heart does beat somewhat high 
beneath the shadow of an old oak. 

Besides these were numerous ashes ; the 
light and the graceful, the weeping cypress 
of England, through whose slight boughs the 
sunshine falls like rain, beloved of the bee, 
and beneath which the violet grows best. I 
scarcely ever saw an ash whose roots were 
not covered with these treasurers of the 
spring's perfume. Far as the eye could 
reach stretched away young plantations ; and 
if Art had refined upon Nature, clothed the 
hill side with young plants, shut out a level 
flat, or opened a luxuriant vista, she had done 
it with veiled face and unsandalled foot. 

Lord Morton's news, and Lorraine's novel- 
ties, were interrupted by the dashing forward 
of a carriage, over whose horses the coach- 
man had evidently lost all control. For- 
tunately, the road was narrow ; and with too 
little risk to enable them to display much 
neroism, our gentlemen secured the reins, 
and aided the ladies to alight. From its 



depths emerged the black velvet hat and 
white feathers, and finally the whole of the 
Countess of Lauriston, followed by her daugh- 
ter. After a due portion of time employed 
in exclamations, sympathies, and inquiries, 
how they came to meet was explained as 
satisfactorily as the end of an old novel, when 
every thing is cleared up, and everybody 
killed, after having first repented, or mar- 
ried. 

Lord Lauriston was laid up with the gout : 
prevented from attending the county ball, he 
still remembered his popularity, and "duly 
sent his daughter and his wife ;" all thought 
of going was now at an end : however, the 
purpose was more completely answered, — -an 
overturn in the service of their country was 
equivalent to half-a-dozen evenings of hard 
popular work ; and, too much alarmed to re- 
enter the carriage, or even try the phaeton, 
they agreed to walk home, and this, too, in 
the best of humours. 

Lady Lauriston delighted to see her son 
whose absence at this period was to be feared ; 
for electioneering dinings and visitings are 
tiresome — and the young man objected to 
trouble; while his non-appearance would 
have wasted a world of " nods, and becks, 
and wreathed smiles :" as it was, his mother 
took his arm with delighted complacency. 

Nor was Lady Adelaide less amiable. She 
was glad, on any terms, to escape from a ball 
which she called the purgatory of provincials 
and besides, the handsome and graceful Lor- 
raine was no bad addition to a family party , 
while Edward thought to himself, he had 
never seen any thing so lovely. The cloak, 
lined with ermine, was drawn in most exqui- 
site drapery round her beautiful figure ; the 
night air had already begun to relax the long 
ringlets which suited so well with the high 
white forehead, and a face whose loveliness 
was of that haughty style to which homage 
was familiar, and conquest as much a neces- 
sity as a desire. 

There was something, too, picturesque in 
the scene: they had now entered the shrub- 
beries, whose luxury of blossom was indeed 
a contrast to the dark forests where he had 
lately sojourned, — as much a contrast as the 
stately beauty at his side was to the pretty 
laughing peasants of Norway. His ima- 
gination was excited; and as yet, with Ed- 
ward, imagination was more than one half 
love. 

They reached the house; and what with 
Morton's return, Lorraine's wit, and Ade- 
laide's gratified vanity, the supper passed 
with a degree of gayety very rare in a house 
whose atmosphere might have vied with 
Leila's snow court in Thalaba for coldness 
and quiet. 

Lord Lauriston was one of those mistakes 
which sometimes fall out between nature and 
fortune, — nature meant him for a farmer, for- 
tune made him a peer. In society he was a 
nonentity ; he neither talked nor listened — and 
it is a positive duty to do one or the other; in 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



27 



his own house he resembled one of the old 
family pictures, hung up for show, and not 
for use; but in his farm no Caesar rebuked 
his genius. Heavens ! what attention he 
bestowed on the growth of his gray pease ! 
how eloquent he could be on the merits of the 
Swedish turnips ! and a new drill, or a patent 
thrashing machine, deprived him of sleep 
for a week. 

In marriage, as in chemistry, opposites 
have often an attraction. His lady was as 
different as your matrimonial affinities usually 
are; society was her element, and London 
her "city of the soul." Her house and her 
parties occupied the first years of her mar- 
riage, in endeavours to embellish the one, 
and refine the other ; but of late the business 
of life had grown serious ; she had been em- 
ployed in marrying off her daughters. Her 
systems of sentiment might have vied with 
her lord's systems of husbandry ; hitherto 
they had been eminently successful. Her 
first daughter had come out during the reign 
of useful employments ; and Lady Susan 
plaited straw, and constructed silk shoes, till 
Mr. Amundeville, possessor of some thirty 
thousand a year, thought he could not form a 
more prudent choice, and made her mistress 
of his saving-bank and himself, — and mistress 
indeed was she of both. A day of dash and 
daring came next ; and Anastasia rode the 
most spirited hunter, drove her curricle, told 
amusing stories, drew caricatures, and laughed 
even louder than she talked. Lord Shafton 
married her: he was so delicate, he said, or 
it was said for him, that he needed protection. 
Sentiment succeeded; and Laura leant over 
the harp, and sat by moonlight in a window- 
seat, sighed when her flowers faded, and 
talked of Byron and Italy. Sir Eustace St. 
Clair made her an offer while her dark blue 
eyes were filled with tears at some exquisite 
lines he had written in her album. 

Lady Adelaide only remained, and an un- 
deniable beauty ; her mother did indeed ex- 
pect this match to crown all the others. Her 
style was, however, to be wholly different, 
like that of a French tragedy, classical, cold, 
and correct, — indifference, languor, and qui- 
etude now united to form a beau ideal of 
elegance. 

Of Lord Morton little can be said ; he was 
rather good-looking, and as good-natured as a 
very selfish person can be ; and not more in 
the way than those always are who depend 
entirely upon others for their amusement. 

Such w„as the family where Edward Lor- 
raine promised to stay for a fortnight — a very 
dangerous period ; long enough to fall in love, 
scarcely long enough to get tired. Lady 
Lauriston was perfectly satisfied with the 
proceedings ; she was aware of the advantage 
of the suffrage of one whose authority in 
taste was held to be despotic ; she calculated 
on his good report preceding Adelaide in 
town ; and she felt too much confidence in 
her daughter's principles to be at all alarmed 
about her heart. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

Duties with wants, and facts with feeling jar, 
Deceiving and deceived— what fools we aie! 
The hope is granted, and the wish content 
Alas! but only for our punishment. 

Had Lady Lauriston been aware of Mr 
Lorraine's certainty of succeeding to the 
Etheringhame estates and honours, her plans 
would have assumed a more appropriating 
form. Invalid in body, still more so in mind, 
the present earl was sinking to the grave, not 
less surely because the disease was more 
mental than physical — not less surely because 
he was young, for youth gave its own mortal 
keenness to the inward wound. It was curi- 
ous that, while father and mother were cut 
out in the most commonplace shapes of social 
automata, both sons possessed a romance of 
feeling which would greatly have alarmed 
their rational parents. But no moral percep- 
tions are so blunt as those of the selfish ; 
theirs is the worst of near-sightedness — that 
of the heart. 

Lord and Lady Etheringhame were blind 
to the faults, even as they were to the good 
qualities of their children, simply because to 
neither had they an answering key in them- 
selves : we cannot calculate on the motions 
of a world, of whose very existence we dream 
not. They had a certain standard, not so much 
of right and wrong as of propriety, and took it 
for granted from this standard no child of 
theirs could depart. 

Algernon the elder brother's character was 
one peculiarly likely to be mistaken by people 
of this sort : his melancholy passed for gra- 
vity, his timidity for pride, and were there- 
fore held right proper qualities ; while his 
fondness for reading, his habits of abstraction, 
passed for close study, which made his mo- 
ther call him such a steady young man ; while 
his father, who had some vague notions of 
the necessity of great, men studying, looked 
forward to the triumphs of the future states- 
man. He had been educated, from his delicate 
health, entirely at home ; and his tutor — who 
had only in his life moved from his college to 
the castle, and who had lived entirely among 
books — books which teach us at once so much 
and so little of men — could see nothing but 
good in the pupil, whose eagerness to learn 
exceeded even his eagerness to teach, and who 
rarely went out without a book in his pocket. 

The gloomy seclusion in which they lived — 
his health, which rendered those field sports 
that must have thrown him among young 
companions unattractive — all fostered the 
dreaming habits of his mind. He would 
pass hours under the shade of one old fa- 
vourite cedar, whose vast boughs required a 
storm to move them, and through whose thick 
foliage the sunbeams never pierced ; or whole 
evenings would pass away while he paced 
the chestnut avenue, ancient as those days 
when the earls of Etheringhame wore belt 
and spur, and rode beneath those trees with 
five hundred vassals in their train. There he 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



dreamed of life — those dreams which so unfit 
the visionary for action, which make the real 
world so distasteful when measured by that 
within. 

Algernon was a poet in all but expression : 
that deep love of beauty — that susceptibility 
to external impressions — that fancy"which, like 
the face we love, invests all things it looks on 
with a grace not their own — that intense feel- 
ing which makes so much its own pain and 
pleasure— all these were his: it were well had 
expression been added also — if he had been a 
poet, feelings which now fed upon his own 
heart, would then have found a channel, and in 
their flow have made a bond between him and 
his fellow men ; the sorrow that parts in music 
from the lip often dies to its own singing, and 
the ill-starred love of its song goes on its way, 
soothed by the comrades it has called up, 
vanity and sympathy. The poet dies not of 
the broken heart he sings ; it is the passionate 
enthusiast, the lonely visionary, who makes 
his own hopes, feelings, and thoughts, the 
pjn-e on which himself will be consumed. 
The old proverb, applied to fire and water, 
may with equal truth be applied to the 
imagination — it is a good servant, but a bad 
master. 

Algernon was just nineteen when a warmer 
climate was imperatively ordered ; and a few 
weeks saw Algernon and his tutor settled in a 
villa near Naples — the one happy in the no- 
velty, loveliness, and associations of Italy — 
the other delighted with their vicinity to a 
convent rich in curious old manuscripts, and 
to which he had obtained free access. 

It was one of those glorious evenings 
which crowded the whole wealth of summer 
into one single sunset, when Algernon was 
loitering through the aisles of a vast church, 
which seemed, like the faith it served, im- 
perishable. The west was shut out, but the 
whole building was filled with a rich purple 
haze — the marble figures on the monuments 
stood out with a distinctness like real exist- 
ence, but apart from our own. To me statues 
never bear aught of human resemblance — I 
cannot think of them as the likeness of man 
or woman — colourless, shadowy, they seem 
the creation of a spell ; their spiritual beauty 
is of another world — and well did the Grecian 
of old. whose faith was one of power and 
necessity, not of affection, make his statues 
deities : the cold, the severely beautiful, we 
can offer them worship, but never love. It 
was, however, neither statue nor picture that 
so riveted Algernon's attention, but a female 
kneeling at the shrine of the Virgin in most 
absorbing and earnest prayer. 

Perhaps, the most striking, as the most 
picturesque change in costume, is the veil 
universally worn in Italy: and but that the 
present day does not pique itself on its ro- 
mance, it were matter of marvel how a woman 
eould eve^- be induced to abandon an article 
of dress so full of poetical and graceful asso- 
ciation. A veiled lady either is, or ought to 
he, enough to turn the head of any cavalier 
undei five-and-twenty. 



It was, however, admiration, not curiosity, 
the kneeling female excited; for her veil had 
fallen back, and her face, only shadowed by 
a profusion of loose black ringlets, was fully 
seen. It was perfect: the. high noble fore- 
head — the large melancholy eyes — the deli- 
cately chiseled oval of the cheek — the small 
red mouth, belonging to the highest and most 
superb order of beauty; a sadness stole over 
its expression of devotional fervour — she sud- 
denly buried her face in her hands : when she 
raised her head again, the long dark eyelashes 
were glittering with tears. She rose, and 
Algernon followed her, more from an impulse 
than an intention ; she stopped and unlocked 
a small door — it belonged to the convent 
garden adjoining — and there entering, disap- 
peared. 

But Algernon had had ample time to fall 
desperately in love. He was now at an age 
when the heart asks for some more real object 
than the fairy phantoms of its dreams: passions 
chase fancies ; and the time was now come 
when the imagination would exert its faculty 
rather to exaggerate than to create. He 
thought over the sadness of that angel face, 
as if he were predestined to soothe it — a 
thousand scenes in which they were to meet 
glanced over him — till he found himself lean- 
ing back in the darkest recess of a box at the 
opera, feeling rather than listening to the de- 
licious music which floated through the dim 
atmosphere, so well suited to the revery of 
the lover. 

How much more is that vague tone of 
pcetry, to be found in almost all, awakened 
by the obscurity of the foreign theatres ; — in 
ours the lights, the dresses, &c. are too fami- 
liar things, and prevent the audience from 
being carried away by their feelings, — as they 
are when music and poetry are aided by ob- 
scurity like mystery, and silence deep as 
thought. A murmur of applause, and a 
burst of song thrilling in its sweetness, 
aroused Algernon, and, leaning over the- front, 
he saw 7 — her dark hair gathered with three 
bands of costly diamonds in front, and a 
starry tiara behind — her crimson robe shining 
with gold — her dazzlingly white arms raised 
in eloquent expostulation — her voice filling 
the air with its melody — in the Medea of the 
stage he saw T the devotee of the Virgin. 

Pass we over the first steps of attachment— 
so delicious to tread, but so little pleasant to 
retrace either for ourselves or others — till an- 
other evening of purple sunset saw, in that 
church where they had first met, Algernon 
kneeling by the side of the beautiful Francisca. 
while a priest pronounced the marriage bless- 
ing — a pale, aged man, to whose wan lip.; 
seemed rather to belong the prayer foi the 
burial than aught that had to do with life or 
enjoyment. 

Truly does passion live but in the present 
Algernon knew his marriage was not legal 
but her he loved was now his by a sacred vov 
— and when the future came, ne might be 
entirely his own master : the Janus of Love's 
year may have, two faces, but they look only 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



23 



on each other. The worst of a mind so con- 
stituted is, that its feelings cannot last, least 
of all its love ; it measures all things by its 
expectations — and expectations have that sort 
of ideal beauty no reality can equal : moreover, 
in the moral as in the physical world, the vio- 
ent is never the lasting — the tree forced into 
unnatural luxuriance of blossom bears them 
iind dies. Francisca, beautiful but weak, 
without power to comprehend, or intellect to 
take part with her lover, somewhat accele- 
rated the reaction ; and Algernon now saw 
the full extent of the sacrifice he had made, 
and the mortifications that were to come, since 
*ove had no longer strength to bear him 
through them. 

If there be one part of life on which the 
curse spoken at Eden rests in double darkness 
— if there be one part, of life on which is 
heaped the gathered wretchedness of years, it 
is the time when guilty love has burnt itself 
out, and the heart sees crowd around those 
vain regrets, that deep remorse, whose voices 
are never heard but in the silence of indiffer- 
ence. Who ever repented or regretted during 
the reign of that sweet madness when one 
beloved object was more, ay, a thousand times 
more than the world forgotten for its sake 1 
But when the silver cord of affection is loosen- 
ed, and the golden bowl of intoxicating pas- 
sion broken — when that change which passes 
over all the earth's loveliest has passed, too, 
over the heart — when that step which was 
once our sweetest music falls on the ear a fear, 
not a hope — when we know that we love no 
more as once we loved — when memory broods 
on the past, which yields but a terrible repent- 
ance, and hope turns sickening from a future, 
which is her grave — if there be a part of life 
where misery and weariness contend together 
till the agony is greater than we can bear, this 
is the time. 

Francisca saw the change, and in a few 
weeks Algernon was almost startled by the 
change in her also ; but hers was an external 
change — the bright cheek had lost its colour 
and outline, and she was wasted, even to ema- 
ciation. He was often absent from their villa, 
wandering in all the restlessness of discontent, 
in the wild environs of Vesuvius ; and on 
every return did he observe more alteration, 
when remorse urged to kindness, and he re- 
proached himself bitterly for leaving her so 
much to solitude. Under this influence he 
returned suddenly and unexpectedly one day, 
and sought Francisca in a fit of repenting fond- 
ness ; a faint moan made him enter the room, 
and there, on the bare rough pavement, knelt 
Francisca. A coarse dress of sackcloth 
strangely contrasted with her delicate shape — 
drops of blood were on the floor — and her 
slight hand yet held the scourge : a shriek told 
her recognition of Algernon, and she fell sense- 
less on the ground. 

In her state of bodily weakness, the least 
sudden emotion was enough to bring on a cri- 
sis — and before night she was in a brain fever ; 
from her ravings and a few questions he learnt 
the cause She had marked his growing cold- 



ness, and, with the wild superstition of the 
ardent and the weak, had felt it as a judgment 
for loving a heretic; the belief that some fear- 
ful judgment was hanging over both grew 
upon her daily ; and by fasts, rigid and severe 
penance, she strove to avert the penalty, and 
obtain pardon. Body and mind alike sank 
under" this ; and she died in a fearful paroxysm 
of terror, without one sign of recognition, in 
Algernon's arms. He returned to England 
too late to see his father living; and the first 
objects he met in the old chestnut avenue were 
the black horses, the dark plumes of the hearse, 
which were bearing Lord Etheringhame to 
the vault of his ancestors. 

Algernon thenceforth lived in the deepest 
seclusion : one only object yet had an interest 
for him — his younger brother ; perhaps the 
very loneliness of his affection made it the 
deeper. In many points of character Edward 
resembled his brother ; but he had an energy 
which the other had not — a buoyancy of spirit, 
to which difficulty was a delight. As he ad- 
vanced in life, many an effort did he make to 
rouse Lord Etheringhame from his lethargy, 
but in vain. Grief, after all, is like smoking 
in a damp country — what was at first a neces 
sity becomes afterwards an indulgence. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

" Will you come and spend a long day with me 1" — Pe 
ji allies of Frieudshiip. 
"Delightful and intellectual society."— False Concords, 
"To all and singular in this full meeting, 
Ladies and gallants, Phoebus sends you greeting; 
From his more mighty sons, whose confidence 
Is placed in lofty rhyme and humble sense, 
Even to his little infants of the time 
Who write new songs, and trust in tune and rhyme.'' 

Dryden. 
" Look you, friend, it is nothing to me whether you 
believe it or not ; what I say is true."— Love for Love. 

Of all places, London is the best for an in- 
cogirita acquaintance ; cards may be exchanged 
to all eternity without a meeting, and the va- 
rious circles revolve like planets in their dif- 
ferent systems, utterly unconscious of the 
means and modes of each other's existence. 
A friend, whom Emily had earnestly, though 
unsuccessfull) 7- , endeavoured to see, thanks to 
a headache of Lady Alicia's, found them at 
home. This was a Mrs. Smithson, who had 
formerly been Emily's governess ; and out' 
heroine was still young enough for the attrac- 
tion of friendship, to recall with rapture her 
first readings of Matilde and the Corsair, and 
to remember with delight her first essay as 
confidante. Miss Hughes, being in love at the 
time, had only left Arundel Hall to become 
the wife of Mr. Smithson ; a gentleman whose 
station and salary now authorized his taking a 
house and a wife, and, at forty-five, instituting 
a new search after happiness. 

Mrs. Smithson entered the room, and re- 
ceived Emily's welcome and embrace, evi 
dently a little disorganized by the latter; not 
but that she was very glad to see her formei 
pupil, but it is very trying to have the draper} 
c 2 



so 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



of one's shawl destroyed. A few moments, 
and they were conversing with true feminine 
fluency. Emily had to mention the curate's 
marriage, the death of the apothecary, and to 
say how well both uncle and aunt were. Mrs. 
Smithson had to state that she had three child- 
ren — to wonder that Emily had grown so 
much — and each had to rejoice over meeting 
with the other. Besides, there was a most in- 
teresting subject to be discussed; Mrs. Smith- 
son had enchanted the world with a novel — 
not a person less than a baronet figured in its 
pages — the heroine had a most authentic mil- 
liner — it was rumoured that Lady Holder- 
nesse was the Marchioness of L.; and, alto- 
gether it had had. the most circulating success. 
Moreover she had something to say about her 
husband, who had written a treatise on bats 
and beetles. 

Emily was at that happy age which takes 
so much on trust ; and her praise was quite 
elaborate in its enthusiasm. What a charm 
there must be in praise, when it consoles for 
all the miseries and mortifications of litera- 
ture ! The fair and fashionable author now 
mentioned the object of her visit, which was 
to induce her young friend to spend a long day 
with her, to which her young friend readily 
assented. "I shall be delighted — I will come 
early — you will excuse my dining in a morn- 
ing dress — and we shall have such a delightful 
chat." 

Mrs. Smithson's face perceptibly lengthened 
at the words " morning dress." " Why, my 
sweet girl, Monday is my little conversazione ; 
my literary pursuits require literary connex- 
ions — only a very small circle, but all ialenied 
people ; however, you will look well in any 
thing." 

But before the Aspasia of Marylebone de- 
parted, it was settled that Emily's maid should 
be in Harley street to attend to the necessary 
change of costume; and, this important ar- 
rangement decided, Mrs. Smithson's green 
pelisse and blue bonnet departed — blue and 
green, like the title of an old novel, "paired 
but not matched." By-the-by, how much bad 
taste is shown in the selection of colours ! 
Out upon the folly of modern liberty, which 
has abolished sumptuary laws, and left us to 
all the horrors of our own inventions ! Liberty 
of conscience is bad enough — the liberty of 
the press is still worse — but worst of all is 
liberty of taste in dress to common people. 

Monday and two o'clock found Emily in 
Harley street, rather sooner than she was 
expected, as was evident from that silken 
rustle which marks a female retreat. A 
discreet visiter on such occasions advances 
straight to the window or the glass : Emily 
did the latter ; and five minutes of contempla- 
tion ascertained the fact that her capote would 
endure a slight tendency to the left. She then 
took a seat on the hard, or, as they say of 
hounds, the hide-bound sofa — the five minutes 
lengthened into twenty, and she sought for 
amusement at a most literary-looking table. 
Alas ! she had read the novels — for treatises 
she had no taste — and two German volumes, 



and three Latin, together with a scientific 
journal, gave her a cold chill. While thus 
employed, a red-faced, loud-voiced servant girl 
threw open the door, and howled, " If you 
please, ma'am, Master Adolphus has thrown 
the Library of Entertaining Knowledge at 
Master Alfred's head, because he tore the Ca- 
techism of Conchology ;" but before Miss 
Arundel could express her regret at such mis- 
application of knowledge, the girl had vanished 
in all the dismay of a mistake. 

At last Mrs. Smithson appeared. " My dear 
Emily, you have waited — I forgot to tell you 
that I devote the early part of the day to the 
dear children — I never allow my literary and 
domestic duties to interfere ; you cannot com- 
mence the important business of education too 
soon, and I am but just emerged from the 
study." 

This was a little at variance both with the 
servant's appearance and her own laboured 
toilette, whose want of neatness was the 
result of hurry and bad taste, not of after-dis- 
organization. It is amazing how oppressive 
is the cleverness of some people, as if it were 
quite a duty in you to be clever too — or, as I 
heard once a little child say, " 0, mamma, I 
ahvays speak to Mrs. S. in such dictionary 
words !" 

" Slowly and sadly" did the morning pass. 
Alas ! for the victim of friendship, whom 
sentiment or silliness seduces into passing 
a long day ! The upright sitting on the re- 
pulsive sofa — the mental exhaustion in search- 
ing after topics of conversation, which, like 
the breeze in Byron's description of a calm, 
" come not" — the gossip that, out of sheer 
desperation, darkens into scandal ; if ever 
friends or feelings are sacrificed under temp- 
tation too strong to be resisted, it is in the 
conversational pauses of a long day; and 
worst of all, a long day between people who 
have scarcely an idea or an acquaintance in 
common, for the one to be exchanged, or the 
other to be abused — communication or con- 
demnation equally out of the question. Mrs. 
Smithson secretly pitied herself for wasting 
her colloquial powers on that social nonentity, 
a young lady ; and Miss Arundel was some- 
what bewildered by the march of her former 
friend's intellect. Divers of those elegant 
harmonies, which make musical the flight of 
time in London, verified the old rhyme, that 

"Come what may, 
Time and the tide wear through the roughest day." 

The muffin-boy announced three o'clock- 
the pot-bcy clanking his empty pewter was 
symptomatic of four — the bellman tolling the 
knell of the post announced five — and, at 
length, a heavy hard-hearted rap proclaimed 
the return of Mr. Smithson ; a gruff voica 
was heard in the passage — a ponderous step 
on the stairs — the door and his boots cracked, 
and in came the author of the treatise on bats 
and beetles, followed by a blue-coated, nan- 
keen-trousered young- man, whose counte- 
nance and curls united that happy mixture ot 
carmine and charcoal which constitute tho 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



SI 



a olio of d Compton street counter. Mr. [ 
Smithson was equally sullen and solemn-look- 
ing, with a mouth made only to swear, and a 
brow to scowl — a tyrant in a small way — one 
who would be arbitrary about a hash, and ob- 
stinate respecting an oyster — one of those 
tempers which, like a domestic east wind, 
" spares neither man nor beast," from the un- 
nappv footman that he cursed, to the unlucky 
dog- that he kicked. 

A minute specimen of humanity, in a li- 
very like a jealous lover's, of "green and 
yellow melancholy," announced dinner. Mr. 
Smithson stalked up to Emily, Mr. Perkins 
simpered up to the hostess, and they entered a 
dismal-looking parlour, whose brick-red walls 
and ditto curtains were scantily lighted by a 
single lamp, though it was of the last new 
patent — to which a dim fire, in its first stage 
of infant weakness, gave small assistance. 

Mr. Smithson, who, as a member of a pub- 
lic office, thought that church and state ought 
to be supported — which support he conceived 
to consist in strict adherence to certain forms — 
muttered something which sounded much 
more like a growl than a grace, and dinner 
commenced. 

At the top was a cod's shoulders and head, 
whose intellectual faculties were rather over 
much developed ; and at the bottom was 
soup called mulligatawny — some indefinite 
mixture of curry-powder and duck's feet, the 
first spoonful of which called from its master 
a look of thunder and lightning up the table. 
To this succeeded a couple of most cadave- 
rous fowls, a huge haunch of mutton, raw and 
red enough even for an Abyssinian, flanked by 
rissoles and oyster patties, which had evi- 
dently, like Tom Tough, seen " a deal of ser- 
vice:" these were followed by some sort of 
nameless pudding — and so much for the lux- 
ury of a family dinner, which is enough to 
make one beg next time to be treated as a 
stranger. 

Conversation there was none — Mr. Smith- 
son kindly sparing the lungs of his friends, 
at the expense of his own. First, the fire 
was sworn at — then, the draught from the 
door — then, the poor little footboy was en- 
couraged by the pleasant intelligence that he 
was the stupidest blockhead in the world. 
Mr. Perkins sat preserving his silence and his 
simper ; and to the lady of the house it was 
evidently quite matter of habit — a sort of ac- 
companiment she would have almost missed. 

The truth is, Mr. Smithson had just married 
some twenty years too late — with his habits, 
like his features, quite set, and both in a harsh 
mould. Young lady! looking out for an 
establishment — meditating on the delights of 
a house of your own — two maids and a man, 
over whom you are set in absolute authority 
— do any thing rather than marry a confirmed 
bachelor — venture on one who has been suc- 
cessful with seven succeeding wives, with ten 
small children ready made to order — walk off 
with some tall youth, who considers a wife 
•and a razor definite signs of his growth and 
his sense; but shun the establishment of a 



bachelor who has hung a peidulum between 

temptation and prudence till the age of 

but of all subjects, age is the one on which i 
is most invidious to descant. 

The cloth was removed, and sudden com- 
motion filled the passage : 

"At once there rose so wild a yell 
"Within that dark and narrow dell,' 
kc. &c. &c. 

and in came Master Adolphus and Mastei 
Alfred in full cry, having disputed by the way 
which was to go first — also a baby, eloquent 
as infancy usually is, and like most youthful 
orators, more easily heard than understood. 
The boys quartered themselves on the unfor- 
tunate strangers; and Mrs. Smithson took the 
infant, which Emily duly declared was the 
sweetest little creature she had ever seen. 
On going up stairs, Emily found Mile. Hya- 
cinthe shivering — for with the usual inhuman- 
ity of friends, there was no fire ; and it was 
one of those wet, miserable evenings, gratis 
copies distributed by November through the 
year. 

Suicide and antipathy to fires in a bedroom 
seem to be among the national characteristics. 
Perhaps the same moral cause may originate 
both. We leave this question to the West- 
minster Review. Between grumbling and 
garnishing, discontent and decoration, Emily 
was some time before she descended to the 
drawing-room, which was half-full or more 
on her entrance. She took a seat with a most 
deferential air — for she was a little awestruck 
by the intellectual society in which she now 
found herself — and Mrs. Smithson, equally 
eager to conciliate a reviewer who stood on 
her right, and a poet who stood on her left, 
had quite forgotten the very existence of her 
sweet young friend. 

With curiosity much excited, but wholly 
ungratified, Emily looked eagerly round for a 
familiar face, but in vain ; at last, a lady, who 
had been watching her for some time, said : 

" Will you promise not to suspect me of 
an intention to steal your pearl chain, if I 
offer my services as catalogue to this exhibi- 
tion of walking pictures'?" 

"I will, on the contrary, be grateful with 
all the gratitude of ignorance — there must be 
so many people here I should so like to know 
something about." 

"I see," rejoined her companion, "that 
you are a stranger, and have no credentials in 
the shape of 'such a sweet poem' — 'such a 
delightful tale.' No one has introduced you 
as that young lady whose extraordinary talents 
have delighted all the world. I suspect that, 
like myself, you are here on sufferance." 

"Mrs. Smithson is a very old friend." 

" And my husband has written a pamphlet 
on the corn-laws. As for myself, I neither 
read nor write; but I know something of most 
authors here, and their works. Knowledge 
is much like dust — it sticks to one, one does 
not know how." 

Emily thanked Mrs. Sullivan, (for such 
was her name.) and drew closer to her side, 
with that sense of loneliness which is never 



32 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



felt so strongly as in a crowd. For some 
time she listened to every word she could 
catch, till at length the disagreeable convic- 
tion was forced upon her, that clever people 
talked very much as others did. Why, she 
actually heard, two or three speaking of the 
weather. Now, to think of a genius only 
saying, " What a cold day we have had !" 

" Whence do you come V asked Mrs. Sulli- 
van, of a young man who looked at least intel- 
ligent. 

" I have been spending the day at Hamp- 
stead, and beautiful it was : the fog, which, as 
Wordsworth says of sleep, 

' Cover'd the city like a garment,' 

left the heath clear, and the sky blue ; and 
there was sunshine enough to keep me in spi- 
rits for the rest of the week." 

" A most Cockney expedition, truly!" 
" My dear Mrs. Sullivan, why will you in- 
dulge in commonplace contumely'? Believe 
me, it is only those 

' la crowded cities pent,' 

who fully enjoy the free air above their heads, 
and the green grass beneath their feet : to them, 
as to the lately recovered sick man, 

' Each opening breath is paradise.' 

How often have I closed my book in weari- 
ness, or flung down the pen with a vexation 
of spirit, and have gone forth into the open air, 
at first thoughtfully and heavily; but as the 
rows of houses give way to hedges, streets to 
fields crowded with daisies — 

'The Danae of flowery 
With gold heaped in her lap,' 

and I catch the shadows of two or three old 
trees, my heart and steps grow lighter, and I 
proceed on my way rejoicing. I forget the 
dull realities of experience — experience, that 
more than philosophy ' can clip an angel's 
wings ;' I forget that all ' mine earlier hopes' 
are now set down 

' 'Mid the dull catalogue of common things ;' 

and I return with a handful of wild flowers, or 
a branch covered with acorns, (the most grace- 
ful wreath that ever oread wore,) and imbued 
with poetry enough to resist the dull thick 
atmosphere of town, for full four-and-twenty 
hours ; — and then think how beautiful the 
environs of London really are !" 

" Yes, putting white stuccoed villas, veran- 
das, and pic-nic parties out of the question." 

" Putting nothing at all out of the question, 
it is a very morbid or very affected taste which 
turns away from aught of human comfort or 
human enjoyment." 

" The other evening," continued Mrs. Sul- 
livan, " I heard you quoting, 

1 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods.' " 

"As if," rejoined the young poet, "one 
were a. ways obliged to be of the same opinion! 
However, so far I am ready to admit that the 
enjoyment of a wild and a lonely scene is of a 
liigher and more imaginative quality than that 
of merely beautiful cultivation ; and I must 



add, I do not at all agree with Marmontel, who 
said, that whenever he saw a beautiful scene 
he longed for some one to whom he could say, 
' How beautiful !' "— 

" Which," interrupted Mrs. Sullivan, " be- 
ing translated into plain English, means that 
vanity and imagination were at variance ; and 
a thousand fine things that he might have said 
about the prospect with such effect, if he had 
been listened to, were now beino- wasted on 
himself." 

" To again quote the oracles of my high 
priest, Wordsworth, there is nothing like 

' The harvest of a quiet eye, 
That broods and sleeps on its own heart.' 

What ' truths divine' crowd every page of 
Wordsworth's writings ! I sometimes wish 
to be a modern Alexander, that I might have 
Mount Athos carved into, not my own stat'ie, 
but his." 

" Nay," exclaimed Mrs. Sullivan, " spare 
me ' lectures on poetry.' I am worse than 
even Wordsworth's flitch. He says, 

' The very bacon show'd its feeling, 
Swinging from the smoky ceiling.' 

Now r , I am free to confess the very bacon 
has more feeling than I have : so dissipate 
your lakeism by telling yonder traveller I want 
to hear some of his adventures. What variety 
of talent," said Mrs. Sullivan, as he turned 
away, " does that young man possess ! He 
has Cesprit comme un diable, and a sense of the 
beautiful comme un ange. I cannot characterize 
his poetry better than in his own words : 

' What is it but a heavenly breath 
Along an earihly lyre V " 

As the young traveller Mrs. Sullivan had 
summoned crossed the room, he was inter- 
cepted by a lady, whose very gracious smile 
on him was the essence of conciliation ; it 
seemed, however, like English sunshine, too 
precious to be long enjoyed. Some other 
" gentle tassel" was to be lured with all the 
skill of complimentary falconry, and with one 
more smile, and a parting bend of necessity 
and regret, the traveller approached with the 
" self-betraying air" of the flattered. 

" My southern voyage," said he, after the 
first greetings with Mrs. Sullivan were over, 
" is enough for a season's reputation. Mrs. 
Harcourt has just been expressing her admi- 
ration of that spirit of romantic enterprise so 
much wanting in young men of the present 
day, has asked me to her fancy ball, and held 
forth the temptation of the beauties of her room 
on the strength of my traversing « river wild 
and forest old.' Mrs. Harcourt takes an intel- 
lectual degree beyond the common collector of 
crowds — she desires that every second indivi 
dual in hers should be ' noticeable persons ;" 
her young ladies are beauties or heiresses ; het 
gentlemen geniuses, authors, or travellers. I 
have been at her house, though she has tor- 
gotten me. I was then only a young man — 
not ' the young man who spent the summer in 
the Pyrenees, and had brought home the guitar 
of a Spanish princess.' I saw Sir Hudson 






ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



33 



Lowe standing- on the same rug with one of 
Bonaparte's old generals ; one of our Tory 
members, to whom innovation is the 'word of 
fear,' who considers anarchy and annihilation 
as synonymous, shrinking in the doorway 
from the" carbonari atmosphere of General 
Pepi. I saw a most orthodox-looking bishop 
taking the paleness of horror from the sight of 
Mr. Owen. A man just come from Babylon 
was talking to one newly arrived from Mos- 
cow. There were two critics, one historian, 
half-a-dozen poets, a gentlemen with a beard 
like a Turk, a real Persian, and three Greeks. 
A propos des Grecs, — a droll adventure once 
befell this fair extractor from the Library of 
Entertaining Knowledge. The Greek stocks 
and fever were at their highest, when a cargo 
from Missolonghi of turbaned and mustachioed 
gentry arrived, and cast anchor in the river. 
Mrs. Harcourt's ball was the following night — 
she threw herself into her carriage — drove as 
if the speed of thought were in her horses as 
well as herself — took a boat — ascended the 
vessel's side — was introduced — interpreted — 
and invited the patriots for the ensuing eve- 
ning, — they delighted with the hospitality of 
England, and she no less at having forestalled 
the market, and secured such novelties for 
her supper-table. Compliments and classics 
equally exhausted, Mrs. Harcourt gave her last 
injunction — 'Pray, come just as you are, those 
crimson caps are so characteristic — and not 
later than ten.' She was on the point of 
leaving the ship, when an officer advanced and 
opposed her departure, and with that frank 
politeness which, as the newspapers say, dis- 
tinguishes the British sailor, observed, ' D — n 
it, ma'am, it's no go.' The lady stared; but 
a single question elicited the fatal truth — the 
vessel w T as under quarantine, and once on board 
there was no quitting it. All that the captain 
could do was to grumble, and say he sup- 
posed she must have his cabin ; and there this 
candidate for the honour of the Athenians 
was left to reflect on her ball next evening, 
and the chance of catching the plague, — for 
cholera was not then invented to fright the 
isle." 

All around laughed, as people always laugh 
at misfortunes, i. e. with all their heart. 

" I understand," observed Mrs. Sullivan, 
" that the Adelphi intends converting itself 
into an amphitheatre, and treating the specta- 
tors after the fashion of the Roman conquerors, 
to a show of wild beasts. Why do you not 
recommend them to give a bull fight V 

" Such an animated account of one as I have 
just been reading in the Talba, where a young 
Moorish prince vanquishes, single-handed, in 
the arena, a black and ferocious bull! I have 
some thoughts of turning author myself, on 
purpose to dramatize one of the most interest- 
ing stories I have read. How pretty Mrs. 
Yates would look as Inez de Castro ! Think 
of the splendid scene of the bull fight, its 
chivalric and romantic associations '." 

" I see but one difficulty— who is to take 
the bull by the horns V 

" O, somebody would be found to run ' the 
Vol. I.— 5 



glorious risk.' I despair o nothing now-a- 
days." 

"In such a mood men credit miracles," said 
Mrs. Sullivan. 

"I," replied the traveller, "am just come 
from witnessing one. Do you remember how 

your friend S 's words were like the friar's 

steps in Romeo and Juliet'? He says: 

'How oft to-night 
Have my olcTfeet stumbled ;' 

and if he did get out six words, seven were 
unintelligible. He now speaks as fluently and 
as unaffectedly as myself. I cannot say more." 

" What do you mean V 

" Simply that S , in utter despair at 

being thus disabled from enlightening his 
audience, betook himself to Mr. Jones, who 
has undeniably demonstrated that he possesses 
the gift of tongues." 

" I should like to see S : he will be so 

gloriously theatrical." 

" You will be disappointed in this chari- 
table expectation. Jones has vanquished all his 
violent distortions, and replaced them by the 
calm style and effective delivery of the gen- 
tleman. His aim, and I must add his accom- 
plishment, is to teach the art of speaking with 
ease and fluency." 

" Does he instruct ladies V 

" I hope not, 

'That were but sharpening the dart. 
Too apt before to kill.' : ' 

Emily's whole attention was now given to 
a lady speaking near her, — the first few sen- 
tences were lost, but she caught the follow- 
ing: — 

" When I say your gratitude ought to be 
excited by my vanity, I divide the functions 
of vanity into two influences ; the one is, 
when it is passive, I only feed upon the me- 
mories it brings ; the other is, when it is ac- 
tive, and prompts me to exert myself for youi 
entertainment; and it is while thus acting foi 
your amusement that it calls on you to be 
grateful, if not gratified." 

" But who goes into society, — at least those 
who have any pretensions," said a young 
man, clever-looking, and with an animated 
manner, which gave additional attraction to a 
pointed and brilliant style of conversation ; — 
"who goes into society without a ' marriage 
robe,' and like that worn of yore, brilliant, 
embroidered, and concealing the real figo.e ?" 

" We do live 
Amid a world of glittering falsehoods." 

" You seem to consider it," returned the 
lady, " expedient for every one termed, by 
right or courtesy, distinguished, to play truant 
to themselves, avoiding all external show of 
the thoughts or the feelings by which such 
distinction may have been acquired ; as it the 
earnestness of genius were less endurable 
than the heartlessness of the world ;*nay, as 
if the polished chain mail of the latter were 
the only garb fit to be worn by the former." 

" Exactly my idea. I hold that we 'are the' 
knio-hts of conversation, and ought to go into 



34 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



its arena armed at all points, for a harsh and 
violent career." 

" I do not see that we are at all called upon 
to pay so costly a compliment to society, as 
to assume a character diametrically opposed 
to our real one, — to utter sentiments we se- 
cretly disbelieve, — and to be as angry with 
our better nature for bursting- from restraint, 
as at other times with our own inferior nature 
for refusing to submit to it. I think wisdom 
may wear motley ; and truth, unlike man, be 
born laughing. Genius ought everywhere to 
be true to itself, and to its origin, the Divine 
Mind ; to its home, the undying spirit ; to its 
power, that of being a blessing ; to its re- 
ward, that of being remembered." 

" The speaker to whom you have been list- 
ening with such attention is Miss Amesbury; 
to use a very fine phrase from some magazine, 
' a brilliant star in our brilliant galaxy of 
female writers.' I characterize her conver- 
sation by a fine line from Marlow, 

'A frosty night, when heaven is lined with stars.' 

I recall a thousand such beautiful expressions. 
I remember her comparing society ' to a ho- 
ney-comb, sweet but hollow.' Again she 
calls friendship's memory ' the fame of the 
heart.' Her last work is my favourite. The 
character in the second tale called Egeria. is 
meant for Mrs. Hemans — a most exquisite 
sketch, written with all the delicacy of femi- 
nine tact, and all the warmth of feminine feel- 
ing. It is a beautiful answer to that false re- 
proach, that one woman cannot praise another. 

" Miss Amesbury is especially happy in 
the use of quotations — and an apt quotation 
is like a lamp which flings its light over the 
whole sentence. I cannot help thinking, 
though, in her first story (The History of a 
Modern Corinne) she has fallen into the com- 
mon and picturesque error, of making her 
women of genius peculiarly susceptible of 
love — a fact I greatly doubt. Everybody 
knows that love is made up of vanity and 
idleness. Now, a successful literary career 
gratifies the vanity, while it gives employ- 
ment. Love is not wanted as flattery, nor as 
occupation — and is therefore cut off from its 
two strongholds. Besides, the excitement 
of a literary career is so great, that most sen- 
timents seem tame by its side. Homage you 
have from the many, — praise is familiar to 
your ear: and your lover's complimen* seems 
cold when weighed against that of your re- 
viewer. Besides, a lover is chiefly valued 
for the consequence he gives ; he loses one 
great charm when you have it without him. 
If I wanted to inspire an intense devoted 
attachment, I would scarce seek it from ge- 
nius : it gives you but a divided heart. Love 
bears no rival near the throne — and fame is as 
* mighty autocrat as he.' 

" But do you see the gentleman she has just 
addressed, perhaps with a hope to conciliate 
a critic : — vain hope ! when the critic is made 
out of the remains of a disappointed poet, 
who finds it easier to tell people what they 
ehoulcf read, than to produce what they will 



read. One w r ould think that an unsuccessful 
volume was like a degree in the school of re- 
viewing. One unread work makes the judge 
bitter enough ; but a second failure, and he is 
quite desperate in his damnation. I do be- 
lieve one half of the injustice — the severity 
of ' the ungentle craft' originates in its own 
want of success : they cannot forgive flip 
popularity which has passed them over, to 
settle on some other ; and they eome to judg- 
ment on a favourite author, with a previous 
fund of bitterness- — like an angry person, vent- 
ing their rage not on the right offender, but 
on whoso chances to be within their reach." 

" The principal remark that I have made 
on London society is, its tone of utter indiffer- 
ence. No one seems to care for another." 

There was a truth to Emily in this speech 
that made her turn to the speaker. He was 
good-looking, and singularly tall. 

"That is the author of a most chivalric 
history of Mary Queen of Scots. The en- 
thusiasm of a young man about beauty and 
misfortune 'is as good in taste as it is in feel 
ing. He is a Scotchman, certainly not 

'From pride and from prejudice free ;' 

for I verily believe that he looks upon the 
rest of the world as ' a set of niggers,' — an 
inferior race on this side of the Tweed. We 
English are much more liberal in that respect; 
we have always been ready to offer homage, 

' When we saw by the streamers that shot so bright, 
That spirits were riding the northern light.' 

I remember his saying to an English author 
' It is to Edinburgh you must, look for youj 
literary fame.' The best answer would have 
been the Highland proverb, 

' 'Tis a far cry to Lochow.' 

It is singular how long national hostility lasts, 
and how many shapes it will- take ! That a 
prejudice still exists between the Scotch and 
the English is no credit to either. Were I to 
allot each their shares of illiberality, I should 
say, there are six of the one and half-a-dozen of 
the other ; and as I am one who utterly de- 
spair of improving the human race, I have nu 
doubt it will continue." 

" Who is that gentleman," exclaimed Emily, 
" whose eye I have just caught so full of 
mirth and malice ]" 

" That is the Philip de Commines of King 
Oberon, the Froissart of Fairyland — a reunion 
of the most opposite qualities — a zealous an* 
tiquary, yet with a vein of exquisite poetry, 
side by side with one of quaint humour. Do 
let me tell you a most original simile of his : 
he compares fried eggs to gigantic daisies. 
The oddity of the likeness is only to be 
equalled by its truth. And to give you one 
touch of poetry : speaking of his return across 
a common, one winter night, he made use of 
the following (I think) singularly fine phrase: 

' The silence of the snows.' 

" The person next to him is the writer of some 
entertaining and graphic travels in the East. 
Travelling is as much a passion as ambitio 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



35 



or love. He ascribes his first desire of see- 
ing Palestine to hearing his mother (who read 
exquisitely) read the Old Testament aloud. 
His imagination was haunted by the Dead 
Sea, or the lilies of Sharon : when he slept, 
he dreamed but of the cedars of Lebanon ; 
and as a boy, he used to sit by the sea-side, 
and weep with his passionate longings to visit 
the East. Thither he travelled as soon as 
his will was master of his conduct. 

" But do turn to one of my great favourites 
— that is Allen Malcolm. Does he not look 
as if he had just stept across the reorder, with 
the breath of the heath and the broom fresh 
about him 1 There is an honesty in his na- 
ture which keeps him unspotted from the 
world, — the literary world, with its many 
plague-spots of envyings, jealousies, hatred, 
malice, and all uncharitableness. The face 
so sweet in its matron beauty, is that of ' his 
bonnie Jeane' beside. I like to meet him 
sometimes : it is good for one's moral consti- 
tution to knQW there are such things as kind- 
liness and integrity to be found in the world. 
A countryman is at this moment beside him 
— a stanch border minstrel, who would any 
day uphold the thistle to be a more poetical 
plant than the laurel. I own myself I think 
it would be more characteristic. I suspect 
the northern reviewer was thinking as much 
of the Fitful Francis of the poet in his own 
person as of those in his works, when he 
said, ' that his ideas stood stiff and strong as 
quills upon the fretful porcupine.' A little 
speech I heard him make will give you a 
clearer idea of him than a long description. 
We were talking of dancing, when he said, 
'I loath the woman w T ho dances, and despise 
the man.' " 

"And I liked his poetry so much!" ex- 
claimed Emily, in the most reproachful of 
tones. 

Miss Arundel's whole attention was now 
attracted by a female in a Quaker dress — the 
quiet dark silk dress — the hair simply parted 
on the forehead — the small close cap — the 
placid and subdued expression of the face, 
were all in such strong contrast to the crim- 
sons, yellows, and blues around. The gene- 
ral character of the large, soft, dark eyes, 
seemed sweetness ; but they were now lighted 
up with an expression of intelligent observa- 
tion — that clear, animated, and comprehensive 
glance, which shows it analyzes what it ob- 
serves. You looked at her with something of 
the sensation with which, while travelling 
along a dusty road, the eye fixes on some 
green field, where the hour flings its sunshine, 
and the tree its shadow, as if its fresh, pure 
beauty was a thing apart from the soil and 
tumult of the highway. 

" You see," said Mrs. Sullivan, " one who, 
in a brief interview, gave me more the idea of 
a poet than most of our modern votaries of the 
lute. I was so struck with any one coming up 
to London, filled but with historic associa- 
tions, looking upon the Tower as hallowed by 
the memory of Lady Jane Grey, and of West- 

inster Abbey as (to use the American Hal- 



leck's noble expression) a c Mecca of the 
mind,' with England's great and glorious 
names inscribed on the consecrated walls. 
She is as creative in her imaginary poems, as 
she is touching and true in her simpler ones." 

A slight movement, and a few exclamations, 
drew off their attention to the little supper 
table. A gentleman had, instead of placing 
his fork in a sandwich, inserted it into a lady's 
hand. The injury was not much; but the 
quaintness of the excuse was what amused 
the bystanders. 

" I beg pardon," said the offender, with the 
most unruffled composure of countenance; 
" but I mistook the hand for white bait." 

" A fitting compliment for one whose mind 
is the most singular mixture of pun, poetry, 
conceits, simplicity, that ever mingled the 
mime and the minstrel. But I hold that he is 
rather the cause of mirth in others than merry 
himself. He is pale, silent, serious ; and I 
never heard an instance of laughter recorded 
against him. In his most comic vein the idea 
of death seems ever present. His favourite 
imagery is death's heads, coffins, skeletons : 
even his merriest ballads turn upon the death 
of their subject. His faculty of perversion 
outdoes any temper in the world. One of the 
oddest applications of a quotation was in a 
preface, where, speaking of his own sketches, 
he says, ' Like the tape-tied curtains of the 
poet, I was never meant to draw.' With this 
is mingled a gift of the most touching poetry. 
I doubt whether the whole of ' our British 
poets,' drawn up in battle array, could send 
forth specimens more calculated to touch even 
a critical Coriolanus than some of his short 
and beautiful pieces." 

" There is something," said Emily, " that 
interests me in the face of that gentleman. 
Who is he 1" 

" One of the very few persons of whom 1 
have a pleasure in speaking — an author, yet 
free from envy — a critic, yet free from malice. 
Charles Tc.vnsend said of old, ' to tax and 
to please, any more than to love and be wise, 
is not given to man ;' and to prefer and yet 
please, is a difficult task for an editor. Per- 
haps it is because liberal and kindly feelings 
are to be found in the object of your inquiry. 
It is a pleasant thing to enter his house. It is 
as well to see domestic happiness now and 
then, in order to be able to talk about it as a 
wonder. Congenial in tastes, united in pur- 
suits, he is fortunate in a wife, who is pretty 
enough to be silly, and yet clever enough to 
be plain, and kind and good enough to be 
either." 

At this moment, a lady came up, and spoke 
to Mrs. Sullivan, w T ith that warm kindliness . 
of manner, which, like love, air, or sunshine, 
must win its way everywhere. 

" That is the very person we were speaking 
of, and the most charming and fittest of writers 
for youth, — at least to them have her last 
works been chiefly addressed ; but the oldest 
might go back to the chronicles of her school- 
room for the mere pleasure of being young 
again. It is quite wonderful to me, in such 



SG 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS, 



a cross-grained, hardening, and harsh world as 
ours, where she can have contrived to keep so 
much of open, fresh, and kindly feeling. She 
is very national, and I am sure you have read 
her beautiful Irish stories. I think it is she 
who says, that Englishmen do not know how 
to make love. True enough ! An Englishman 
seems to think he is conferring a favour, which 
the lady cannot too highly estimate, by the 
mere act of falling in love with her ; but if 
any could inspire him with the amiable accom- 
plishment of love-making, it would be one of 
her own Irish coquettes — a creature of rainbow 
lightning." 

"They are very real. Does she draw from 
herself]" 

" Perhaps from the pleasures of memory; 
for she is now half of one of those happy 
couples which make one understand a phrase 
somewhat difficult to comprehend, from so 
seldom witnessing it — domestic felicity." 

" Nay," exclaimed Emily, laughing, " are 
you not an Englishwoman — a native of that 
happy island so celebrated for its 

' Dear delights of hearth and home V " 

" I nevertheless think that the blessings of 
matrimony, like those of poverty, belong rather 
to philosophy than reality. Let us see — -not 
one woman in fifty marries the man she likes — 
and though it may be safest — why I could 
never understand — it is notpleasantest to begin 
with a little aversion. Let us just go through 
a day in married life. First, an early break- 
fast — for the husband is obliged to go out. On 
the miseries of early rising, like those of the 
country, I need not dwell: they are too well 
known. He reads the newspaper, and bolts 
his roll — she takes care that Miss Laura does 
not dirty her frock, and that Master Henry 
does not eat too much ; he goes to his office or 
counting-house — she to market — for remember 
I am speaking of a good wife — some pounds 
of beef or mutton are to be ordered at the 
butcher's, the baker has charged an extra loaf, 
and the green-grocer has to be paid four shil- 
lings and twopence. On her return home, 
there is the housemaid to be scolded for not 
scouring the front bedroom — and the cook's 
conduct requires animadversion for yesterday's 
underdone veal. Perhaps, in the course of the 
morning, Mrs. Smith calls with an account of 
Mrs. Johnson's elegant new pelisse; and when 
Mons. le Mari returns to dinner, he suffers the 
full weight of the discontent one woman's new 
dress never fails to inspire in another. Eve- 
ning comes, and a matrimonial tete-d-tete is 
proverbial — ' What can I have to say to my 
wife, whom I see every day ?' Well, he reads 
some pamphlet or sleeps — she brings out the 
•huge work-basket, doomed to contain and re- 
pair the devastations of seven small children — 
she has given up her maiden accomplish- 
ments — and, of course, a married woman has 
no time for music or reading. Perhaps, by 
way of agreeable conversation, she may say, 
1 My dear, I want some money :' 

'O, sound of fear, 
TJnpleasing to a married ear ' 



on which he wakes, and goes to bed, Sho 
follows ; and Mrs. J.'s pelisse is the founda- 
tion of that piece of exquisite eloquence, a 
curtain lecture. Now, who can deny that this 
is a faithful and exact picture of three hundred 
out of the three hundred and sixty-five days 
that constitute a year of married life ?" 

"You are a connubial Cassandra," said 
Emily. 

" Yes : and like that ill-fated prototype j! 
all who tell disagreeable truths, I shall get no 
lady, at least no young or unmarried one, to 
believe me. But I must now thank you for 
listening. Our carriage is announced ; and Mr. 
Sullivan, when his horses are concerned, is 
like time and tide — he stays for no man — nor 
woman neither." 

A heavy, plain man took the lady away, 
very much as if she had been a parcel ; and 
Emily could well believe he had written pam- 
phlets on the currency and the corn-laws. He 
looked like a personification of the dryness of 
the one, and the dulness oi the other. 

Mrs. Smithson had by this time*pretty well 
distributed her stock of conciliation and courte- 
sy, and now recollected the existence of her 
sweet young friend. Divers introductions 
took place ; and Emily heard a great deal ol 
conversation, of which conceit was the can- 
vass, while flattery laid on the colours. Dry 
biscuits and drier sandwiches were handed 
round ; and about twelve, Emily found herself 
in her own room, very tired, very dissatisfied, 
and very huiagty. She had seen many who 
had long been the throned idols of her imagi- 
nation, and her disappointment much resem- 
bled that of the princely lover of Cinderella, 
who, on questioning his porters if they had 
seen a robed and radiant beauty pass, learnt 
that their uncharmed eyes had only beheld a 
little dirty girl. She had fallen into the com- 
mon error of supposing that the author must 
personify his works, and that his conversation 
must be copy and compeer of his writings. 

W T e forget that those waitings are the pro- 
ductions of the mind's highest mood, when 
thoughts rise up in their perfect beauty, like 
the stars on the night ; when feelings, un- 
tempted and unchecked, are the true, the good, 
and the pure ; when vanity is sublimed into 
fame — that earthly hereafter — which, in taking 
the semblance of eternity, catches somewhat 
of its glory too ; when imagination peoples its 
solitude with the great and the lovely, like 
those spiritual essences which obey but a mid- 
night spell; when, if memory bring sorrow, it 
is softened and refined, or if hope speak of a 
future, it is one exalted and redeemed ; when 
the enjoyment of creation is within him, and 
the consciousness of power is delight. In 
such hours are those pages written which will 
pass sea and land, winged with praise and 
pleasure — over which eyes will glisten and 
hearts beat, when the hand that wrote is mould- 
ered in the grave, and the head that conceived 
but a whitened skull. 

Now society is a market-place, not a tem- 
ple : there is the bargain to be made — the 
business to be followed; novelty, curiosity, 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



37 



amusement, lull all of the strong passions to 
sleep, and, in their place, a thousand petty 
emotions hurry about, making up in noise 
what they want in importance. The society 
and solitude of an author's life realize the old 
fable of Castor and Pollux, who had an 
earthly and heavenly life between them. In 
society, all his more earthly nature preponde- 
rates ; his mind, however different its stature 
and fashion may be, must wear the same dress 
as its neighbours. 

There is nothing people are so much 
ashamed of as truth. It is a common obser- 
vation, that those whose writings are most 
melancholy are often most lively in conversa- 
tion. They are ashamed of their real nature; 
and it is a curious fact, but one which all ex- 
perience owns, that people do not desire so 
much to appear better, as to appear different 
from what they really are. A part is to be 
played in company, and most desire that part 
to be an attractive one : but nothing is more 
mistaken than the means. A sincere wish to 
please is sure to be successful; but instead 
of wishing to please, we rather desire to dis- 
play. The eye is restless to watch its oppor- 
tunity — the lip feverish with some treasured 
phrase ; we grow jealous from competition, 
and envious with apprehension ; we think of 
ourselves till we forget those very others for 
whose applause we are striving; disappoint- 
ment comes, as it often does, to even well- 
founded hopes — then how much more so to 
exaggerated expectation] mortification suc- 
ceeds, and vanity covers all as a garment, but 
a poisoned one, like the centaur's, envenoming 
and inflaming every wound. 

Conversation is forced or languid, insipid 
or ill-natured ; and a celebrated author may 
retire, leaving his character behind, but taking 
with him the comfortable conviction that his 
mind has played false to its powers ; that he 
has despised the flatterer, but loved the flat- 
tery — at once ungrateful and exacting; that 
he has praised himself— the worst of praise 
is that given in hopes of return ; and that he 
carries away with him a worldliness and 
selfishness, which, like the coming of the 
sandy waves of the desert, will, sooner or 
later, dry up and destroy all the fair gardens 
and the fresh springs in the Egypt of his ima- 
gination. 

We talk of the encouragement now given 
to talents — of genius as the most universal 
passport to society. This may be good for 
the individual, but not so for literature. The 
anxious struggle — the loneliness of neglect — 
the consciousness of merit — the resources 
which open to a mind flung back upon itself — 
will do more to stimulate exertion than praise 
or even profit. The flattered and followed au- 
thor sees too soon the worthlessness and hollow- 
ness of the prize for which he contends. That 
desire, which is fame in solitude, and vanity 
in society, is like gazing at the stars with the 
naked eye, and through a telescope. In the 
latter, we see only a small bright point, whose 
nature is analyzed, and whose distance is 
measured; — in the former, we go forth into 

Vol. I. 8 



the silent midnight, and our whole soul is 
filled with the mystery and beauty of those 
glorious and unattainable worlds. In a little 
time, imagination — that vivifying and redeem- 
ing principle in our nature — will be left only 
to the young. Look on all the great writers 
of the present day; — are they not living in- 
stances of the truth of this assertion 1 After 
all, literary life grows too like the actual one. 
Illusions merge in realities — imagination gives 
place to memory — one grows witty instead of 
romantic ; and poetry ends in prose, all the 
world over. 



CHAPTER XV. 

We hope, plan, execute ; will it be in vain? 
Or will the future be the past again? 

Truly, a little love-making is a very plea- 
sant thing, and Lady Adelaide found that it 
greatly enlivened the dulness of Lauriston 
House. Society does much towards forming 
a coquette, but here the credit was all nature's 
own. Every one, they say, has a genius for 
something, and here was hers ; and it was not 
mere talent — it was genius. Gifted with no 
discernment into character, generally speak- 
ing, her tact was unerring when her favourite 
propensity was called into play. She saw at 
a glance into the recesses of the heart she 
wished to subdue — intuitively she entered into 
its tastes — and nothing could be more perfect 
than her assumption of the seeming best cal- 
culated to attract. To her this was more than 
ordinarily easy ; she had no original feelings of 
her own to alter or subdue, but took, like a 
picture, her expression from the light in which 
she was placed. All she desired was admi- 
ration : like the green and blue bottles in the 
chemist's shop, she kept her lovers for show, 
not use ; or, like the miser's gold, the mere 
pleasure of possession was all she desired. 
The idea that some return might be expected 
for the affection lavished upon her, never en- 
tered her head ; and it may be doubted whether 
she was more gratified by her maid's flattery 
or by her lover's. As to her marriage, that 
she took for granted must happen — but she 
left all its arrangements to her mother. 

Many a mother might have feared one so 
handsome, so fascinating, as Edward Lorraine; 
but she entertained no alarm about her daugh- 
ter's heart, who could not well lose what 
she never had. He lost his, however ; and 
when, at the fortnight's end, he w T ent on to 
Etheringhame Castle, besides regrets, hopes, 
&c, he carried with him a secret wonder that 
he had made no formal declaration of rapture 
or despair, heaven or hell depending on one 
little monosyllable. Once he drew bridle 
beneath the old oak where they stopped the 
carriage ; but a moment of not very satisfac- 
tory meditation reminded him, that to ride 
back with a proposal was somewhat prema- 
ture, as, though the impression w r as strong 
on his mind that the lady was very sensible 



38 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



to his merits, yet it was difficult to decide on 
what grounds this impression rested. 

It was this indecision that constituted the 
science of Adelaide's skill ; hers v/as a mixed 
government of fear and hope — a look was to 
say every thing-, which, on being interpreted, 
might mean nothing. Like a politic minister, 
her care was — not to commit herself; she left 
all to the imagination, but not till that imagi- 
nation was properly excited : the signs of her 
preference, like the oracles of old, were al- 
ways susceptible of two interpretations ; and 
a rejected suitor would scarcely have known 
whether to curse her falsehood or his own 
vanity. But this was a finale she ever 
avoided : an offer, like the rock of adamant 
in Sinbad's voyages, finishes the attraction 
by destroying the vessel ; and, like the Ro- 
man conqueror, she desired living captives to 
lead in her triumph — an ovation of petits soi)is, 
graceful flatteries, anxious looks, pretty an- 
ger, judicious pique, and vague hopes. 

Edward Lorraine rode on, fully convinced 
that blue was the loveliest colour in the world 
— it trimmed the lace cornette, so becoming to 
a slight invalid, which Adelaide wore at 
breakfast. A headach is a delicate compli- 
ment to a departing lover ; and Edward con- 
soled himself by the future preference he was 
to obtain over every London rival. Her pre- 
ference ! of what did he not feel capable to 
win it ! — what would he not do before they 
again met ! — conquer Greece, and lay the 
crown at her feet — become prime minister, 
and place at her disposal the whole list of 
pensions and places — start forth another By- 
ron, and make her immortal in his love ; at 
least, he felt fully equal to them all, and his 
horse was spurred to a full gallop in the mere 
energy of intention. Ah ! love and youth are 
delightful things, before the one is chilled, 
and the other darkened by those after-da}^, 
each of which brings with it some dull or sad 
lesson ! — when we learn, that, though disap- 
pointment is misery, fruition is but weariness ; 
and that happiness is like the statue of Isis, 
whose veil no mortal ever raised. 

It was late in the evening before he found 
himself seated in his brother's favourite 
apartment in Etheringhame Castle — one of 
those delicious evenings when winter lingers 
round the hearth, but spring looks laughing 
in at the window — and the room where they 
sat was especially suited to such a night. It 
was very large, and the black oak wainscoting 
was set in every variety of carvings, where 
the arms of the family were repeated in every, 
size. Time had darkened, rather than de- 
stroyed, the colours of the painted ceiling : 
the subject was Aurora leading out the horses 
of the Sun, while the Hours scattered flowers 
around ; the whole encircled by the once bright 
clouds, whose morning tints had long disap- 
peared, but the figures were still distinct; and 
the eye gazed till they seemed rather some 
fantastic creation of its own than merely 
painting. A huge black screen, worked in 
gold, hid the door; and ths fantastic gilded 
Uhinese people that covered it, with their 



strange pagodas — their round heads like little 
gold balls, yet with an odd human likeness — 
the foreign palm trees — the uncouth boats, — 
seemed like caricatures of humanity called up 
by some enchanter, and left there in a fit of 
mingled mirth and spleen. Placed in Gothic 
arches of carved oak, thousands of books 
wefe ranged around — many whose ponderous 
size and rich silver clasps told of past centu- 
ries ; and between, placed on altarlike stands 
of variegated marble, were bronze busts of 
those whose minds had made them gods 
among their kind. 

Two peculiarly large windows, whose pur- 
ple curtains were as yet undrawn, opened 
upon the lawn ; one was in shade, for an 
acacia tree grew so close that its boughs 
touched the glass, and every note swept by 
the wind from its leaves was audible. The 
lawn was only separated from the park by a 
light iron rail ; and the beds of rainbow- 
touched flowers, the clumps of blossoming 
shrubs, the profusion of early roses, were 
suddenly merged in the unbroken verdure, 
and the shadow of old and stately trees farthej 
on, and seen more distinctly than usual at so 
late an hour, from the clear background of the 
cloudless west, now like an unbroken lake of 
amber. There was but a single lamp burning, 
and that was so placed that its light chiefly 
fell on a recess, so large that it was like a 
room of itself, and furnished in most apposite 
taste to the library. 

A skilful painter had covered the walls with 
an Italian landscape : the light fell from the 
dome almost as upon reality, so actual was 
the bend of the cypresses, and so green the 
ivy, that half covered the broken columns in 
the distance. In the middle was an ottoman, 
on which lay an ebony lute, inlaid with pearl 
flowers, and a cast of the loveliest hand that 
ever wandered in music over its strings. 
Three pictures hung on the wall : the first was 
of a most radiant beauty, the hair gathered up 
under a kind of emerald glory, quite away from 
the face, whose perfect outline was thus fully 
given to view. The fine throat and neck were 
bare, but the satin bodice was laced with 
jewels, and a superb bracelet was on the arm, 
which was raised with a gesture of command, 
suiting well with the brilliant style of her tri- 
umphant beauty. In the second, the hair, 
unbound, fell loose in a profusion of black ring- 
lets, almost concealing the simple white dra- 
pery of the figure : the expression was wholly 
changed — a sweet but tremulous smile parted 
the lips — and the downcast eyes were the 
dreaming looks erf passionate thoughts, which 
feed but on themselves. In the third, a large 
white veil passed over the head ; the hair was 
simply parted on a brow whose paleness was 
ghastly — the features were thin to emaciation, 
the mouth wan and fallen ; while the colour 
of the closed eyes was only indicated by the 
black lashes which lay upon the white and 
sunken cheek. Beneath was written, " Fran- 
cisca , taken after death." 

There was beauty, there was grandeur in 
the room ; it spoke both of mind and of wealth 






ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



39 



bat the only part which had a look of comfort 
was that made bright by the cheerful blaze of 
the fire : a little table, on which stood two de- 
canters, apparently filled from the two urns by 
Jove's throne — for one was dark, and the other 
bright ; a basket of oranges, and another of 
walnuts, were set in the middle ; and in an arm- 
chair on each side leant Lord Etheringhame 
and his brother, too earnest in their conversa- 
tion to mark an object beyond each other's face. 

Edward Lorraine. — " I will urge my argu- 
ments against this wasteful seclusion no longer 
on your own account ; you may neglect 3^our 
talents and your toilette — leave your capaci- 
ties and your curls equally uncultivated — for- 
get your manners and your mirror — leave your 
coat to your tailor, and your neckcloth to fate 
-—on your own account I urge you no longer ; 
but I will urge you on that of others. With 
your wealth, your hereditary influence, your 
rank, how many paths of utility lie open before 
you ! Your many advantages ought to be 
more than an Egyptian bondage to stimulate 
you to exertion. Why, the very busts around 
reproach you : look on the three opposite : — 
was the debt of gratitude, which men are now 
paying, by imitation and honourable mention, 
to these, won by indolent seclusion V 

A sickly smile passed over Ether inghame's 
fine but wan features, as he said, " You are 
happy, really, Edward, in the encouragement 
of your illustrations — Bacon, Milton, and Syd- 
ney: the first adventured into public life but 
to show his insufficiency to withstand its 
temptations ; the second dragged on old age 
in fear, poverty, and obscurity; the third 
perished on a scaffold." 

Edward Lorraine. — " T must give up my 
first : Bacon is one of the most "humiliating 
examples of man's subservience to circum- 
stances : he lived in an era of bribery and 
fraud ; and he whose mind w T as so far in ad- 
vance of his age, was, alas ! in his actions but 
its copy. Much must be ascribed to his early 
education among corrupt and time-serving 
courtiers — the evil with which we are familiar 
seems scarce an evil : but even his example 
has a sort of hope in its warning to those who 
hope the best of their nature. How little 
would any public man stoop now to such a de- 
gradation ] But Milton and Sydney ! look at 
the glorious old age of the one, "when his 
thoughts, like the ravens of the prophet, 
brought him heavenly food, and he worked in 
pride and power at the noble legacy he be- 
queathed to his native tongue. Look at the 
glorious death of the other, sealing with his 
blo.od those principles of equity and liberty, 
whose spirit has since walked so mightily 
abroad, though even now but in its infancy ! 
Never tell me but that these had a prophet's 
sympathy with centuries to come : I do believe 
that the power of making the future their pre- 
sent is one of the first gifts with which Provi- 
dence endows a great man." 

Lord Etheringhame. — "But, even supposing 
I had the power, which I have not, and the 
inclination, which I have still less, of mixing 
in the feverish and hurried strife called the 



world, of what import is an individual 1 — I see 
thousands and thousands rushing to every goal 
to which human desires can tend — and what 
matters it if one individual loiter on the v/ay 1 
I see, too, thousands and thousands daily swept 
off, and their place*? filled up, leaving not a 
memory to say that they have been — and again 
I ask, of what import is an individual ?" 

Edward Lorraine. — " Of none, if this living 
multitude were as the sands on the shore, 
where none is greater or less than the other ; 
but when we see that one makes the destinies 
of many, and the tremendous influence a single 
mind often exercises, it behooves every man to 
try what his powers are for the general good. 
It is the effort of a single mind that has worked 
greatest changes. What are the events that, 
during the last five hundred years, have altered 
the whole face of things — changed the most 
our moral position 1 Let me enumerate some 
of the most striking. The discovery of Ame- 
rica, of gunpowder, of printing, — the Reforma- 
tion, the magnet, — all these were severally the 
work of an individual, and in each case a lonely, 
humble, unaided individual. Algernon, all 
these are stimulating examples. Instead of 
asking of what import is an individual, let us 
rather ask, what is there an individual may not 
do]" 

Lord Etheringhame. — " And to what have 
all these discoveries tended 1 I see you glance 
round the room and smile. "We have luxuries, 
I grant, of which our forefathers never dreamed ; 
but are we better or happier 1 It is true, where 
a former earl stepped upon rushes, I step upon 
a carpet ; but comfort is a very conventional 
term ; and what we have never had, at, least we 
do not miss. W'e do not kill each other quite 
so much, but we cheat each other more ; mor- 
tifications are more frequent than wants ; and 
it does appear to me, that, in this change of 
rude into civilized life, we only exchange 
bodily evils for mental ones." 

Edivard Lorraine. — " But success in one 
effort inclines us to hope for success in an- 
other : the same powers which have so well 
remedied the ills of the physical world, may, 
when so applied, equally remedy those of the 
moral world. Hitherto, it seems to me, we 
have attended more to the means than to the 
end — we have accumulated rather than en- 
joyed. All the energies of the mind were 
devoted to necessity ; but our house is now 
built and furnished, our grounds cultivated, 
ourselves clothed : our natural condition thus 
meliorated, now is the time to enjoy our arti- 
ficial one. We have provided for our com- 
forts ; let us now attend to our happiness ; — 
let each man sedulously nurture those faculties 
of pleasure which exist both for himself and 
others. It is the mental world that now re- 
quires discovery and cultivation. And has not 
much been done even in this 1 How much has 
reason softened religious persecution and in- 
tolerance ! Every day do notw r e become mor^ 
and more convinced of the crime and cruel 
of war ] How little is the exercise of arbitrary 
authority endured ! How much more precious 
is the life of man held ! How much more do 



40 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



we acknowledge how intimately the good of 
others is connected with our own ! How is 
the value of education confessed ! Only look 
on the vast multitude who are at this moment 
being early imbued with right principles, ac- 
customed to self-control, and fed with useful 
knowledge. Look at the youthful schools, 
filled with quiet, contented, and industrious 
children, now acquiring those first notions of 
right and wrong — those good and regular 
habits, which will influence all their after-life. 
Open the silver clasps of yon huge chroni- 
cle, and you will see it is not so long since 
human beings were burnt for a mere abstract 
opinion — not so long since the sword was ap- 
pea ed to in the court of justice, to decide on 
right and wrong, and its success held as God's 
own decision — not so long since a man looked 
forward to the battle as the only arena of his 
struggle for fame and fortune, when education 
was locked up like a prisoner, and often like 
a state-prisoner, uselessly and vainly, in a 
monastery, and knowledge, like fixed air, too 
confined to be wholesome. Are not all these 
things changed for the better 1 and, encouraged 
by- the past, Reason herself turns into hope. 
Algernon, I am young, and as yet undistin- 
guished ; but I am not thoughtless. I look 
forward to future years of honourable and use- 
ful exertion, for which early youth is not the 
season. We require some experience of our 
own, before we benefit by that of others ; but 
my path is ever before me, and it is my entire 
conviction of its excellence that makes me 
wish my brother to share it with me." 

Algernon gazed for a moment on the expres- 
sion which lighted up the beautiful face of his 
brother, whom he loved as those love who have 
but one channel for the gathered waters of their 
affection ; but his sympathy was as that of a 
mother who hears her eldest boy dwell on 
schemes in which she has no part beyond the 
interest that she takes in all that is his. 

Lord Ether in ghamc. — "You will succeed, 
Edward. Your energy will carry you over 
some obstacles — your enthusiasm will blind 
you to others ; but I, who have neither spirits 
for the struggle, nor desire for the triumph, 
what have I to do at Olympus'? Edward, 
there are some sent into the world but as a 
sign and sorrow, whose consciousness of early 
death is ever with them — who shrink from 
efforts on which the grave must so soon close — 
who ask of books but to pass, not employ 
time — whose languid frame shrinks from exer- 
tion that would shake yet quicker from the 
glass the few lingering sands — who look back 
to their youthful feelings, not with regret for 
their freshness, but awe at their intensity. 
Such a one. am I. I have lived too much in 
too few years. Feelings and passions have 
Deen to my mind like the wind that fans the 
flame into a brighter, clearer light, only to ex- 
haust the material of the blaze. The oil which 
should havfi fed the altar for years has been 
burnt out in a single illumination. I went 
into the world ; and what were the fruits of 
my experience 1 That I was too weak to resist 
temptation ; and, in yielding, I entailed on my- 



self suffering even beyond the sin. 1 found 
that passion which had seemed too mighty for 
resistance, died of itself, and in spite of all my 
then efforts to keep it alive. I found that 
affection could pass away, even without a 
cause. I stood beside the tomb of the young 
and beautiful, and felt it had been opened by 
me, and that by no wilful crime, but by a 
change of feeling, over which I had no control. 
My first welcome, as I rode into our avenue, 
was waved by the black plumes of my father's 
hearse. I have ever held it as an omen. The 
fever is in my veins, and the death-damps on 
my brow. Do not, Edward, talk to me of 
active life." 

Lorraine looked on the earl. The dark 
chestnut of his hair was mixed with white, 
the fine outline of his features was sunk, and 
the whole expression was so spiritless, so sad, 
that though Edward, with all the soothing 
tenderness of affection, did not believe his 
health impaired to the extent of danger, yet 
could not help owning to himself, how little 
was he fitted to be one of the gladiators in 
social or political life. 

Truly, the history of most lives maybe soon 
comprehended under three heads — our follies, 
our faults, and our misfortunes. And this, 
after all, was the summary of Lord Ethering- 
hame's. His love was a fault, its termination 
a misfortune, and certainly his persisting in its 
regret w T as a folly. But there is nothing so 
easy as to be wise for others ; a species of 
prodigality, by-the-by — for such wisdom is 
wholly wasted. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

"Ke has been the ruin of his country."— Morning- Post. 

"England owes everything to her patriot minister."— 
Morning Herald. 

We now return to London and Miss Arun- 
del again. 

One evening, which, as usual, " had dragged 
its slow length along," on her and her host- 
ess's return home, they were met with a re- 
quest to adjourn to Mr. Delawarr's library; 
and there Lady Alicia grew almost animated 
with the pleasure of seeing her brother. 

" Nothing at all has happened since you left 
us," said his sister. 

"Nothing!" returned Edward Lorraine. 
"You mean every thing. Why, at this very 
moment I see your sleeves have assumed a 
different form. I left you in ringlets, and your 
hair is now braided. I have heard already that 
our richest duke has put a finish to the plea- 
sures of hope ; that seven new beauties have 
come out; that a new avatar of Mrs. Siddons 
has appeared at Covent Garden, in the shape 
of her niece Fanny Kemble; and that we have 
refused to emancipate the Jews, lest it should 
convert them — and their conversion being a 
sign of the end of the world, it is a consum« 
mation devoutly to be deprecated." 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



41 



one hears things till one forgets them. But 
what have you been doing with yourself ?" 

" Lording over the three elements ; — fire- 
king with my hearth blazing w r ith pine boughs 
— water-king, with the lightest of boats on the 
roughest of rivers — and earth-king, with the 
valleys flying before me, thanks to the pretti- 
est of chocolate-coloured coursers-, — and am 
nc 7 ' come back to enlighten my club and en- 
chant my partners with my adventures in 
Norway." 

" Judicious, at least," observed Mr. Dela- 
ware " Nothing like laying the scene of one's 
adventures in a distant land. I only hope you 
will have no rival Norseman to encounter. 
One great reason why our old travellers are so 
much more delightful than our modern ones 
is, that they needed not to verify their facts ; 
and I am afraid plain truth is like a plain face 
— -not very attractive." 

"Nay, this is pre-supposing my Sir John 
Mandevilleism. I do not mean to be forgotten 
beside my adventures — I mean less to astonish 
than to interest. I shall tell any fair auditor, 
not of the dark forest itself, but what my feel- 
ings were in the said forest." 

" I dare say," said Lady Alicia, " you were 
very dull." 

" I shall be ignorant of that feeling at least 
for the next six weeks, during which period I 
intend to be your visiter." 

Edward did just glance towards where they 
were sitting ; yet Emily could scarce help 
taking his speech as a personal compliment. 
Like poetry, gallantry must be born with you 
■ — an indescribable fascination, which, like the 
boundaries of wit and humour, may never be 
defined — seen rather than heard, and felt rather 
than understood. 



" How very handsome Mr. L 



orraine is : 



said Emily to her pillow. Alas ! the danger 
and decisiveness of a first impression. 

When Mr. Delawarr, who was last at the 
breakfast-table, entered next morning, Edw 7 ard 
rose, and threw down a paper he held amid a 
heap of others, and said, laughingly, "I have 
been deliberating, at the imminent danger of 
my coffee, which, thanks to my meditation, is 
as cold as Queen Elizabeth, and walks as 
fancy free — at least from any fancy of mine, — 
I have been debating, whether, in emulation 
of the patriots of Rome, I should not arise and 
stab you to the heart with one of these knives 
■ — yonder columns having informed me that 
England, 'that precious stone set in a silver 
sea,' is on the brink of destruction, and that 
you are the political Thalaba of her peace and 
plenty; cr, to speak in less embroidered 
language, that the present ministry are the 
destruction of the country, and that you are 
the worst among the bad. I have shuddered 
at the excess of your guilt. Luckily, farther 
to ascertain the extent of your enormity, I took 
up another newspaper; and now I am only 
anxious to make my homages acceptable to the 
deliverer of his country, and express my ad- 
miration of the patriotic minister in sufficiently 
earnest terms." 

Vol. 1—6 



" I answer with Rosalind," said Mr. Dela- 
warr — 

' Which will you have— me or your pearl again ? 
Neither of either— I reject both twain.' 

I am afraid I am neither quite worthy of i^U) 
praise, nor, I trust, deserving of censure ; and 
now some chocolate for . consolation and 
change ; for, to tell you the truth, indifference 
is as fabulous as invulnerability. There is 
no moral Styx ; and in politics, as in every 
thing else, censure is more bitter than praise 
is sweet." 

" Thanks to my lately acquired bad habit 
of early rising," observed Edward, — " the 
which philosophers and physicians praise, 
because they know nothing about it- — I have 
been for the last hour studying leading arti- 
cles, advertisements, &c, till I am possessed 
of materiel enough for three weekly papers. 
Really people should put their names to ad- 
vertisements, or at least allow them to be 
whispered about. There is an ingenuity, an 
originality, which makes one lament over so 
much unappreciated genius. I began one 
paragraph : it deplored the evils brought on 
the country by the passing of the Catholic 
bill — observed that the king's silence about it 
in his speech at the opening of Parliament 
sufficiently indicated his opinion, that Ireland 
was plunged into the deepest affliction. The 
depreciation of her produce was next insisted 
upon ; and I found this exordium led to the 
information that Messrs. Stand ish and Co. 
had been enabled, from the depressed statt 
of the market, to lay in a large stock of Irish 
linen at unheard-of low prices. My next is 
one of quite antiquarian research. It begins 
with an allusion to Lady Fanshaw's Memoirs, 
when Hart street, St. Olave, was a fashionable 
part of London — is philosophical with refer- 
ence to the many changes of fashion — that 
capricious divinity, as it poetically entitles 
her — and finishes by rejoicing to see Leicester 
Square recovering much of its former splen- 
dour, when princes were its inhabitants, and 
noblemen were its wayfarers ; and this we 
are informed is in consequence of the crowds 
of carriages which assemble daily to inspect 
Newton's tremendous bargains of Gros de 
Naples and French ginghams. And here is 
the worst of all, 'the music of the Mazurka, 
as danced by the Duke of Devonshire' — 
shades of Paul and Vestris, welcome your 
illustrious competitor, ' as danced by the Duke 
of Devonshire !' " 

"I think," replied Mr. Delawarr, "the 
duke might fairly bring his action for libel." 

" What ! place his refined exclusiveness, 
as the Duke of Wellington did his chivalrous 
sense of honour, for the judgment of twelve 
tallow-chandlers ! Let them ask for redress 
if the jury were their peers; but what sym- 
pathy could Mr. Higgins, the snuff-merchant, 
have with the exquisite dismay of the house 
of Cavendish at this exhibition of their head 
as a ballet master; or Mr. Wiggins, the 
butcher, know what was the Prince of Water- 
d2 



42 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



loo, the conqueror of Bonaparte's estimate 
of fame 1 

1 How can we reason but from what we know V 

and what could the retail individuals that 
constitute a jury know of these ' fine fancies 
and high estimates ?' " 

" They were very respectable men, Ed- 
ward," observed Mr. Delawarr, with a deco- 
rous accent of reproof. 

"Am I in the slightest degree detracting 
from their pretensions to omTgreat national 
characteristic 1 A respectable man passes 
six days behind his counter, and the seventh 
in a one-horse chaise — imagines that his own 
and his country's constitution equally depend 
on roast-beef — pays his debts regularly, and 
gives away half-pence in charity. What can 
such — " 

" Hush ! Really, Mr. Lorraine, these are 
very dangerous sentiments for a young man 
to express." 

"O, you laugh ; but what sympathy could 
these estimable individuals have with ideal 
honour and wounded feeling ?" 

"On the one great principle, 'every thing 
has its price ;' damages are the chevaux de 
/rise of our law." 

" Well, well — but to turn from politics to 
literature : here I again lament over unappre- 
ciated genius. The unknown Chattertons of 
the columns display a flight of invention, a 
degree of talent, which often puts to shame 
the work whose merits they insinuate rather 
than announce. How completely suited to 
the calibre of the many — 

' For gentle dulness ever loves a joke'— 

is the following: — 'Our town was alarmed 
last night by the intelligence that Satan had 
arrived by the mail-coach.' Lucifer's arrival 
was alarming enough. Fortunately it turned 
out to be only the harmless, nay, even meri- 
torious hero of Mr. Montgomery's poem, who 
came with all sorts of moral reflections, instead 
of temptations." 

"1 was somewhat surprised," replied Mr. 
Delawarr, "to see my own name in one of 
the keys that now seem to follow a work as 
regularly as its title-page to precede it. Of 
course, I read this setting forth of my thoughts, 
words, and actions ; and was rather dismayed 
to find how little I knew of myself." 

" It is certainly in the destiny of some indi- 
viduals to be the idols of the circulating li- 
brary. The Dutchess of Devonshire, of whom 
I heard Lafayette say, when he showed me 
her picture, that her loveliness was the most 
lovely of his remembrances — was the fortune 
of seven novels to my own reading know- 
ledge. I cannot enumerate the many of which 
Lord Byron was hero, under the names of 
Lord Harold, Lord Lara, Count Monthermer, 
&c. His throne was then filled by a woman ; 
and Lady Jersey has furnished the leading 
feature of thirty volumes. Brummel has 
figured on the stage three times, (but he is 
quite an historical personage;) and. Lord and 
Lady Ellenborough were subjects for two 



sets of three volumes. We have been en- 
lightened with divers slight sketches of others 
but those I have named have hitherto been 
principals in the field of fiction." 

"I often wonder at many that are omitted. 
Now, Lord Petersham I should have thought 
the ideal of a modern hero : Lady Dacre, dra- 
matist, poet, could they not have made a 
female Byron out of her 1 Can you, Edward, 
account for omissions like these '?" 

"Only on the principle, that there is a 
destiny in these things ; but 1 do think a 
novelist will soon be as necessary a part of a 
modern establishment as the minstrel was in 
former times. The same feeling, which in 
the olden days gave a verse to a ballad, now 
gives a column to the Morning Post; only 
that the ball has taken place of the tourna- 
ment, and white gloves are worn instead of 
steel gauntlets." 

" I have heard my aunt say," observed 
Emily, " that Suit's Winter in London has 
tened the Dutchess of Devonshire's deatl 
She died of a broken heart." . 

" A most interesting fact to your aunt, who 
is, I believe, a most inveterate novel-reader; 
but one I rather doubt : people are not so 
easily written out of their lives — except by 
prescriptions." 

" Most of the broken-heart cases I hear, 
put me in mind," rejoined Edward, "of our 
old friend Mrs. Lowe's story. A maiden 
lady of forty called on her one day on one of 
those sentimental errands to which maiden 
ladies of her age seem peculiarly addicted ; 
and, after a deep sigh or two, said, ' I wished 
much, madam, to see you, for you were the 
death of my unfortunate aunt.' Somewhat 
surprised at this sudden charge of murder, 
Mrs. Lowe naturally inquired into particulars. 
' Your husband was engaged to my poor 
aunt : he deserted her for you, and she died 
of a broken heart.' ' At what age V inquired 
her unconscious rival. ' My poor aunt was 
fifty-two when she died.' 'At least,' said 
Mrs. Lowe, ' she took some time to consider 
of it.' For my part, I think hearts are very 
much like glasses — if they do not break with 
the first ring, they usually last a considerable 
time." 

"What a charming old lady she was!" 
resumed Mr. Delawarr ; " she had of age so 
little but its experience, and had lost of youth 
so little but its frivolity. I was once much 
delighted with an answer I heard her give to 
a young gentleman, whose silly irreverence 
of speech on sacred subjects richly deserved 
the rebuke it drew. ' Really, Mrs. Lowe, 
you have quite a masculine mind.' ' No, sir,' 
returned she, ' say a firm one.' " 

" I can assure you, Miss Arundel," said 
Edward, " if you were to see her, you would 
quite anticipate the days of close caps, &c." 

Emily smiled ; but, somehow or other, she 
had never thought of her roses and ringlets 
with more satisfaction than just now. 

Some authors, in discussing love's divers 
places of vantage ground, are eloquent in 
praise of a dinner-table — others eulogize sup 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



43 



per: for my part I lean to the breakfast, — 
the complexion and the feelings are alike 
fresh — the cares, business, and sorrows of the 
day have not yet merged in prudence and 
fatigue — the imaginativeness of the morning 
dream is yet floating on the mind — the cour- 
tesies of coffee and chocolate are more familiar 
than those of soup and fish. As they say in 
education, nothing like an early commence- 
ment — our first impressions are always most 
vivid, and the simplicity of the morning gives 
an idea of nature piquant from probable con- 
trast, Perhaps one's rule of three for action 
mio"ht run thus : be naive at breakfast, bril- 
liant at dinner, but romantic at supper. The 
visions prepared for midnight should always 
be a little exalted : but if only one meal be 
at your choice, prefer the breakfast. Ce ?i , est 
que le premier pas qui coule, is as true of senti- 
ments as saints. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

All have opinions, wherefore may not 1 1 
I'll, give a judgment— or at least I'll try. 

"As idle as ever," said Mr. Lushington, by 
way of a parting pleasantry. " In my time 
young men did not spend the morning on the 
sofa, reading trashy novels; they — " but the 
merits of our grandfathers were lost in the 
cough and heavy step with which the elderly 
gentleman descended the stairs, on his way to 
some other domicile, where he might vent 
another portion of his discontent. Certainly 
the breath of Mr. Lushington's life was an 
east wind. 

It is quite wonderful what privileges are 
accorded to single gentlemen of a certain age 
and a certain fortune, — these are the people 
who may be rude with more than impunity, 
even reward. Whether the old ladies, either 
for themselves or their daughters, hope it is 
not quite too late for these said single gentle- 
men to marry, — whether the masculine part 
of the creation, with that attention to busi- 
ness, their great moral duty, calculate on 
pecuniary futurities, either in the shape of 
legacy or loan, we know not'; but assuredly 
the magna charia of social life accords much 
to this privileged class. 

Mr. Lushington was one of the number. 
As a child he cried over his pap, his washing, 
and dressing, and himself to sleep — for the 
mere sake, as his nurse asserted, of plaguing 
her ; at school, though neither tyrant nor tell- 
tale, he was hated — for his comrades always 
found his opinion opposite to theirs, a shadow 
thrown over their hopes, and a sneer affixed 
to their pleasures. At a very early age he 
went to India ; lived for years in a remote 
station, where he was equally decided and 
disliked ; and finally came home to adjust the 
balance of comfort between a hundred thou- 
sand pounds and a liver complaint. He made 
morning calls, for the express purpose of tell- 
ing the ladies of the house how ill they looked 
after the fatigues of the night before, and 



dwelt emphatically on the evils of late hours 
and ruined complexions : — he dined out tc 
insinuate the badness of the dinner, and take 
an opposite side in politics to his host, — he 
was not the least particular as to principles, 
always supposing them to be contradictory; — 
and he went to balls to ask young damsels 
who had no partners why they did not dance, 
and to make a third in every tete-a-ieie that 
seemed interesting. In short, he was a mo- 
dern incarnation' of an Egyptian plague, sent 
as a judgment into society ; but then he was 
single, and single men may marry; — but then 
he had a hundred thousand pounds, and he 
must die and leave them behind him. Vain 
hopes ! He had too large a stock of torment- 
ing to confine it to any one individual, even 
though that individual were his wife ; and as 
to his money, when he did die, which he was 
a long time about, he left one of those wills 
which realize the classic fable of the golden 
apple thrown by the goddess of discord — for 
his heir not only spent the whole property in 
chancery, but some thousands of his own. 

What a pity there is not some mental calo- 
mel ! for Mr. Lushington's equanimity was 
in a bilious fever with Edward Lorraine's 
appearance of luxurious enjoyment. Thrown 
upon a sofa, like a crimson cloud for colour 
and softness, — with just enough of air from 
the laurels and acacias of the square garden 
to fling back the blind, scented as it passed 
with the rich flowers of the balcony, — whLe 
through the rooms floated that soft twilight 
which curtains can make even of noon. They 
were filled with graceful trifles for the fancy, 
— and a few noble pictures, an alabaster statue 
or two, a few exquisitively carved marble 
vases, to excite the imagination ; while the 
vista ended in a conservatory, where the rose 
— a summer queen — held her rainbow court 
of jonquils, tulips, and the thousand-flowered 
and leaved geranium, but still supreme her- 
self in beauty and sweetness. 

Emily was seated at a harp, trying some 
new ballads ; so there was just music enough 
to haunt the ear with sweet sounds, but not 
to distract the attention; while an occasional 
verse of gentle expression awoke, ever and 
anon, some pleasant or touching memory. 

The ground, the table near Edward, were 
covered with novels enough to have realized 
even Gray's idea of Paradise. How unlucky 
some people are! Gray was just born an 
age too soon. How would he have luxuriated 
in the present day! Andrews' or Hockhanrs 
counter would have been " the crystal bar" 
which led to his garden of Eden, and the 
marble-covered tomes the Houries of his soli- 
tude. 

" Well," said Mr. Morland, who had en- 
tered as Mr. Lushington departed, " are you 
in ancient or modern times, aiding some he- 
roine and her ringlets to escape from her 
prison in a mouldering castle, where her only 
companions are ghosts ; or braving, for love 
of her dark eyes, some ferocious banditti, 
whose muskets and mustaches are equally 
long ; or are you in ecstasies with some swee* 



44 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



imild of simplicity, whose hair curls intuitively, 
and to whom the harp and piano, French and 
Italian, are accomplishments that come by 
nature ; or are you in those days of prudence 
and propriety, when the fair lady lest her 
lover by waltzing, and the matrimonial quar- 
rel was rendered desperate by the disobedient 
wife going to a masquerade, to which her 
husband followed her in the disguise of a do- 
mino]" 

" Nay," returned Edward ; " I thought you 
were far too modern a person to even remem- 
ber the avatar of Newman and Co." 

"One does not easily forget the impressions 
of our youth; and mine passed in the reign of 
female authorship. I have been convinced of 
the justice and expediency of the Salic law 
ever since. Mrs. Robinson, Mrs. Smith, and 
Mrs. Radcliffe ruled the Europe, Asia, and 
Africa of the novel-writing world — America 
was not then discovered. Mrs. Robinson took 
sentiment, and was eloquent on the misfor- 
tunes of genius : by genius was meant a young 
man who was very poor and very handsome, 
and who complained to the moon for a confi- 
dante ; also, a beautiful young lady, whose 
affections were always placed contrary to the 
decrees of some cruel parent, and who had a 
noble contempt for money. Mrs. Smith took 
philosophy, was liberal and enlightened in her 
views, expatiated on how badly society was 
constituted, and, as a proof, her heroines — 
sweet, innocent creatures — were continually 
being run away with against their will ; and 
her hero had some fine-fangled theories, which 
alwa) T s prevented his getting on in the world, 
till some distant relation left him heir to his 
wealth, or some rich heiress married him. 
Mrs. Radcliffe took terror, which, by-the-by, 
she never excited in me — I believe 1 did not 
read her romances when young enough. I 
always felt comfortable in the conviction that 
all the mysteries would be explained, if I did 
but go on. Schedoni, in all her works, is the 
only attempt at a character, and he is a fine 
Rembrandt; but her heroes, who wander about 
on a fine evening, playing on the flute, carry 
insipidity to its extremity : and as for the he- 
roines, I grew so tired of their undeviating 
sweetness, that I hoped at last some of the 
dangers they encountered w^ould fairly put an 
end to their terrors, troubles, and existence 
together." 

Edward Lorraine. — " It is curious that the 
occasional pieces of poetry announced in the 
title-page, and interspersed through the vo- 
lumes, should be so wretched; and yet her 
descriptions are touched with the finest poeti- 
cal colouring ; — her Italian w r oods and sunsets 
are really beautiful pictures." 

Mr. Morland. — " Simply because, with fine 
poetical taste, she was not a poet; the spirit 
was not strong enough within to break through 
the set forms and conventional phrases which 
were then vouchers of the Muse's Almack's." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Like the veins of a 
mine, the materials of fiction are soon worked 
out. To your three continents of sentiment, 
philosophy, and terror what succeeded]" 



Mr. Morland. — "A school of common sensG 
and real life. Miss Edgeworth only wanted 
imagination to have secured her the very 
highest place in novel-writing. Humour gave 
animation to her pages — feeling never. Hei 
remarks are always sensible ; but we feel 
somewhat selfish in making them our code — 
and her heroines are so prudent, that we quite 
long for them to commit some little indiscre- 
tion. She is an English and dramatic Roche- 
foucault, developing her axioms by actions ; 
and with, moreover, a point of attack before 
her. French morality and French sentiment 
were the alpha and omega of her literary war- 
fare." 

Edward Lorraine. — "Surely Miss Burney's 
heroines get into scrapes enough to satisfy you. 
To tell you the truth — I hope there is not even 
a picture of an aunt or grandmother near — I 
never liked Miss Burney. Her pages are a 
succession of caricatures — her lovely Miss An- 
villes and angelic Miss Beverleys pretty wax 
dolls — and her Lord Orvilles and Mortimer 
Delvilles just captivating court, suits. Camilla 
is the only character with any interest; and 
even that is lost in her preference of that most 
prudent young gentleman, Edgar Mandlebert. 
I never forgive a girl bad taste in her lover. 
What must she be, w T hen even her ideal of ex- 
cellence is mean?" 

Mr. Morland. — " I prefer Miss Austen's : 
they are the truest pictures of country life, 
whose little schemes, hopes, scandals, &c. are 
detected with a woman's tact, and told w T iih a 
woman's vivacity." 

Edward Lorraine. — "Yes, they are amus- 
ing to a degree; but her pen is like a pair of 
skates — it glides over the surface; you seek 
in vain for any deep insight into human though 
or human feeling. Pride and Prejudice is her 
best work ; but I cannot forgive Elizabeth 
for her independence, which, in a woman, is 
impertinence; and Mr. Darcie is just a stiff 
family portrait, come down from its frame to 
be condescending.* What you said of Miss 
Edgeworth appears to me to be the great cha 
racteristic of the writers of that time — an uttei 
want of imagination, and of that deep feeling 
born of it and nursed by it. Various and en- 
tertaining personages passed over the stage • 
but none of them wore that window in their 
hearts it is the part of the philosopher or poet 
to discover." 

Mr. Morland. — " Who was it that used to 
thank the gods — first, that he was born a man 
— and secondly, either a Grecian or a Romait 
— I have forgotten which — and no great matter 
either? Now, I am thankful that I am bcirn in 
the same age with Sir Walter Scott. It is 
quite exhilarating to think that life has had so 
much enjoyment as I owe to him; he is the 
Columbus that has discovered our America of 
literature. Think not only of his works them- 
selves, but of their effects. How much he has 
destroyed and discovered ! How much mental 
gold he has distributed ! What a new spirit 

* I had not read Persuasion when the above was written. 
Persuasion, in my very humble opinion is one of the most 
touching and beautiful tales in our lan?ivage. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



45 



rre has created ! He is the Hercules who has 
cleared off the dragons and giants, and the 
Prometheus who has bequeathed a legacy of 
living fire." 

Edward Lorraine. — " When opinions have 
lost the support of the grounds on which they 
Avere originally formed, they become preju- 
but in proportion as they lose their 
foundation, they tighten their hold ; for though 
a man may give up his opinion, he holds to his 
prejudice as a drowning wretch who has lost 
his boat grasps his oar. Habit holds over 
the mind more than a despotic power; and 
hence I understand how it is possible for peo- 
ple to be blind to the great changes working 
around them. It is half curious, half ludicrous, 
to hear persons — ay, and critics too — talk of a 
novel as a pleasant hour's amusement, and 
exhort the author gravely to turn his talents 
to higher account, wholly unconscious of the 
truth, that the novel is now the very highest 
effort — the popular vehicle for thought, feel- 
ing, and observation — the one used by our 
first-rate writers. Who, that reflects at all, 
can deny, that the novel is the literary Aaron's 
rod that is rapidly swallowing all the rest"? It 
has supplied the place of the drama — it has 
merged in its pages pamphlets, essays, and 
satires. Have we a theory — it is developed 
by means of a character and opinion — it is set 
fortrfin dialogue ; and satire is personified in 
a chapter, not a scene. Poetry has survived 
somewhat longer, but is rapidly following the 
fate of its fellows. Descriptions, similes, pa- 
thos, are to be found in the prose page; and 
rhythm is becoming more and more an encum- 
brance rather than a recommendation. I do 
believe, in a little time, lyrical will be the only 
form of poetry retained. Now, query, are we 
gainers or losers V' 

Mr. Morland. — " Gainers, certainly. It mat- 
ters little what form talent takes, provided it 
is a popular one. But even now, a new spirit, 
in the shape of a new writer, is rising; and the 
author of Pelham has again enlarged the 
boundaries, and poured fresh life into the 
novel. Many clever works have appeared 
within the last few years ; but none sumciently 
vigorous or sufficiently original to create their 
own taste, or give their tone to time; and this 
is what this author is doing and will do. Pel- 
ham took up a ground quite untouched. There 
had been fashionable novels, and of real life, 
so called; but they wanted either knowledge, 
or talent to give that knowledge likeness. But 
the author of Pelham was the first who said, 
such and such beings exist — such and such 
principles are now acted upon — and out of 
such will I constitute my hero. Nothing 
proves the life thrown into the picture so much 
as the offence it gave — so many respectable 
individuals took the hero's coxcombry as a 
personal affront." 

Edward Lorraine. — " I think these works 
ro very far to support our theory of the novel 
— that it is like the Roman empire, sweeping 
all under its dominion. Pelham is the light 
satire of Horace — Paul Clifford the severer 
page of Juvenal — the Disowned has the ro- 



mantic and touching beauty of poetry — while 
Devereux is rather the product of the philoso 
pher and the metaphysician." 

Mr. Morland. — "I should judge — though it 
seems almost a paradox to say so of one whosf 
pages are mostly so witty and so worldly — 
that the original frame of his mind was ima- 
ginative even to romance, and that his mood 
would savour more of melancholy than mirth. 
Poetry has a large part in his composition : 
look at his young painter. Could any writer 
but one who has had such dreams himself have 
imagined a dream of fame so engrossing 1 
There is something to me inexpressibly touch- 
ing in that young artist's history : he is poor, 
low-born, with neither grace of person nor of 
manner ; he is not even successful in his pur- 
suit; he is the victim not the priest of his altar; 
yet how we enter into his hopes ! how con- 
vinced we feel of his power ! and the authors 
great skill is shown in making his enthusiasm 
a pledge for his genius. No one could draw 
such a character who had not, at some time or 
other, numbered fame and futurity among his 
own visions. Again, I know no one who has 
painted love so poetically — and poetry is love's 
truth ; he has painted its highest nature, re- 
moved from the commonplaces of life, but 
ready for its cares — a hidden spring whose 
presence is only indicated by the freshness of 
the verdure around ; and the more spiritualized, 
self-devoted, and entire, in proportion as it is 
kept apart from the dividing and corrupting 
effect of the world. The love he depicts is 
especially that of the naturally melancholy 
and passionate, who exalt and refine their 
feelings even to themselves." 

Edward Lorraine. — " I am not sure wr ether 
even the wittiest — the most seemingly gay 
passages, do not rather favour your view ; the 
satire is that of sarcasm, as if society had 
forced knowledge upon him, and the know- 
ledge was bitter, and the very keenness of the 
perception gave point to the expression; in- 
deed, in most of his observations, I have been 
struck with their truth even before their wit." 
Mr. Morland. — "I know 7 no writer who has 
united so much philosophy with so much ima- 
gination ; hence his views will have such effect 
on his time. He uses his power to make us 
feel — chiefly to make us think; it is the con- 
sequences he draws from his creations which 
force reflection to succeed to interest. Read 
his pages dispassionately, after the first vivid 
effect of the story is departed, and you will be 
surprised to observe the vast mass of mora, 
investigation and truth which they contain 
His very poetry is full of this spirit ; witness 
a simile, exquisite for its turn and thought — 
'Autumn, which, like ambition, gilds ere it withers.' " 

"Is he handsome 1" asked E inily. 

" Nay," returned Lorraine, " do not ask me. 
I always consider one of my own sex as a non- 
entity or a rival : in the first quality he ex- 
cites my indifference — in the second my ha- 
tred. I dislike that any one should attract a 
woman's attention enough for her to ask any 
questions about him." 



46 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



A woman always, whether she shows it or 
not, takes a general assertion to herself, not 
from vanity, but from the intense individuality 
of her nature; and Emily found something 
satisfactory even in having no answer to her 
question. 

Mr. Morland. — " But what induces you to 
have so many books open at once]" 

Edward Lorraine. — " Because I have a Plu- 
tarchian taste, and love parallels. Nothing 
delights me more than to turn from a subject 
in one author, to see how differently it is treat- 
ed in another; for no two agree even about the 
same thing." 

Mr. Morland. — " Because no one sees things 
exactly as they are, but as varied and modified 
by their own method of viewing. Bid a bota- 
nist and a poet describe a rose tree — the one 
will dwell upon its roots, fibres, petals, &c, 
and his abstract view will be of its medicinal 
properties ; the poet will dwell upon its beau- 
ty, and associate it with the ideas of love and 
summer, or catch somewhat of melancholy 
from its futurity of fading — no fear of want of 
variety. But in what book had you taken re- 
fuge from Mr. Lushington ?" 

Edward Lorraine. — "In a favourite — the 
second part of Vivian Grey. I think it one 
of the most singular I have read. Its chief 
characteristic is the most uncurbed imagina- 
tion. But his humour is grotesque caricature, 
and his satire personality; he strikes me as 
being naturally ill-natured ; and circumstances 
have thrown in his way people and things, 
which he seems to think is a pity to lose, but 
which it is against the bent of his talents to 
to use ; he should have been born a German. 
What a fine and most original novel might be 
written which took for its materiel the mystics 
and metaphysics of our neighbours, wrought 
up with a tone of the supernatural, yet bringing 
all to bear on our actual and passing exist- 
ence!" 

Mr. Morland. — "Yes, but Mr. DTsraeli 
must be banished first. I should say he is 
one whose greatest misfortune is that he was 
born in London, and in the congregating habits 
of the present day. His is a mind that re- 
quires to be thrown upon and within its own 
resources. To go back to the days of the 
Spectator, and illustrate my meaning by an 
allegory : — the two female figures that now 
wait to guide Hercules through the world are 
Philosophy and Vanity, and according as one 
or the other is his guide he is benefited or 
injured : he who goes conducted by Philoso- 
phy, goes to think of others, and is benefited 
— he who is led by Vanity into society, goes 
to think of him-self, and is injured." 

Edward Lorraine. — " How philosophical 
we should be — what moral truths we should 
discover, could we forget ourselves, and lose 
our identity in our examination]" 

Mr. Morland. — " Not so neither ; ourselves 
must still be our rule for others: philosophy, 
like charity, begins at home ; but also, like 
charity, I should wish it to extend, and become 
the more beneficial the more it expands. But 
apropos to benevolence, and 'all that sort of 



thing,' is this one of your favourite authors ?" 
taking up a volume of Tremaine. 

Edward Lorraine. — " No, I consider Mr, 
Vvarde most happy in his commonplaces; ha 
flings himself on the current, and there he 
floats. His popularity shows the force of 
habit ; and we like his copy-book morality on 
the same principle that Eaton boys are said to 
like mutton — because we are used to it. There 
is always a certain capital of opinion to which 
men deem it proper to subscribe — our educa 
tion from the first cultivates credulity — we are 
taught to agree, not to examine, and our judg- 
ment is formed long before our comprehension. 
W T e must either have property of our own, or 
else credit; and all experience shows the lean- 
ing most have towards the latter. Hence it 
is that so much is taken for granted. Mr. 
Warde has shown great tact in embodying 
these generalities in his pages; and we are 
little disposed to deny his truths, we have 
heard them so often. Add to this a most ele- 
gant style, an appropriation of popular and 
passing events, and have we not the secret of 
Mr. Warde's success ?" 

" I must," returned Mr. Morland, rising, 
"bid you good-by; we have been quite clever 
enough for one morning; — I shall really not 
have an idea left. Well, opinions of one's 
own are very pleasant : I am always inclined 
to apply to my judgment the proverb which 
the Spaniard applies to his home — 

'My home, my home! though thou'rt but small, 
Thou art to me the Escuria'l.' " 

Always be as witty as you can with your 
parting bow — your last speech is the one re 
membered. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



" Spirit of Love ! soon thy rose-plumes wear 
The weight and the sully of canker and care; 
Falsehood is round thee— Hope leads thee on, 
Till every hue from thy pinion is gone ; 
But one bright moment is all thine own, 
The one ere thy visible presence is known. 
When, like the wind of the south, thy power, 
Sunning the heavens, sweetening the flower, 
Is felt but not seen, thou art soft and calm 
As the sleep of a child — the dewfall of balm. 
Fear has not darken'd thee— Hope has made 
The blossom expand, it but opens to fade. 
Nothing is known of those wearing fears 
Which will shadow the light cf thy after-years. 
Then thou art bliss :— but~once throw by 
The veil which shrouds thy divinity. 
Stand confess ; d, and thy quiet is fie J : 
Wild flashes of rapture may come instead, 
But pain will be with them. What may restore 
The gentle happiness known before?" 

The Irnproxisatrice. 

There was a considerable change in the 
tone of Emily's epistles. Pleasures w r ere not 
considered quite so insipid — nor was our young 
lady quite so philosophical as she had been ; 
she owned that now town was full it w T as very 
delightful; and mentioned casually, in a post- 
script, that Mr. Lorraine was a great acquisi 
tion to their circle. 

No one can deny Lady Charlotte Bury's 
assertion, that no well regulated young female 
will ever indulge in a species of amusement 
so improper as flirtation' but it must be ad« 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



47 



mitted, that having a pleasant partner is pre- 
ferable to notdancing, and that alnl\e persijlage, 
a little raillery, a little flattery, go far to make 
a partner pleasant We are afraid these three 
parts only want a fourth — sentiment — to make 
up what is called flirtation, — at least, the 
Misses Fergusson pronounced that Miss Arun- 
del flirted shamefully with Mr. Lorraine. This 
was said one evening- when, after having 
waltzed — animated at once by pleasure and a 
desire to please — with the grace of a Greek 
nymph (or, at least, our idea of one) and the 
ear of a nightingale, (we take it for granted that 
a nightingale's ear for time must be exquisite) 
— she sat down with Edward on a vacant 
window seat. 

iw Love," thought Lady Mandeville to her- 
self, " is said to spring from beauty. I am 
rather inclined' to reverse the genealogy. I 
pique myself upon my penetration, and will 
never trust it again, if my young friend is not 
improving her complexion, and losing her heart 
somewhat rapidly ; — well, I think her to-night 
a most lovely creature." 

Lady Mandeville remembered how different 
she looked seated by Lady Alicia at her first 
ball ; but to-night 

The heart's delight did, like a radiant lamp, 
Light the sweet temple of her face 

She was placed so that her delicately cut fea- 
tures were seen in profile : the head a little 
thrown back, a little turned away — that half 
withdrawing attitude so graceful and so femi- 
nine ; the mouth half opened, as if listening 
with such unconscious intenseness that the 
breath was rather inhaled than drawn — its least 
sound suppressed ; the beautiful crimson of 
excitement glowed on the cheek, that rich, 
passionate colour it can know but once — a 
thousand blushes gathered into one aurora; 
her eyes were entirely veiled by the long lashes, 
not from intention, but impulse, intuitively' 
aware of his every glance, — she herself knew 
not that to look into his face was impossible. 
Ah ! there is no look so suspicious as a down- 
cast one. 

Emily was now in the happiest period of 
love — perhaps its only happy one; she felt a 
keener sense of enjoyment, a pleasure in trifles, 
a reliance on the present; her step was more 
buoyant, her laugh more glad; she felt a desire 
to be kind to all around, and her nature seemed 
ail gayety but for its sweetness. 

" Love's first steps are upon the rose," says 
the proverb — "its second finds the thorn." 
Like the maiden of the fairy tale, we destroy 
our spell when we open it to examine in what 
characters it is written. In its ignorance it is 
happiness; there is none of the anxiety that is 
the fever of hope — no fears, for there is no cal- 
culation — no selfishness, for it asks for nothing 
— no disappointment, for nothing is expected : 
it is like the deep quiet enjoyment of basking 
in the bright sunshine, without thinking of 
either how the glad warmth will ripen our 
fruits and flowers, or how the dark clouds in 
the distance forebode a storm. 

I doubt whether this morning twilight of 
the affections has the same extent of duration 



and influence in man that it has in woman 
the necessity of exertion for attainment has 
been early inculcated upon him — he knows, 
that if he would win, he must woo — and his 
imagination acts chiefly as a stimulus. But a 
woman's is of a more passive kind ; she has 
no motive for analyzing feelings whose future 
rests not with herself: more imaginative from 
early sedentary habits, she is content to dream 
on, and some chance reveals to herself the 
secret she would never have learnt from self- 
investigation. Imbued with all the timidity, 
exalted by all the romance of a first attachment, 
never did a girl yet calculate on making what 
is called a conquest of the man she loves. A 
conquest is the resource of weariness — the 
consolation of disappointment — a second world 
of vanity and ambition, sighed for like Alex- 
ander's, but not till we have wasted and de- 
stroyed the heart's first sweet world of early 
love. 

Let Lord Byron say what he will of bread 
and butter, girlhood is a beautiful season, and 
its love — its warm, uncalculating, devoted love 
— so exaggerating in its simplicity — so keen 
from its freshness — is the very poetry of attach- 
ment; after-years have nothing like it. To 
know that the love which once seemed eternal 
can have an end, destroys its immortality ; and 
thus brought to a level with the beginnings 
and endings — the chances and changes of life's 
commonplace employments and pleasures — 
and, alas ! from the sublime to the ridiculous 
there is but a step — our divinity turns out an 
idol — we are grown too wise, too worldl)\ for 
our former faith — and we laugh at what we 
wept before : such laughter is more bitter — a 
thousand times more bitter — than tears. 

Emily was in the very first of the golden 
age of unconscious enjoyment — a period which 
endures longer in unrequited love than any 
other; the observance and display of another's 
feelings do not then assist to enlighten us on 
our own. 

Lorraine's imagination was entirely en- 
grossed by Adelaide Lorimer. He had first 
seen her in a situation a little out of the com- 
mon routine of introduction ; she was quite 
beautiful enough to make a divinity of — and 
her grace and refinement were admirable in 
the way of contrast to the prettiness and sim- 
plicity of which he had just been thoroughly 
tired in Norway. Now it is an admitted fact 
in moral — or, we should say, sentimental — 
philosophy, that one attachment precludes an- 
other — and that to be sensible of the attractions 
of one lady, is to be blind to those of the rest. 
Edward thought Miss Arundel " a great acqui- 
sition to their circle," and a very pretty, sweet 
creature; but he never even thought of falling 
in love with her, and certainly she did not think 
of it either. Thus matters stood at present — 
very sufficient to give a shadowy softness tc 
her eyes, and brilliancy to her blush. And 
yet the camellia japonicas (those delicate white 
flowers, which seemed as if carved in ivory 
by some sculptor whose inspiration has been 
love till all that is beautiful is to him some- 
thing sacred) and the geraniums in the windcw 



13 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Dehind, could have witnessed that their conver- 
sation had been carried on in a tone of exclusive 
gayety, and that the only arrows flung round 
were those of laughing sarcasm. 

Strangers and friends will be alike passed 
in gay review — strangers, for their dress and 
manners ; and friends — our friends always 
share the worst — to dress and manners added 
tempers, opinions, and habits — their whole 
internal and external economy. It is a wise 
law of nature, that we only hear at a second 
hand what is said of us, when, at least, we can 
comfort ourselves with disbelief. His Satanic 
majesty did not know how to tempt Job ; in- 
stead of making him hear his friends talk to 
him — though that was bad enough -he should 
have made him hear them talk of him ; and if 
that did not drive him out of all patience, I 
know not what would. 

" Nothing," at length observed Emily, 
"strikes me so much as the little appearance 
of enjoyment there is in any present — our faces, 
like our summers, want sunshine ; my uncle 
would quote Froissart, who says of our ances- 
tors, ' the English, after their fashion, s'amu- 
sent moult tristement? Look at the quadrille 
opposite — it boasts not a single smile; lam 
inclined to ask, with some foreigner, 'Are these 
people enjoying themselves V " 

"We must first make," replied Edward, 
" due allowance for climate and constitution — 
we must make another for fashion : we live in 
an age of reaction ; the style of loud talking, 
laughing, or what was termed dashing, lies in 
the tomb of the Dutchess of Gordon. We are 
in the other extreme — and I answer your ques- 
tion by another : Do you mean to affront me, 
by supposing I could enjoy myself? What 
pitiable ignorance of pleasure, on my part, does 
the question insinuate !" 

" I am, then, to imagine, that the highest 
style of fashion is, like that of ancient art, the 
beauty of repose 1 You account for the indif- 
ference of the gentlemen — how do you account 
for the gravity of the young ladies V 

" You speak as if you considered a ball 
matter of pleasure, not business ! Do you 
imagine a girl goes through her first season in 
London with a view of amusing herself? 
Heavens ! she has no time to waste in any 
such folly. The first campaign is conquest 
and hope — the second, conquest and fear — the 
third is conquest and despair. A ball-room is 
merely — ' Arithmetic and the use of figures 
taught here.' A young lady in a quadrille 
might answer, like a merchant in his counting- 
house, 'I am too busy to laugh — I am making 
my calculations.' " 

" La nation boutiquiere" laughed Emily. 

"Ah, good!" exclaimed Lorraine. "Do 
look how sedulously those two young ladies 
have made room for that thin, bilious-looking, 
elderly gentleman, to hear more conveniently 
Malibran's last song." 

" He sat by me at dinner the other day. Do 
you know, I am quite interested in him — I pity 
his situation so much ! The conversation took 
what you would call a most English strain, 
nbout domestic felicity; and he spoke in a tone 



of such strong personal feeling of the cruei 
opposition of circumstance to affection ! I have 
arranged his little romance in my own mind 
Has he not for years 'dragged at each remove 
the lengthened chain' of an early and vain 
attachment — too poor to marry V 

"Nothing like the couleur de rose of the 
imagination — I wish it could be condensed 
into curtains for my dressing-room. This 
gentleman, who has so excited your sympathy 
as too poor to marry, has only about ten thou- 
sand a year; but, as he once observed, wives 
and servants are so expensive now-a-days, they 
require almost as much as one's self." 

" Who is that gentleman who has just en- 
tered, with such an air of captivating conde- 
scension ] He always gives me the idea of 
having stepped out of the Spectator — one of 
the Cleontesand Orlandos of other days, whose 
very bow annihilated one's peace of mind. I 
have a vision of him, with lace ruffles, and his 
mistress's portrait on his snuff-box — keeping 
a portfolio of billets doux, and talking of the 
last sweet creature that died for him, with a 
'Well, it w r as really too cruel!' " 

" Yqu are right — Mr. Clanricarde is born 
too late; the reputation of a conqueror, whether 
of hearts or kingdoms, is now philosophically 
demonstrated to be worthless. Utility is fast 
annihilating the empire of the sigh or the 
sword ; a hero is pronounced to be dangerous, 
or, worse, useless — and Alexanders and Riche- 
lieus arc equally out of keeping with our time. 
Mr. Clanricarde's theory of sentiment is rather 
original : he says he quite agrees with Mon- 
tesquieu's doctrine of the influence of climate; 
he therefore argues that this external effect 
must be counteracted by an internal one, and 
takes up an attachment as the best resource 
against the fogs, rains, and snows of our island. 
He changes his mistresses with the weather; 
in sunshine, by way of contrast, he devotes 
himself to some languid beauty — in gloom to 
some piquante coquette. I rallied him the 
other day on his homage this June to the lively 
and witty Miss Fortescue. 'Yes, summer is 
setting in with its usual severity,' replied he— 
'one must have a resource.' " 

" He is a practical reproach to our barome- 
ter," rejoined Emily; "but do you not think 
the inconvenience of such rainy seasons is 
more than compensated by the pleasure of 
grumbling at them'?" 

"Our national safety-valve: a Frenchman 
throws his discontent into an epigram, and is 
happy — an Englishman vents his on the wea- 
ther, and is satisfied. Heaven help our minis- 
ter through a fine summer! it would inevitably 
cost him his place ; for our English grumbling 
is equally distributed between the weather and 
politics, and the case would be desperate when 
confined to the last." 

"Are not the Misses M'Leod dressed beau- 
tifully to-night]" 

" We agree. Ah, Miss Arundel, what a 
duty it is in a woman to dress well ! Alas, 
that a duty so important should ever be neg- 
lected ! Dress ought to be part of female 
education ; her eye for colouring, her taste 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



49 



for drapery, should be cultivated by intense 
study. Let her approach the mirror as she 
would her harp or her grammar, aware that 
she has a task before her, whose fulfilment, 
not whose fulfilling, is matter of vanity. 
Above all, let her eschew the impertinence of 
invention ; let her leave genius to her milliner. 
In schools, there are drawing, French, and 
dancing days ; there should also be dressing 
days. From sandal to ringlet should undergo 
strict investigation ; and a prize should be 
given to the best dressed. We should not 
then have our eyesight affronted by yellows 
and pinks, greens and blues, mingled together; 
we should be spared the rigidity of form too 
often attendant on a new dress; and no longer 
behold shawls hung on shoulders as if they 
were two pegs in a passage." 

"A frivolous employment you find, truly, 
for our sex !" 

"A frivolous employment! This comes of 
well-sounding morality shining in a sentence. 
Frivolous in an education devoted to attraction ! 
No sonata will do so much execution as your 
aerial crepe over delicate satin ; and your ca- 
dences never produce half the effect of your 
curls." 

" But consider the time your system would 
require." 

" But consider the time really and truly 
given to the toilette. My system would re- 
quire but half — for it would be judiciously 
employed." 

" You gentlemen have strange notions on 
these subjects; you have some visionary fancy 
of a heroine all white muslin and simplicity, 
whose ringlets never come out of curl, and 
who puts a few natural flowers, which make 
a point of not fading, in her hair." 

" I have a particular antipathy to white mus- 
lin ; and I think natural flowers like natural 
pleasures — their beauty is soon past. No ; I 
prefer a noble confidence in your milliner, using 
your own taste only in selection ; and also that 
confidential intercourse between yourseff and 
your clothes as if you were accustomed to each 
other. Do not take up your boa as if it were 
the rope with which you meant to hang your- 
self; nor wrap your shawl round you as if it 
were your shroud. But you, Miss Arundel, 
understand well what I mean." 

There was a very graceful emphasis on the 
you ; but Emily certainly blushed deeper than 
the occasion required. For the first time, Lady 
Alicia was petitioned to keep the carriage 
waiting half an hour for "one more waltz;" 
and " O, such a delightful ball, sir!" was 
Emily's account to Mr. Delawarr the next 
morning at breakfast. 

If, as a pretty little French woman once 
observed, a young lady's delight in a ball is 
not always raisonnable, at least she always has 
quelque raison. 

I own that life is very wearisome — that we 
are most miserable creatures — that we go on 
through disappointments, cares, and sorrows 
enough for a dozen of poems; still it has 
pleasant passages — for example, when one is 
young, pretty, and a little in love. What a 

Vol. I.— 7 



pity that we cannot remain at fifteen and five- 
arid-twenty ! Or, second thoughts are best — I 
dare say then we should sink under the ennui 
of enjoyment, or be obliged to commit suicide 
in self-defence. 

It is a fact; as melancholy for the historian 
as it is true, that though balls are very im- 
portant events in a young lady's career, there 
is exceedingly little to be said about them :— 
they are pleasures all on the same pattern, — 
the history of one is the history of all. You 
dress with a square glass before you, and a 
long glass behind you; your hair trusts to its 
own brown or black attractions, either curled 
or braided, — or you put on a wreath, a bunch 
of flowers, or a pearl bandeau; your dress is 
gauze, crape, lace, or muslin, either white, 
pink, blue, or yellow ; you shower, like April, 
an odorous rain on your handkerchief; you 
put on your shawl, and step into the carriage ; 
you stop in some street or square ; your foot- 
man raps as long as he can ; you are some 
time going up stairs ; you hear your name, or 
something like it, leading the way before you. 
As many drawing-rooms are thrown open as 
the house will allow, — they are lighted with 
lamps or wax lights ; there is a certain quan- 
tity of china, and a certain number of exotics ; 
also a gay-looking crowd, from which the 
hostess emerges, and declares she is very glad 
to see you. You pass on; you sit a little 
while on a sofa; a tall or a short gentleman 
asks you to dance, — to this you reply, that 
you will be very happy; you take his arm and 
walk to the quadrille or waltz ; a succession 
of partners. Then comes supper: you have a 
small piece of fowl, and a thin slice of ham, 
perhaps some jelly or a few grapes, — a glass 
of white wine, or ponche a la romaine. Your 
partners have asked you if you have been to 
the Opera ; in return you question them if they 
have been to the Park. Perhaps a remark is 
hazarded on Miss Fanny Kernble. If you are 
a step more intimate, a few disparaging ob- 
servations are made on the entertainment and 
the guests. Some cavalier hands you down 
stairs ; you recloak and re-enter the carriage, 
with the comfortable reflection, that as you 
have been seen at Mrs. So-and-so's ball, Mrs. 
Such-a-one may ask you to hers. 

Now, is not this a true page in the annals 
of dancing? A little sentiment in the case 
alters the whole affair. Emily's day of phi- 
losophical reflection in a ball-room was either 
past or to come. There are many odd things 
in society; but its amusements are the oddest 
of all. Take any crowded party you will, and 
I doubt if there are ten persons in the room 
who are really pleased. To do as others do, 
is the mania of the day. 1 will tell you a 
story. 

Once upon a time a lady died much regret- 
ted; for she was as kind-hearted an individual 
as ever gave birth-day presents in her life, or 
left legacies at her death. When they heard 
the intelligence, the whole of a married daugh- 
ter's family were in great distress, — the mo- 
ther cried bitterly, so did her two eldest 
daughters, as fitting and proper to do. The 



LQ 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



youngest child of all, a little creature who 
could not in the least recollect its grandmo- 
ther, nevertheless retired into a corner, and 
threw its pinafore over its face. " Poor dear 
feeling little creature !" said the nurse, "don't 
you cry too." "I'm not crying," replied the 
child; "I only pretend." 

Regret and enjoyment are much the same; 
people are like the child, — they only pretend. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

"I trust I may be permitted to have an opinion of my 
own." — Commonplace in Domestic Dialogue. 

"He who judges of other days by the feelings of his 
own, is like one who would adapt a Polar dress to the cli- 
mate of the Tropics." — James's History of Chivalry. 

" Were you entertained at the play last 
night?" said Lady Mandeville, who, apart 
from the other callers, had formed a little circle 
of Emily, Lorraine, and Mr. Morland. 

Edward Lorraine. — " Allow me to answer 
for you ; Miss Arundel was delighted, for she 
was superlatively miserable — and the pleasure 
of a tragedy is to be measured by its sorrow." 

Emily. — " I never saw a tragedy before, 
and, to use one of Mr. Lorraine's own expres- 
sions, novelty is the secret of enjoyment; and 
l liked Miss Fanny Kemble so much." 

Mr. Morland. — " Excepting as matter of 
pedigree, our ancestors are exceedingly in the 
way: we go to see a young, rising, inexpe- 
rienced girl, and we keep talking about Mrs. 
Siddons. I think it just a debatable point, 
whether Miss Kemble be most indebted to the 
attraction flung over her by memories of other 
days, or injured by the comparison." 

Emily. — " I cannot offer an opinion, but I 
must express my delight; there is something 
in her voice that fills my eyes with tears, even 
before I knew the sense ; and her face is, to 
my taste, beautiful, — the finely arched and ex- 
pressive brow, and the dark, passionate eyes, 
— what a world of thought and feeling lie in 
their shadowy depths ! She gave to me, at 
least, an interest in Juliet I never felt before." 

Lady Mandeville. — " I agree with you in not 
placing Juliet among my favourite creations 
of Shakspeare ; her love is too sudden, too 
openly avowed — it is merely taking a fancy to 
the first handsome young man she sees ; even 
to her lover she has to say, 

'If thou thinkest I am too quickly won.' 

Now, among all Shakspeare's heroines, give 
me Viola. I have always formed a beautiful 
vision of the lonely and enthusiastic Italian, 
nursing a wild dream of the noble duke, whose 
perfections had been the subject of their fire- 
side talk — 

' I have heard my father name him' — 

cherishing the vision of her girlhood in silence 
and hopelessness. Viola seems to me the very 
poetry of love. Satisfactory as is the ending 
of Twelfth Night, I always feel a fanciful 
anxiety for the fate of her who is henceforth 
to be 

• Orsino's mistress, and his fancy's queen.' 



I have a great idea of a lover having some 
trouble, — it is the effort we make to attain an 
object that teaches us its value." 

Edward Lorraine. — " I think you judge Ju- 
liet unfairly, because you judge her by rules 
to which she is not amenable — by those of our 
present time. You forget how differently love 
affairs are now arranged to what they were in 
the time of the fair Veronese. It was an age 
when love lived, as Byron says, more in the 
eyes than the heart. A kind wind blew back 
a veil, and showed a rose-touched cheek; or 
a dark eye flashed over a blind — this was 
enough to make an enamoured youth despe- 
rate. The lady herself just glanced over her 
lattice, and a stately step, or a well-mounted 
steed, henceforth haunted her dreams. The 
only communication between lovers was the 
handing the hoi} 7- water in the cathedral, a 
guitar softly touched at night, or perhaps the 
rare occurrence of meeting at a festival. In 
all the old novelists and poets, love at first 
sight is a common event, because it was such 
in actual life. Our m-odern easiness of man- 
ners, and freedom of intercourse, develope the 
same feeling, though in a different manner, — 
we no longer lose our hearts so suddenly, be- 
cause there is no necessity for such haste; we 
talk of answering tastes, our ancestors thought 
of answering eyes, — we require a certain 
number of quadrilles, and a certain quantity 
of conversation, before the young pair can ba 
supposed to form an attachment; but allow 
me to say, I do not see why it is so much 
more rational to talk than to look oneself into 
love. No : judge Juliet according to the man- 
ners of a time of masks, veils, serenades, and 
seclusion, and you will find the picture work- 
ed out in colours as delicate as they are na- 
tural." 

The defence of one woman is a man's best 
flattery to the whole sex, even as the abuse of 
them, in general, is but a bad compliment to 
any individual. 

Lady Mandeville. — "I cannot but think the 
commonplace and sweeping satire he bestows 
on us a great fault in the clever and original 
author of Sydenham. However, I hold it but 
as the ingenious vanity of a young man : had 
he praised, people would only have said, 
'very interesting, but so romantic;' but he 
censures, and the remark is, ' he must know 
a great deal to know so much evil.' Perhaps 
this is the cause why the judgments of the 
young are generally so severe, — censure has 
to them somewhat the seeming of experience ; 
and in reason, as in fashion, we doubly affect 
what we have not." 

Mr. Morland. — "It puts me in mind of a 
little speech of his to a lady who reproached 
him for praising her young friend's style of 
wreath and ringlet, when he knew it was not 
becoming — ' Could you suspect me of speak- 
ing the truth to a young lady V " 

Lady Mandeville. — " Now 7 , the knowledge of 
our sex that speech supposed ! Nothing is so 
disparaging as vanity ! It seems, like the 
Tartar, to suppose it acquires the qualities of 
the individual it destroys." 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



51 



Edward Lorraine. — " To return to our thea- 
tricals ; I was delighted with Miss Kemble's 
Portia; her rich melancholy voice gives such 
effect to poetry. I missed her when she 
was not on the stage, in spite of the absorbing 
interest of that most calumniated and ill-used 
person, the Jew." 

Emily. — " A most amiable person you have 
chosen for your object of interest." 

Edward Lorraine. — "I do think him so ill- 
used : his riches, matter of mingled envy and 
reproach — himself, insulted — his daughter, to 
whom, at least, he softens into affection — 
otherwise so chilled and checked — deserts, 
nay, robs him, — I am sure he has most suffi- 
cient cause of resentment against ' these 
Christians ;' only I cannot forgive his craven 
conduct in the last scene : had I been Shy lock, 
I would have exacted my penalty at its utmost 
peril, — my life should have cheaply bought 
Antonio's." 

Mr. Norland. — "That would have been 
carrying revenge sufficiently far." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Truly, I hold revenge 
to be a moral duty. To permit ourselves to 
be injured with impunity is to give an en- 
couragement to evil, which may afterwards 
turn against others as well as ourselves. Some 
one says, revenge is such a luxury, the gods 
keep it to themselves ; when they do permit 
us to participate in the enjoyment, by placing 
it in our power, it is downright ingratitude not 
to partake." 

Lady Mandeville. — "A most amiable and 
peaceful doctrine !" 

Mr. Morland. — "I, for one, do not wish 
those days to return, when a man's forefathers 
left him a feud by way of inheritance, or a 
quarrel as a legacy." 

Edward Lorraine. — "Well, well, we can 
still have a suit in Chancery ; and I do not see 
but that, when 

' Your laicyers are met, a terrible show,' 

the redress will be about as destructive to both 
sides as when you faced your opponent at the 
head of your armed retainers ; though, for 
myself, I am free to confess, I never ride up 
the avenue where I first catch sight of the 
towers of Etheringhame without regret for the 
days when our banner floated over five hun- 
dred horsemen, and the crested helmets on the 
wall were not, as now, a vain show for the 
antiquary." 

Lady Mandeville. — " Yes, you have cause 
to regret those days, when, as a younger bro- 
ther, you would have been put into a monas- 
tery, or a dungeon ! You must confess that 
our modern days of clubs, cabriolets, and 
comfort is somewhat more advanced towards 
perfection." 

Edward Lorraine. — "Why, comfort is a 
very comparative term : it is true, I prefer the 
crimson carpet under my feet to the rushes 
with which my ancestors would have strewed 
my floor ; but if I had never seen the carpet, 
I could not have missed it—as Gibber, in his 
beautiful poem of the Blind Boy, says,— 



' I do not feel 
The want I do not know.' 



Mr. Morland. — " The hope of improvement 
is a quality at once so strong and so excellent 
in the human mind, that I, for one, disapprove 
of any sophism — or, if you will, argument — 
that tends to repress it. It is certain that no- 
thing ever produces either the evil or the good 
prognosticated; circumstances always occur 
which no one could have foreseen, and which 
always both alter and meliorate. Our age is 
a little self-important — so was its predecessoi 
— so will be its follower: it is a curious fact, 
but the worst and the best is always said and 
thought of the existing time. For my part, I 
neither think that our present day is all but 
perfection, nor do I quite hold with those who 
only put my gardener's belief into different 
words, ' that learning and good roads will 
ruin the kingdom.' " 

Lady Mandeville. — " One of the manias of 
the present day, which especially excites my 
spleen, is the locomotive rage which seems to 
possess all ranks — that necessity of going out 
of town in the summer — people, for example, 
in the middle classes, who have a comfortable 
and well furnished house— to live in some 
small cottage or miserable lodgings, the chief 
of whose recommendation seems to be, that 
they are either damp or windy; they give up 
regular habits and comforts, an innovation on 
the least of which would have occasioned a 
fortnight's grumbling at any other time ; but 
now, ' the lady's health required change of 
air,' or ' it would do the children so much 
good.' " 

Edward Lorraine. — " You have forgotten 
the genteel sound of ' we passed the summer 
at Worthing,' or ' the autumn at Hastings.' " 

Mr. Morland. — " Nothing appears to me so 
absurd as placing our happiness in the opinion 
others entertain of our enjoyments, not in our 
own sense of them. The fear of being thought 
vulgar is the moral hydrophobia of the day; 
our weaknesses cost us a thousand times more 
regret and shame than our faults." 

Lady Mandeville. — "Ah, if we could but 
keep a little, for our own use, of the wisdom 
we so liberally bestow on others ! Nothing 
can be more entire than my conviction of the 
truth of what we have been saying; but I 
wish you good morning, for I must tease — I 
mean persuade— Lord Mandeville to go to 
Lady Falcondale's fete — not that I have, my- 
self, the least wish to go, — but everybody 
will be there." 

" I wonder," said Lorraine, as she departed, 
" whether any thing can be more musical than 
Lady Mandeville's laugh ] Wliat a risk it is 
to laugh ! Laughter may be generally classed 
under three heads: forced, silly, or vulgar; 
but hers is the most sweet, real, spirituelle 
sound possible — it so appreciates the wit, 
which it increases as it catches — it speaks of 
spirits so fresh, so youthful ! I think Weld 
is the traveller who says he loved to sit of an 
evening in the shade where he could hear the 
laughter of the Indian women — that it had on 



52 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



him the effect of music : I say the same of 
Lady Mandeville's." 

Mr. Mor land. —"The author of Paul Clif- 
ford is the first who has made open war, and 
turned his ridicule against the sombre follow- 
ers of Lord Byron ; but I think he goes too 
far in the close alliance he supposes between 
good spirits and genius. The favourite topic 
of our philosophers is the weakness, that of 
the poets the sorrows of human nature — its 
fears also, and its crimes. These are not very 
enlivening subjects, and yet they are univer- 
sally chosen ; and for one great reason — in 
some or other of their shapes they come home 
to every one's experience. It is very true that 
Homer's general tone is exciting, warlike, and 
glad, like the sound of a trumpet ; still, his 
most popular passages are those touched with 
sorrow and affection : the parting of Hector 
and Andromache is uppermost in the minds of 
the great body of his readers ; and the grief 
of Priam touches the many much more than 
the godlike attributes of Achilles. I believe 
genius to be acute feeling gifted with the 
power of expression, and with that keen ob- 
servation which early leads to reflection ; and 
few can feel much of, or think much on, the 
various lessons of life, and not say, in the sor- 
rowful language of the psalmist, 'My soul is 
heavy within me.' But as the once beautiful- 
ly-moulded figures, that pass through the 
various casts taken in plaster of Paris, till 
scarce a trace remains of their original sym- 
metry and grace in the base copies hawked 
about the streets — so an idea, or a feeling, once 
true and beautiful, becomes garbled and ab- 
surd by passing through the hands of awk- 
ward imitators. I have not the slightest in- 
tention of taking up the defence of young 
gentlemen who ' make frowns in the glass ;' in 
truth, their laments and regrets are about as 
just as those of an old gentleman of my ac- 
quaintance, blessed — I believe that is the pro- 
per phrase — with a more than ordinary portion 
of children and grandchildren, but who kept 
dying off, and being buried in the family vault, 
to the great sorrow of the grandfather, who, 
equally vexed and indignant, complained, 
' There will not be a bit of room for me in my 
own vault.' " 

Edward Lorraine. — " A hard case, truly, to 
outlive one's very grave ; though, to me at 
least, there is something very revolting in our 
system of burial — something very contrary to 
the essentially cheerful spirit of our religion. 
I can conceive no scene more chilling and 
more revolting than a London burying-ground ; 
haste, oblivion, selfishness, are its outward 
nigns. I love not this desire to loose the ties 
between the living and the dead ; the sorrow- 
ful affection which lingers over the departed 
is too sacred, too purifying a feeling, to be thus 
hurriedly put aside. With all that is false 
and affected about Pere la Chaise, the feeling 
which founded it, and which it still keeps 
alive, is a good one ; for no solitary moment 
passed in thoughtfulness beside the deceased 
was ever yet without its price to the sur- 
vivor." 



Mr. Morland. — "They say that every age 
has its ruling vice ; I think impatience is that 
of our present; we live in such a hurry that 
we have not time to be sorry." 

Edward Lorraine. — " And we shall have no 
time to be charitable; we have to attend the 
Ladies' Bazaar ; we are destined to fall vic- 
tims to-day to smiles, pincushions, and com 
passion ; to my certain knowledge, Miss Arun 
del, the other morning, despatched a whol? 
regiment of dolls." 

Moore says, 

Lishtly falls the foot of Time, 
Which only treads on flowers. 

Pleasantly did the day pass to Emily — one 
gets so soon accustomed to the society of a 
beloved object. Habit is a second nature, and 
what was at first pleasure, is next necessity. 
Words, such nothings in themselves — trifles, 
so unimportant — walks, where there is nothing 
to see — amusements, where there is nothing 
to do — how delightful they become under some 
circumstances ! Well, it would not do to be 
always in love ; as a travelling merchant ob- 
served to his wife, who had indulged some- 
what too liberally, for nearly a whole week, 
in the fascinating fluid called " mountain 
dew." "What! to-day, again 1 ? this won't 
do every day — you wouldn't be an angel, 
would you !" 

Though we differ in the gentleman's esti- 
mate of angelic nature, we will apply his 
words, and say to the enamoured — "This 
won't do every day — you wouldn't be an 
angel, would you ?" 



CHAPTER XX. 

" I saw the guardian Cupid of our town 
Dressed in a mercantile, staid suit of brown ; 
A wig he wore— a slate was on his knee, 
On which he cast up sums industriously; 
Complexion, morning— hair, like midnight dark- 
Balance, good county interest, and a park; 
Sings like an angel— dances like a grace- 
Chances from Grosvenor Square to Connaught Place. 
But while with this arithmetic amused, 
His bow and arrows lay behind unused." — Milton. 

" We must not be too exquisite— 
We live by admiration."— Wordsworth. 

"I wish," said Lady Mandeville, as she 
and Emily met on a crowded staircase, "you 
would let me recommend my coiffeur to you." 

" A gentleman most devoted," observed her 
husband, " to the science. Aware that appear- 
ance is every thing in this world, he holds it 
little less than a sin to neglect it. Meeting 
him stepping like a feather, or as light as one 
of his own curls, I stopped to ask Signor Ju- 
lio Rosettini why he had not been in attend- 
ance during the last fortnight; and knowing 
how dear fame is to genius, I assured him I 
had scarcely known Lady Mandeville to be 
herself. That ' I was too good,' and that my 
' perceptions of the beautiful were exquisite,' 
were his no less flattering rejoinders. He 
then proceeded to inform me that a porter had 
first ran against him with a square crunk, and 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



53 



then knocked hirn down for being in the way. 
4 You know, milor, your countrymen of the 
canaille are very independent— of course my 
face was cut, and even the humblest of Beauty's 
slaves would notenter her presence disfigured.' 
There's a professor of pommade divine for you. !" 
Emily laughed, and said, "Indeed, I shall 
expect to have ' a Cupid ambushed in each 
curl' under the skilful hands of Signor Julio. 
I will try his power to-morrow." 

Now, it is a very debatable point in my 
mind, whether any woman ever thanks another 
for recommending either coiffeur, modiste, or 
any of those modern artisans of the graces — 
it is a tacit reflection on her previous appear- 
ance. But Emily was far too new to think of 
that impertinent independence — a taste of her 
own ; she therefore received the advice with 
juvenile thankfulness. Moreover, she recol- 
lected having heard Lorraine admire the classic 
perfection of Lady Mandeville's head. Mo- 
tives are like harlequins—there is alwaj^s a 
second dress beneath their first. 

The next night, her glance at the glass was 
certainly a very satisfactory one; and, in all 
that pleasant consciousness which attends a 
new dress, she entered the drawing-room. 
Here a slight disappointment awaited her — 
Lorraine had gone to another party, and was 
only to join them at Mrs. Grantham's. Emily 
turned away from the fire-place, though there 
was a mirror over it, and sat down in a large 
arm-chair, and picked, leaf by leaf, the beau- 
tiful rosebuds which she had that very after- 
noon chosen with such care from the crimson 
multitude of their companions. 

It is a very different thing to be first seen, 
without competitor except your own shadow, 
to being but one in a crowd — your head, and 
perhaps one arm, only visible — the first glossi- 
ness of the ringlet, and the first freshness of 
the white tulle, departed for ever. These are 
heavy disappointments at nineteen, and even 
a little later. Her eyes grew large and dark 
with the tears that, in a moment after, were 
checked — shame put down sorrow, but not till 
the lashes glistened with momentary bright- 
ness. But in youth, happiness deferred turns 
into hope. "I won't dance, and I'll sit near 
the door," thought Emily. 

A sort of fatality attends resolutions — they 
are so very rarely kept. For the first time, 
whether it was from having been accustomed 
to see her dance lately, Lady Alicia bethought 
her Miss Arundel would like a partner. She 
also caught the particularly low bend of a Mr. 
Granville, and, instantly introducing him to 
Emily, sunk back in her chair with an appear- 
ance of heroic exertion. 

Mr. Granville was at present on sufferance 
in society — working his slow way, and trying 
to be useful and agreeable, in order that he 
might reach the proud pre-eminence of being 
neither. Who he was, was rather debatable 
ground — what he had, was more easily answer- 
ed : he came out on the strength of his uncle's 
will. Some persons skate into society — others 
Blide. Mr. Granville belonged to the latter 
class. He had an otto-of-rose smile, a low 



voice, large white hands, and a large white 
handkerchief. You could not be rude to him. 
for he took it as a personal compliment. To 
a gentleman's opinion he deferred — with a 
lady's he agreed : while his own idea of con- 
versation was a series of commonplace ques- 
tions, which seemed only asked that he might 
be of the same opinion as your answer. To 
sum up — he danced indefatigably, and com- 
plained of the heat. The linked sweetness of 
the quadrille was indeed long drawn out; but, 
bad as it was, worse remained behind. The 
dance ended, and he introduced a friend — as if 
such a man had any business with a friend ! 

Mr. Marechal had written a small volume 
of poems, and conceived he had a character to 
support — somewhat needless to support what 
so few knew he had assumed. During the 
first part of the quadrille, he was absent — 
during the last, eloquent. He asked Emily 
if she did not dote upon Byron, and idolize 
Italy : he candidly confessed that he only ex- 
isted by moonlight. " Of course you under- 
stand that by existence I mean the awakening 
of the higher faculties of the soul." He re- 
marked, that dancing was a remnant of ancient 
barbarism — talked a little of the time wasted 
in such unintellectual pursuits — dwelt on the 
heartlessness of society — and finished with a 
practical proof of his assertion by handing 
Emily to a seat between two old ladies, whose 
nodding plumes soon closed, over her like a 
hearse. 

They say parties are so very delightful : I 
have my doubts — and doubts, like facts, are 
stubborn things. I put the chaperones out of 
the question — we will suppose the few sacri- 
ficed for the good of the many — and we know 
martyrdom has its pride and pleasure — and 
pass on to the young, for whose enjoyment 
these parties are ostensibly given. The age 
where the mere delight of dancing with a 
grown-up person suffices unto itself, is soon 
past. The ball assumes its nominative case, 
and requires an object; and flirtation — the 
adopted child of ennui — relieves the more 
serious business of matrimonial speculation. 
The worst of this pretty sort of half-and-half 
indolent excitement is, that it unidealizes the 
heart— to a woman especially. And love is 
either annihilated by the deadly weight of cal- 
culation, or evaporates in the light fumes of 
vanity. A few years of feverish hopes, a few 
more of envious fears, and the complexion is 
faded, and the game over. How 7 much of 
endeavour and disappointment, of rivalry and 
mortification, have been crowded into a few 
brief years ! 

The difference between a woman's career 
and a man's is this : if a man has not had all 
the success in life his " young ambition dream- 
ed," he has usually carved out some sort of 
path : if for example, he is not, as he intended, 
Lord Chancellor, he has probably a very pretty 
practice on the circuit, and has a respectable 
share in the hangings and transportations. It 
is the reverse with women. She who aim- 
ed at a coronet may sometimes end with i 
curate ; but she is equally likely to end liko 
e 2 



54 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Christabclle in nothing — that social nonentity, 
an old maid. 

Among the higher classes, the Lady Mary 
or Lady Sophia of the family become as very 
heir-looms at the country-seat as the heavy 
arm-chairs worked by their great-aunts, only 
not half so picturesque. In the middle class 
of life, they keep their brother's house till he 
marries ; then they quarrel with his wife, 
whose influence, in that class at least, amounts 
to absolute monarchy ; then they reside in a 
small private family, where they enact the 
part of Iris at Thetis' wedding — find out that 
it is very dull, and wander from boarding- 
house to boarding-house, carrying the events 
of one to the inventions of another, till they 
are about as much dreaded and disliked as the 
visits of the tax-gatherer: in short, they are a 
sort of moral excise. 

I knew an old lady — the very beau ideal of 
black satin and blonde, whose dignity was 
self-respect, and whose courtesy was one half 
kindness — who used to say on any slight in- 
stance of carelessness or extravagance on the 
part of her granddaughters, " You don't con- 
sider what it requires to make a woman fit to 
be married." One feels rather inclined to re- 
verse her phrase, and say, "You don't con- 
sider what it requires to make a woman fit to 
be an old maid." 

Feeling is very much in the way of philo- 
sophy ; and Emily was much more employed 
in thinking how completely the large plumes 
and larger sleeves of her neighbours concealed 
her, than in speculations on the dancers. To 
add to her misfortunes, Mr. Marechal occupied 
the small vista hitherto allowed to terminate 
in her profile, with an attitude. Sitting oppo- 
site a pier-glass has its disadvantages: how- 
ever, when things come to the worst, they mend. 

" Mr. Marechal," said one of the ladies, 
"will you fetch my cloak'? — I feel cold." 

"I was just going," replied the languid 
lyrist, " to make you the very same request ; 
for I suffer greatly from the draught of your 
feathers." 

To be rude is as good as being clever. The 
pleasure of repeating Mr. Marechal's reply 
quite consoled the lady for fetching her own 
cloak ; and she moved off, to Emily's great 
satisfaction, which satisfaction had, however, 
to stand the test of another very dull half hour. 
Long before any less interested glance could 
have discovered his entrance, her eye rested 
on Lorraine. " O how superior he looks to 
every one else !" was her first thought. The 
next moment cheek and eye brightened with 
pleasure — for he crossed the room, engaged her 
for the next dance, and took his place by her 
side. 

Alas ! we give our own colouring to the 
actions of others. Edward acted upon a mere 
kindly impulse. He saw Miss Arundel sit- 
ting by herself, and looking with a weariness 
worthy of a watch-tower. There was as much 
pity as preference in his choice : but the one 
is a much more flattering reason to assign than 
the other. Can we wonder that at nineteen 
Emily drew the pleasanter conclusion 1 With 



spirits and smiles equally bright, she took the 
wreath that night from her hair. Too excited 
for sleep, with all that glad restlessness, 
which, if not happiness, is as like it as any 
thing we know — that very night she sat down 
and wrote a long letter to her uncle. Its tone 
was not quite so philosophical as it had been 
about the heartless insipidity of a London 
season. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

We should be grateful to that fairy queen, 
Sweet Fancy ; she who makes dreams tangible, 
And gives the outer world wherein we live" 
Light from the inner one, where feelings dwell, 
And poetry, and colours beautiful, 
Shedding a charm upon our daily life, 
And keeping yet some childhood in the heart. 

" I was quite alarmed yesterday while 
dining with Mr. Morland, to find him, Miss 
Arundel, so great an admirer of yours. ' I 
entreat," said Lorraine, " that you will not 
destroy my beau ideal of sixty and single- 
hood." 

" Vain fears !" replied Emily, laughing. 
" A lover may give up his mistress, but not 
a philosopher his system. It would be a bad 
taste in him to marry again ; and such an argu- 
ment would with . him be decisive. Good 
taste is his religion, his morality, his stand- 
ard, and his test. I remember Mr. Delawarr 
was telling a story of a most shocking murder 
that a man had committed — beating his wife's 
brains out with a hammer. ' Bad taste,' said 
Mr. Morland ; ' very bad taste !' At first I 
thought he alluded to the murder; but I after- 
wards found it was the mode in which the 
murder was committed." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Allowing for a little 
feminine exaggeration, you are not far wrong. 
Mr. Morland carries his principle to its extent ; 
but in his hands it is an excellent rule of ac- 
tion. To avoid the ridiculous, and pursue the 
beautiful, would be equally his rule for the 
statesman and the upholsterer. Consistency 
of action, attention to results, and also to pre- 
sent benefit on the one side, and harmony of 
colour and graceful effect on the other, he 
urges, arise from the same principle under dif- 
ferent circumstances — viz. good taste ! His 
house and his conduct, his dress and his 
language are equally perfect. He lives a short 
distance out of London. ' I must have,' I 
have often heard him say, 'quiet ; so I avoid 
living in a street — I look upon my fine old 
trees — my growth of summer flowers, links 
between myself and nature. I grow too 
worldly, and I freshen my imagination with 
my roses. I grow disputatious and discon- 
tented among volumes of feverish study, vain 
aspirings, and useless information ; I open one 
of my windows, and in so doing shake a 
shower of blossoms from the clematis. I step 
out into the sunshine, and feel rejoiced to 
think there is a bright side still in the world. 
I live near town, for I am yet unwilling the 
age should leave me far behind it. I have old 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



55 



fiends with whom I talk of the past, and 
young ones with whom I talk of the present. 
In youth one only grows romantic in solitude ; 
but in old age, one grows selfish. I have no 
interests to jar against those of others ; so- 
ciety, therefore, calls forth my more kindly 
feelings. I have a noble fortune, and what is 
more, I know the value of it, both as it regards 
myself and others. I have an excellent library 
of my own, and a subscription to a circulating 
one — an admirable cook — and a cellar where 
the sunshine of many a summer is treasured. 
I have much experience, and a little philoso- 
phy I own the vanity of many a former 
anxious pursuit; but am equally ready to own 
I did not see the vanity of it at the time. I 
am now well content to be spectator of the 
world's great stage with kindness — my still 
remaining link with its present actors.' Con- 
fess, Miss Arundel, this is all in very good 
taste." 

Miss Arundel. — " I trust you are not hoping 
for an argument in expecting me to deny it ; 
and I must add, I have seen few persons in 
London whom I liked so much, perhaps be- 
cause his kind manner puts me so much in 
mind of my uncle." 

" But I have interrupted you. What were 
the leaves you were so carefully turning]" 
and Edward took up a number of Martin's 
Illustrations of Milton. 

" I never," said Emily, "have my idea of 
a palace realized but in these pictures — the 
halls of porphyry through which Prince Ahmed 
was led to the throne of his fairy queen — or 
those of a thousand pillars of black marble, 
where the young king sat an enchanted sta- 
tue." 

Edward Lorraine. — " 1 should like to be the 
Czar, if it were only to give some millions of 
my barbarians employment in erecting a pa- 
lace after Martin's design. It would be for 
their benefit. The monarch must be noble as 
his dwelling; and my ideas would be exalted 
as my roof, and my actions imitate the beauty 
and regularity of my pillars." 

Miss Arundel. — " Do not you think his 
landscapes have the same magnificent spirit 
of poetry in them as his architecture 1 Look 
at these trees, each one a temple — these rocks, 
yet warm with the lightning flash, which has 
just rent a fearful chasm. I know not why, 
but I never see a stream of his painting but I 
recall those lines of Coleridge's : 

' Where Alph, the sacred river, ran, 
Down to a sunless sea.' 

If he had lived in the days of the Caliphs, Zo- 
beide would have chosen him to paint the 
palace of pictures she wagered with Haroun 
Alraschid." 

Edward Lorraine. — " What an illustrator 
he would te of the Arabian Nights ! His pen- 
cil would be like the wand of their own genii; 
the lamp itself could not call up a more gor- 
geous hall than he would. Think of those 
magnificent windows, of which even a king 
had not gems enough in his treasury to finish 
only one ; or what would he not imaoe of the 



enchanted garden itself, where the grapes 
were rubies, the flowers of pearl, and the mys- 
terious shrine where burnt the mystic lamp. 
I would assemble them in a picture-gallery, 
where once a year I would ask my friends to 
a banquet, sacred to the memory of M. de 
Caillaud." 

Miss Arundel. — " And drink his health in 
Shiraz wane." 

Edward Lorraine. — " I would do as he has 
done — mix it with some of his native Cham- 
pagne. I think the extent of our obligations 
to that most perfect of translators has never 
been felt. Compare his with the versions 
that have since come — 

' Sad dreams, as when the spirit of youth 
Returns a?ain in sleep, and leads us back 
In mournful mockery o'er the shining track' 

of the enchanted world of genii, sultans, and 
princesses. The reason is, they give us the 
literal story, and foolishly pique themselves 
on the accuracy of their translation, and their 
knowledge of Arabic. Caillaud, on the con- 
trary, did as Shakspeare did, who, out of the 
stupid novels of Cynthio, extracted a Romeo 
and Juliet. He modelled his raw materiel, 
and told the story with his own special grace, 
in addition to what is a national gift to his 
countrymen, Part de confer. By-the-by, I 
think it among the great honours to French 
1 iterature, that one of its most original branches, 
fairy tales, is peculiarly its own. I believe 
the Children in the W'ood, Whittington and 
his Cat, and Little Red Ridinghood, are those 
only, of all our popular tales, which have an 
English origin. Now, the first rather belongs 
to our simple and beautiful ballad school ; the 
next, a Utilitarian might have written as a 
good encouraging lesson of poverty rising 
into wealth — a tale in the very spirit of la na- 
tion houtiquiere ; and as for Little Red Riding- 
hood, the terror, the only feeling it is calcu- 
lated to produce, is beneath the capacity of 
any critic past five years of age. 

" But look at the imagination, the vivacity 
of the others : we read them in childhood for 
the poetry of their wonders, and in more ad- 
vanced life for their wit; for they are the 
Horaces of fairy land. The French have the 
very perfection of short stories in their litera- 
ture — little touches like the flight of a shining 
arrow. I remember one that began • ' There 
was once a king and queen, very silly people, 
but who loved each other as much as if they 
had been wiser, perhaps more.' Then, again, 
speaking of some fairy portent : ' They could 
not at all understand it — therefore took it for 
granted it was something very terrible or very 
fine;' or, again, 'The queen was forever in an 
ill humour, but had the best heart in the 
world.' We English have no word that 
translates that of persijlage ; and for this rea- 
son, a nation only wants words for the things 
it knows — and of thisw T e have no understand- 
ing. An exquisite distinction I once heard 
made between wit and humour, appears to me 
admirably to apply to that of the French and 
English—that humour differs from wit in 
being more nearly allied with pathos. Thus 



56 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



it is with as islanders — we can be merry, but 
not lively ; and mirth brings its own reaction. 
Lord Byron wrote quite as an Englishman 
when he said, 

' Laughter 
Leaves us so doubly sadden'd shortly after.-' " 

Emily Arundel. — "How well I remember 
sitting under a favourite old chestnut tree, 
with a huge folio of tales filled with pictures 
— kings and queens, always with their crowns 
on their heads — and fairies, with large hoops, 
and wings on their shoulders !" 

Edward Lorraine.—" Talking of wings — 
with what magnificent plumes does Martin 
invest his angels, as if tinged by every ray of 
sunshine they caught in their descent to the 
earth ; and their size, too, gives such an idea 
of power !" 

Emily Arundel. — " But to go back to sup- 
posing subjects for his pictures. What do 
you say to the midnight fete in the gardens of 
Scherzyrabade, when the caliph visited his 
beautiful favourite 1 Think of the hundred 
black slaves, with their torches of scented 
wax — the guards with their gorgeous turbans 
and glittering cimeters — the lighted galleries 
of the palace — the gardens with their thousand 
lamps — the sparkling fountains — and the lake, 
one gigantic mirror of the whole festival." 

Edward Lorraine. — " As only inferior to 
my own subject: every one- has his favourite 
hero ; and mine, the only gentleman Rome 
ever possessed, is Lucullus. I have a very 
disrespectful feeling towards your great men 
who piqued themselves on wearing an old 
cloak, and who resorted to peeling turnips as 
an elegant employment for their leisure hours. 
Lucullus conquered ; and, after energy and 
exertion, sought refinement and repose. He 
cultivated his thoughts instead of his radish- 
es ; and he studied that union of luxury and 
philosophy, which is the excellence of refine- 
ment. My picture is ' Lucullus at supper.' " 

Emily Arundel. — " Nay, I cannot admit the 
superiority of your subject." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Because you have not 
considered it. I suppose him at supper that 
night when he gave that superb reply, dictated 
in the noblest spirit of self-appreciation, ' Lu- 
cullus sups with Lucullus to-night!' Con- 
queror of Asia ! victor of Mithridates ! you 
were worthy of your glory ! First, imagine 
a noble hall, of that fine blue which the walls 
of Portico yet preserve, supported by Corinth- 
ian pillars of the purest Parian marble ; 
scatter round a few pieces of exquisite sculp- 
ture — a Venus, of beauty as ideal as its 
dream — a nymph, only less lovely — an Apollo, 
the personification of the genius which first 
imagined, and then bodied forth his likeness — 
a lew busts, each one a history of the immor- 
tal mind — and in the distance a huge portal 
unfolds, whence are issuing slaves, in all the 
gorgeous variety of Eastern costume, ap- 
proaching a table bright with purple grapes — 
the ruby cherries, his own present of peace to 
italy — flasks of wine, like imprisoned sun- 
oeams, whether touched with the golden light 



of noon, or the crimson hues of sunset — gob- 
lets of crystal, vases of gold and silver, or 
the finely-formed Etruscan; and above, a sil- 
ver lamp, like an earthly moon. There are 
two windows — in the one a violet-coloured 
curtain, waved back by the wind, just disco- 
vers a group of Ionian girls ; their black hair 
wreathed with flowers, and holding lutes, 
whose sweet chorus is making musical the ait 
of a strange land with the songs of their own. 
The other window has the rich Italian evening 
only shut out by the luxuriant branches of a 
myrtle ; and beyond is a grove of cypress, a 
small and a winding river — 

A fairy thing, 
Which the eye watches in its wandering. 

Seated on the triclinium in the midst is a mid- 
dle-aged man, with a high and noble brow ; 
the fine aquiline nose, so patrician, as if their 
eagle had set his own seal on his warlike 
race ; an expression of almost melancholy 
sweetness in his mouth, but of decision in the 
large meditative blue eye : on one side a writ- 
ten scroll, bearing the name of Plato, has just 
dropped from his hand ; and on the other, a 
beautiful youth kneels to announce to him, 
' that Lucullus sups with Lucullus to-night.' 
Mr. Morland has a vacant niche in his break- 
fast-room : I really must call his attention to 
this." 

" You could never do so better than to-day," 
said that identical gentleman, entering the lit- 
tle drawing-room where they were seated. 

"I have just been persuading Delawarr to 
leave politics, parchments, places, and plans, 
for my acacias, now in full bloom, and some 
of my most aromatic Burgundy. Lady Alicia, 
like a good wife, has consented to accompany 
him ; and I am come to insist on you young 
people following the example of your elders ; 
and, moreover, I have a little girl of mine 
with whom I wish Miss Arundel to be de- 
lighted. You are to set off at once, toilette de 
matin: you know ladies never dress but for 
each other ; and that pretty green silk will be 
just in keeping with my shrubbery. Now, 1 
only allow you five minutes to place your bon- 
net just the least in the world on the left side. 
You must trust to genius, not to study, to- 
day." And, in spite of the thousand-and-one 
dela)^ that always intervene before a party of 
pleasure sets off, ten minutes had not elapsed 
before the whole party were on the road. 

It had been settled, that Lorraine was to 
drive Emily in his phaeton. It is true the 
sun was full in her eyes, the wind high, and 
the dust, which is just mud in high spirits, 
flew round them in clouds ; but Emily found 
her ride delightful. Is it not Wordsworth, 
who, in his quality of philosopher and poet, 
says, 

" It is the heart does magnify this life, 
Making a truth and beauty of its own V 

About the beauty we entirely agree with 
him — touching the truth, we are not quite so 
certain : but poets often mistake, and philoso- 
phers still oftener. Emily's own feelings co- 
loured all with themselves. Generally speak 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



57 



ing, she rather wanted animation : what are 
called high spirits are quite as much habitual 
as constitutional. Living with people much 
older than herself — an aunt never much put out 
of her way by any thing — and an uncle, whose 
stately courtesy of the old school was tinc- 
tured by a native timidity which age itself 
never entirely conquers — she had not been ac- 
customed to give way to those impulses of a 
moment's gayety which break forth in gay 
laugh and bounding step. Or is there a pro- 
phetic spirit in the human mind, which makes 
those of the keenest feelings often appear cold ; 
an intuitive, though unowned, fear, repressing 
sensations of such deep and intense power ? 
They cannot feel only a little ; and they 
shrink, though with an unconscious dread, 
from feeling too much. 

But to-day Emily's gayety took its tone 
from the bright sunshine. Both herself and 
Edward, in that gay mood which makes its 
own enjoyment, and enjoys every thing; they 
were soon on the beautiful common leading to 
Roehampton, where villas, which seem, like 
Beatrice's idea of King Pedro for a husband, 
made only for holydays — the luxuriant mea- 
dows, varying, as the passing clouds turn 
them, from bright glittering to the richest 
and darkest green — here shrubberies, whose 
flowering shrubs overhung the road, scenting 
the air with a moment's fragrance as they 
passed — then, again, the close-cut hawthorn 
hedge, like a green knoll, from which some 
unshorn branch occasionally rose, covered 
with a few late blossoms of May. 

A turn in the road brought them to the group 
of fine old elms which overshadowed Mr. Mor- 
land's gate. Out they sprung from the carriage 
— gayly laughing at the idea of welcoming the 
master to his own house — and Edward acted 
as guide through the serpentine walk that led 
to the library. The boughs met overhead — 
every step brought down a shower of coloured 
and fragrant leaves — till they stopped on the 
lawn. Genoa's princely merchants never 
freighted vessel with velvet of softer texture 
or richer green. Suddenly a sweet voice, 
singing, like a bird, for the pleasure of singing, 
came from the room; and, putting back a 
branch covered with a thousand of the little 
crimson Ayrshire roses, they stepped through 
the window, and saw a girl, apparently about 
thirteen, engaged, with all the earnestness 
with which childhood follows its pursuits, in 
placing flowers in divers vases. It was evi- 
dent no small share of taste and industry was 
bestowed on the task; their entrance, how- 
ever, interrupted the progress of some scarlet 
geranium towards some myrtle — the child 
started — and her first intention of a rapid 
flight was evidently only checked by natural 
politeness — or, rather, that inherent kindness, 
out of which cultivation afterwards extracts 
the most graceful courtesy. Shyness is too 
much a mere impulse, in very early youth, to 
be lasting ; and reserve was lost in the dismay 
of the intelligence that her father was return- 
ing before she had finished the decoration of 
his room, with which she meant to surprise 

Vol. 1—8 



him. Nothing like a little trouble for the be- 
ginning of acquaintance — assistance was rea- 
dily offered, and as readily accepted — and all 
the vases were in their places, and Helen not 
a little delighted with her new friends ; when 
the rest of the party made their appearance. 

Dinner had been ordered at once ; and lun- 
cheon (that cruel destruction of our best feel- 
ings, as the Ettrick Shepherd calls it) having 
been omitted, there was sufficient hunger to do 
justice to a banquet the most refined in its 
perfection. Not that hunger does a cook jus- 
tice. " I do not like people that are hungry," 
says Ude ; "hungry people eat any thing : 1 
would have my dishes create, of themselves, 
an appetite ; I do not wish them to be wanted 
till they are tasted, and then to eat is a com- 
pliment." 

But it was on the desert Mr. Morland piqued 
himself. It was served in the room Helen 
had been so anxious to ornament. The deli- 
cate colour of the fruit — the fragrant spirit oi 
the Burgundy — the icy coolness of the claret 
were not destroyed by an atmosphere already 
heavy with soup and fish, and heated by two 
courses of culinary triumph : no ! the air, pure 
and clear, was only imbued with the sweet- 
ness of the strawberry, or the breath of the 
roses from the window — while the garden be- 
yond reminded you how fresh was the fruit 
which heaped the silver baskets. 

It is true enough for a proverb, that tha 
pleasantest parties are those of which the least 
can be told. To make a recital entertaining, 
there must be a little touch of the ridicu- 
lous — a few sparkles of satire — the excellence 
of a sarcasm lies, like a cimeter, in its keen- 
ness ; — and they enjoyed themselves too much 
to be witty — " la sauce vaut le poisson" and 
hence it is that, even when good-natured peo- 
ple do say a clever thing, it rarely tells — and 
all, to-day, were in a good humour. 

Perhaps that which had the most delighted 
the visiters was their host's daughter — foi 
Helen was one of the very sweetest creatures 
that ever blushed or smiled : there was a re- 
finement in her simplicity — an infection in her 
gayety — a something touching in her affec 
tionate manners, that drew their fascination all 
from the same source — they were all so per- 
fectly natural. She appeared much younger 
than she was — for Helen was, in reality, fif- 
teen ; but both the aunt with whom she re- 
sided, and her father, were old-fashioned 
enough to wish her childhood to be as long as 
possible. The mind may be cultivated, the 
manners formed, and the girl have acquired 
the polish of the woman ; but how much of 
buoyant spirits must have been quelled — how 
much of enjoyment lost in the acquisition ! 

Childhood is not often a happy season — it 
is too much forced and controlled, and nature 
too much exiled from the fairest spot in all 
her domain ; but it can be a glad and guileless 
time — and Helen's had been a very happy 
childhood. 

But the dark or bright day finds its end in 
night, and again the phaeton retraced thu 
morning's road. Every tree and field were 



58 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



now silvered with the soft moonlight — there 
was a repose around which even the voice 
seemed too rudely to break. They were both 
silent — but did Emily find the evening's si- 
lence less delightful or less dangerous] 

"How infinitely," said Lorraine at last, 
"I prefer a night like this — a sky broken by a 
thousand clouds — to one entirely cloudless ! 
The clear sky is too forcible a contrast to our- 
selves — it is too bright, too calm for sympathy 
with our troubled state — I almost dislike the 
perfect repose in which I can have no part — 
while the shadows that to-night gather round 
the moon seem to have a fellow feeling with 
our checkered existence." 

Emily made no answer — a sudden weight 
had fallen on her spirits — her eyes were full 
of unbidden tears — a voice seemed to arise 
within her, and to say, "To-night — even to- 
night — you stand on the threshold of your 
fate: happiness is only turning one last and 
lonely look before it leaves you forever." 

People talk — and wisely, too — of the folly 
of presentiments; but let the thoughts speak 
their secret, will they assert their disbelief? 
Our nature has many mysteries — the moral 
and physical world are strangely allied; the 
weight on the air presages tVe hurricane — the 
darkness on the heaven the tempest — why 
may not destiny have its signs, and the heart 
its portents, and the nameless sadness that 
oppresses the spirits forebode the coming sor- 
row 7 ] Bat Emily only thought of hers as a 
weakness — she strove to shake it off. The 
lamps now grew brilliant — the houses gather- 
ed into streets — while imagination, as usual, 
took flight before realities — and they arrived 
at home, gayly discussing the chances of to- 
morrow's ball. Once in her own room, fatigue 
and sentiment were terribly at variance — and 
sleep is a true pleasure, if one had not to get 
up in the morning. Do not tell me of the 
happiness of life, when every day begins with 
a struggle and a sacrifice. To get up in the 
morning, both in the enjoyment it resigns and 
the resolution it requires, is an act of heroism. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

" Come like shadows, so depart."— Macbeth. 
"How shall I yield you fit entertainment?"— Coleridge. 
"A hemisphere of stars."— Byron, or the Morning Post. 
"These written troubles of the brain."— Macbeth. 

[t had been settled, that the next evening, 
on their way to Mrs. Dorrick's, they should 
look in for an hour at the Atheneeum, it being- 
one of those Wednesdays when gentlemen in- 
vite ladies, to show how admirably they can 
do without them, on the same principle that a 
well-supplied, though beleaguered city courts 
the presence of spies and displays its strength 
and resources till surrounding enemies are fain 
to raise the siege from very hopelessness of suc- 
cess. Clubs are just a modification of monas- 
teries — places of refuge from female attentions ; 
a**:, as in former days, the finest architecture, 



the best situation, the most elaborate cuisine, 
the most refined cellar, are devoted to their 
use. The principal modern improvements are 
the omission of fasting and penance, and the 
substitution of magazines for missals. 

"Whoso enters here leaves hope behind," 

should be the Wednesday's motto. The deep 
crimson of the wall is alone enough to anni- 
hilate a thousand of the rose-coloured visions 
which haunted last night's quadrille. All a 
young lady should pray for, is a severe linger- 
ing fit of illness, to impress upon her debating 
lover a just feminine valuation; — fevers and 
agues are the best stepping-stones to the hy- 
meneal altar. 

Well; our party entered, walked, and 
looked around, — and expressed their admira- 
tion or their censure, the former greatly pre- 
ponderating ; for the ladies feel they are only 
there on sufferance, which makes politeness a 
necessity. From the place they turned to the 
people ; and when criticism is in a crowd, it is 
of a motley kind, and certainly not " too dis- 
creet ;" for what but something ridiculous can 
be said about those we do not know 1 and 
this lady, with her weak, wan face, and its 
multitude of heavy ringlets, like the Dead 
Sea between two weeping willows, — that gen- 
tleman w Y ith the wilful whiskers encroaching 
like the sands over the yellow desert of his 
cheek, — or that youth with the shining black 
head, as polished as his boots, audibly pro- 
claiming "Warren's best, — soon exhausted the 
stock of similes, if not of sneers ; besides, 
the attention was attracted to individuals. 

" Who is that 1 ?" said Emily, as a gentle- 
man, with one of the most sparkling and keen 
glances in the world — which she was quite 
pretty enough to attract for a moment — pass- 
ed by. 

"One of our first poets," replied Lorraine. 
" I must tell you a very happy compliment 
paid him the other day by one who was speak- 
ing of his powers of sentiment and sarcasm : 
' When one reads your lyrics, the exclamation 
is amour! (ah, Moore!) but after your sa- 
tires, it is Timour (T. Moore) the Tartar.' As 
for himself, he is the Venus throw in society ; 
his conversation carries you along with the 
ease and grace of skating; he tells a story as 
if M. Caillaud had left him his mantle, or as 
if in him were realized the classic tale of the 
bees that settled round the mouth of Sopho- 
cles, leaving their honey behind them. Ir> 
listening to him 1 perfectly understand the 
feeling which made Napoleon interrupt some 
unhappy elongator of narrative with l Jtllons! 
Den on, contez nous celaS He is our English 
Denon." 

" Look at that serious-seeming personage, 
who walks from one end of the room as if 
he meant to commit suicide at the other." 

" That is one of our patrician diseurs, or 
rather faiseurs, of bons mots, — one who says 
good things, not as if he had any pleasure or 
vanity in saying them, but rather, in the very 
spirit of our nation, as if he had a stock on 
hand he was desirous to dispose of to the best 






ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



59 



advantage. Many of his ideas are very ori- 
ginal : talking of the picturesque the other 
day, he said,° So common is it, indeed, that 
everybody travels to talk about it; when I 
travel, my carriage shall only have a skylight.' 
He has an odd habit, or rather affectation, of 
muttering to himself what he intends after- 
wards to say ; for example, ' Woman, — yes, 
very pretty, — but too much colour; I must 
ask who she is.' ' Wine. — I see there a man 
I must ask to take wine with me — great bore ;' 
and then follows, ' Shall I have the honour, 
pleasure,' or whatever form the great question 
of wine may take. Lord E., who knew his 
habit, resolved, one day, to set up an opposi- 
tion muttering, and forthwith commenced, 
4 Wine, — yes, wine ; T see there a man I would 
not take wine with if he asked me.' But do 
you see that gentleman seated by the fire- 
place 1 — he is one who has excited your most 
enthusiastic admiration." 

Emily turned, and saw a face that riveted 
her whole attention : melancholy and intellec- 
tual, it was of the noblest order, and the ex- 
pression seemed to impart something of its 
own thoughtfulness to the beholder. The 
shape of the head, the outline of the face, had 
more the power and decision of the Roman, 
than the flowing softness of the Greek ; in a 
bust it would have been almost stern, but for 
the benevolence of the mouth. It was as if 
two natures contended together, — the one, 
proud, spiritual, severe, the expression of the 
head, — the other, sad, tender, and sensitive, 
the expression of the heart. There was me- 
lancholy, as if the imagination dwelt upon the 
feelings, deepening their tenderness, and re- 
fining their sorrow, and j-et intellectual withal, 
as if the thought and the feeling sprang up 
together : perhaps the most striking effect was 
their change from their natural look of ab- 
straction to that of observation, — the one was 
the glance of the poet, the other of the falcon. 
He is one of our most distinguished authors, 
in whose- novels it is difficult to say whether 
philosophy, wit, or poetry most abound — the 
appreciation of whose excellence has been as 
prompt as it has been just ; yet never was one 
less likely to find enjoyment in the course of 
literary success, — a course in which the mean- 
ness of the obstacles, the baseness of the op- 
ponents, the petty means of even the most en- 
tire triumph, must revolt the conqueror at his 
own victory ; truly do they say, fame is for the 
dead. 

" : Tis distance lends enchantment to the view." 

From childhood we hear some few great 
names to which mind has given an immor- 
tality: they are called the benefactors of their 
kind — their words are familiar to our lips — 
our early thoughts take their tone, our first 
mental pleasures are derived, from their pages 
— we admire, and then we imitate — we think 
how glorious it is to let the spirit thus go 
forth, winning a throne in men's hearts, send- 
ing our thoughts, like the ships of Tyre laden 
with rich merchandise, over the ocean of hu- 
man opinion, and bringing back a still richer 



cargo of praise and good-will. Thus was it 
with the great men of old, and so shall it be 
with us. We forget that Time, the sanctifier, 
has been with them ; that no present interests 
jar against theirs ; that around them is the calm 
and solemnity of the grave; and we forget the 
ordeal through which they have passed^to the 
temple. But look at any existing literary life 
— and we will speak only of the most suc- 
cessful — and who shall say that the loftiest 
head is not covered with dust and ashes? 
The first work is eminently successful, and 
the Eros of success has ever its Anteros of 
envy. Every unfortunate candidate thinks 
that the more fortunate stand between him and 
the sunshine of public favour. Then, how 
many are there who know no path to notoriety 
so easy as that which, by attacking the already 
appreciated, makes their very reputation a 
means, as well as a motive, for its injury. 
Then comes the struggle ; this one is to be 
conciliated, the other intimidated ; flattery be- 
comes matter of exchange, and vanity self-de- 
fence : praise grows worthless in proportion 
as we know whence and wherefore it is given, 
and censure more bitter from the utter mean- 
ness of the censor. Again, the personal tone 
taken is revolting to a degree. The absurd 
and the malicious are blended, and some kind 
friend is always at hand to repeat. What 
must this be to all, and still more to one whose 
refined and reserved habits are so utterly at 
variance with the personality, the curiosity, 
the base party spirit of literature 1 ? Well, 
while recalling the vain hope, the unworthy 
attack, the departed glory, may Memory ex- 
claim with the Peri, 

"Poor race of man. said the pitying spirit, 
Dearly ye pay for your primal fall ; 
Some flowers of Eden ye still inherit, 
But the trail of the serpent is over them all." 

None of this, however, passed through 
Emily's mind. Those who have no part in 
the conflict see with the imagination : they be- 
hold the crimson banner, hear the stately 
trumpet, and think not of the dust of the 
march, or the agony of the battle ; and Emily 
gazed on the individual before her with that 
intense exaltation and enthusiasm which is 
literature's best triumph. 

But her attention was now attracted to the 
lady who took his arm. Ah ! poets and paint- 
ers have truth for the foundation of their 
dreams, — she, at least, looked the incarnation 
of her husband's genius. Her style of beauty 
was such as might have suited the days of 
chivalry — made for worship more than love- 
one whose affection was a triumph even more 
than a gift. Her mouth, which was like chi- 
seled coral, had many smiles, and most of 
scorn; and its speech had as much of sarcasm 
as of sweetness. Her step, her height — the 
proud sweep of a neck which was like the 
swan's for snow and grace — were such as 
make the artificial distinctions of society seem 
the inherent aristocracy of nature ; you felt 
she was never meant to breathe aught but 
" the air of palaces" — you never thought o. 
calling her pretty. 



60 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Who is it that says the character of a 
woman is decided by the cast of her features 1 
All sweeping assertions are erroneous. In 
this instance, the style of manner was opposed 
to the style of the features. At the first 
glance, the imagination likened her to those 
beautiful queens who followed in the triumph 
they disdained of the Roman conqueror — as 
one to whom society was as a pageant, in 
which she must take and 3^et scorn her part ; 
but this impression passed with the first tone 
of the Jute upon her lips — her sweet and song- 
like voice. Her exquisite laugh, like the 
sound of a shell which, instead of the night 
wind, is filled with the morning sunshine and 
bursts into music — -the fascination of such 
feminine kindliness — wit so airy, yet so keen, 
whose acid was not that of vinegar, dissolving 
all the pearls of gentler feelings, but the acid 
of Champagne, whose pearls dance on the sur- 
face and melt into blending sweetness Ah ! 

one moment's pause — I have renounced poetry, 
of which, sweet lady, you were to me the em- 
bodied spirit. I know flattery is impertinent, 
and praise is vain — yet I cannot pass the 
shrine of my early faith, and not, at least, 
fling a flower on it in passing: I never yet be- 
held being so lovely, and I never shall again ; 
I never witnessed feelings so generous, so un- 
spotted by the world ; and my words seem 
unworthy and imperfect, when I say of her 
heart, as some early Spanish poet said of his 
mistress's face — 

" That it has look'd in Paradise, and caught 
lis early beauty." 

' Look," said Lorraine — " do you wash to 
see the very vainest man in England ?" 

" A bold assertion," added Mr. Morland, 
" but a true one ; for yonder gentleman is 
morally, mentally, personally, and politically 
vain." 

Emily turned towards him — there was no- 
thing conspicuous about him but the buttons of 
his coat ; many and bright were they, with 
some hieroglyphic sign impressed upon them. 

" One of our first poets, he has 

'Narrovv'd his mind, 
And to parlies given up what was meant for mankind.' 

And 1 take parties in their most varied sense 
—from the small flatteries of the evening 
party to the coarser acclamation of the club 
where he takes the chair — from the literary 
party, who make him an idol, to the political, 
who make him their tool." 

"I have been lately," said Mr. Morland, 
'hearing the detail of his siisting for his pic- 
ture : first he was sketched in a Vandyke 
dress — then in a Spamsn costume — he had 
some thoughts of a turban — when a friend 
observed, that for the credit of the age he had 
immortalized, he ought to be apparelled after 
its fashion. He tried on forty-seven waistcoats, 
and at last decided on a cloak. One day the 
artist's attention was attracted by a little China 
jar which he held in his hand ; the poet was 
more than usually restless ; at last, after an 
earnest gaze on the sketch, and then on the 
•nirror, he said, ' My dear young friend, in- 



tense study has done the work of years, and 
many a midnight vigil has paled 'the fresh 
colours of youth. You are painting for po«*« 

terity — 

' One would not, sure, look shocking when one's dead'— 

and, uncovering the little pot of rouge, he ar- 
ranged his complexion to his liking." 

" At all events, that gentleman's self-esti- 
mate is a pleasant one who believes that every 
man looks up to, and that every woman is in 
love with him." 

" I excuse, however, a great deal in him — 

' If to his lot some female errors fall, 
Read but his odes, and you'll forget them all.' " 

There was something singularly picturesque 
in the next person that passed — tall, dark, 
with that flashing and hawklike glance which 
generally accompanies a mouth whose expres- 
sion was that of sarcasm, but whose satire, 
though bitter enough, seemed rather to spring 
from the love of amusement than from malice. 

" That is Lord , the author of two of 

our very popular novels, of wiiich the last is 
my especial favourite. ' Yes and No' is a 
lively etching of modern society — fine in the 
outline, and animated in colouring; the cha- 
racters may or may not be portraits, but they 
are realities. Nothing is more difficult than 
to paint from nature — nothing so pleasant 
when achieved. To sketch real life requires 

a most peculiar talent, and that Lord 

possesses. 

"Imetw T ith a paragraph in some journal 
the other day, which made a crime of his 
taking an active part in literature instead of 
politics — writing, instead of talking; — as if 
there were not speakers enow in the House 
to debate till dooms-day. And as to the prac- 
tical utility, may I be permitted to venture my 
opinion, that moral is at least as useful as po- 
litical satire!" 

"Who is yonder gentleman'?" asked Emi- 
ly, attracted by that air of anticipative con- 
sciousness which says, ' all eyes are upon me, 
or ought to be.' 

"The writer of some poems we were stu- 
dying in one of the annuals," replied Lorraine. 
" You remember the one which appears with 
its author's name in capitals at the beginning, 
and ends with stating its claim to one merit at 
any rate — 

' Some praise, at least— one act of sense may claim — 
He wrote these verses, but conceal'd his name :' 

— the name, nevertheless, being the first thing 
we saw." 

"Ah," said Mr. Morland, "I have quite 
a little history to give you — a romance of 
fashionable life — by which I mean the romance 
of effect, not feeling. Colonel Clarendon 
commenced his search after reputation by a 
journey in the East, and astonished all Paris 
(the city he selected for his debut in celebrity) 
by eloquent details of the delights of dwell- 
ing in goatskin tents, and galloping through 
the desert. Les merveilkuses were somewhat 
startled at the taste w T hich pronounced sheep's 
milk and dates the perfection of luxury, bi. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



6! 



svery fair head in the Chasce de Saint JLntin 
was completely turned. To a gentleman of 
'his habit of mind, une grande passion was in- 
dispensable, and he laid his heart and homage 
at the fairy-like feet of Madame de St. Leu. 

"But your very vain lover is a little fatigu- 
ing for e very-day wear, and the lady permitted 
herself a slight preference in favour of the 
Baron von Schmanherstoff, an Hungarian no- 
bleman, whose furred pelisse and silver spurs 
had produced quite a sensation. Indignant at 
what he termed her treachery, the Hungarian 
went to his friend and told him all. Colonel 
Clarendon rushed to the presence of his faith- 
less mistress, and overwhelmed himself with 
despair and her with reproaches. 'Are you a 
man,' said the lady, with an air between in- 
jured innocence and conscious dignity, 'that 
you tell me of this outrage before you have 
avenged hi — unless you are the basest coward 
that ever trifled with the feelings, or insulted 
the honour of a woman, the affront you have 
offered me will be washed out in Baron von 
SchmanherstorT's blood. If you are a gentle- 
man, I leave my cause in your hands.' The 
colonel bowed, left the room, and sent his 
challenge. Next morning they met in the 
Boisdes Boulevards.- the friends embraced, and 
then fought. 

"But what gave such effect to this duel 
were the uncommon weapons used by the 
combatants — broadswords. Colonel Claren- 
don slightly wounded the baron, who fell — 
people did say, according to agreement. He 
threw himself by the body of his Pylades — 
called himself his murderer — vowed never 
again to see the perfidious woman who had 
caused the quarrel— did not tear his hair, for 
he rather piqued himself on his curls, but he 
dishevelled them. He had the baron carried 
to his lodgings, and never for a fortnight left 
his room. 

"When l les deux amis'* appeared in public 
together, all Paris rang with their romantic 
attachment, and the colonel found that his 
friendship made him as much the fashion as 
his travels. The renown reached even to the 
northern county where his father's seat is 
situated. Nothing for a week — news lasts 
longer in the country than it does in town — 
was talked of but Colonel Clarendon's duel, 
and his devotion to his friend. I, who was 
staying there, heard at least fifty versions of 
his despair. But I must finish my history, as 
there is a young poet whose writings I heard 
you admiring yesterday — the tall slight one — 
what I rather think you would call interesting- 
looking." 

"Mr. Lillian," observed Mr. Morland, "is 
one of the most brilliant supporters of paradox 
I ever met. His conversation only requires to 
be a little more in earnest to be perfectly de- 
lightful. His views are original, his illustra- 
tions most happy, and an epigrammatic style 
sets off his speech — as novel writers say of 
some dress in which the heroine appears — to 
the best advantage.' But— and, do you know, 
I think it rather a good feeling in humanity— 

Vol. I. 



that is to say, in myself — we like and require 
truth — always supposing and allowing that 
the said truth interferes neither with our inte- 
rests nor our inclinations." 

"I agree with you, that an opinion increases 
in interest, as well as weight, by its supporter 
appearing to mean what he says. But few 
brilliant talkers are sufficiently aware of the 
advantage of seeming in earnest. 

" He struck me as an instance of the usual 
effect produced by society — with its Janus face 
of success and disappointment, of flattery and 
of falsehood — on a young and clever man. He 
sets out with believing too much, he ends with 
believing too little. Human nature was at 
first an imagination, and afterwards a theory — 
both equally false. Ridicule may be the test 
of truth, but it is not of its result." 

"Nevertheless, sarcasm is the royal road 
of the bar. Is there any thing now-a-days to 
which a man may not sneer his way 1 ? But, 
for pity and Miss Arundel's sake, let us return 
to his poetry. It is that rare thing, ' a happy 
marriage' between persiflage and sentiment. 
He tells an ancient legend to perfection. It is 
a minstrel in masquerade — the romance of the 
olden time touched with modern taste — and 
his wit keen with present allusions. But, 
really, it is scarcely worth while to be witty, 
when we remember how stupid people are. 
One would often think that a joke was as hard 
to be taken as an affront. The elder brother 
of this very gentleman had been spending some 
days at a house in the country: on the morn- 
ing of departure, a lady asked him, ' Pray, are 
you the clever Mr. Lillian V ' I never answer 
flattering questions,' was his reply — or, per- 
haps, the reply of his brother, ' the clever Mr. 
Lillian,' for him, for he himself told me the 
story." 

" Who is that youth to the left, in an atti- 
tude]" 

" One who always reminds me of the 
French actor's reply to the manager, who 
asked what parts he was fit for — ' Mais TousS 
Such is Mr. Vincent's self-estimate. They 
say happiness is only the finer word for self 
satisfaction — if sa, Mr. Vincent is a happy 
man. He has embodied a general system of 
depreciatives, out of which he extracts most 
' strange contents.' I never yet heard him 
allow merit to man, woman, or child ; he 
speaks only in the subjunctive mood, governed 
by an if or a but. Talk to him of a witty per- 
son, and he finds out at once, 

'That flippancy to wit is near allied, 
And thin partitions do their bounds divide.' 

If serious, he asks— 

'Shall grave and formal pass for wise, 
When men the solemn owl despise V 

Nay, one day, when, half out of want of some 
thing to say, half out of politeness, and — if 
you will let me divide his motives, as the 
schoolboy, in his translation of Cassar, did 
ancient Gaul, which, he said, was quartered 
into three halves — half out of really thinking 
it, I praised the beauty of a little girl playing 
F 



62 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



in the room, Mr. Vincent immediately drew 
so gloomy a picture of the casualties to which 
beauty is subject, that I am not sure whether 
he did not talk both mother and child into the 
small-pox." 

At this moment our little group made an 
involuntary pause, to listen to the conversation 
of a lady close beside them. 

" My story will illustrate my positive asser- 
tion. As & child, she was just the Mr. No- 
body of the family — that is, the one who does 
all the mischief done in the house — at least, 
bears all the blame of it, which is much the 
same in its consequences. One day, a friend 
took her to task, as it is called. ' Now, do 
you not see what a wicked little girl you are 1 
Why do not you pray to God every morning 
to make you a better child V ' And so I do,' 
sobbed the poor little thing, ' but he only 
makes me tuorserer and worserer.'' " 

At this moment the speaker turned round, 
and showed a face so beautiful, that had poetry 
never existed before, it must have been in- 
vented in describing such loveliness. The 
black hair was bound with 'classical simplicity 
round a small and finely-shaped head ; the 
face was something between Grecian and 
Spanish — the intellect of the one, the passion 
of the other; the exquisite features were like 
those of a statue, but a statue like that which 
Pygmalion called by love into life ; the brow 
was magnificent—- fit for Madame de Stael, 
had her mind looked, its power and its grace. 

"That is our English Corinne," said Mr. I 
Morland — "one to whom genius and beauty 
are birthrights. Poetry, prose, wit, pathos, 
are the gifted slaves of her lamp. You were 
reading one of her exquisite volumes this 
morning." 

" I was," said Edward, " and dreaming of 
the author ; and now I only say to her what 
Wordsworth said of Yarrow — 

1 And thou, who didst appear so fair 
To young imagination, 
Didst rival, in the sight of day, 
Her delicate creation.' " 

A throng of small " noticeables" now passed 
by — poets who have written two songs, and 
live upon their credit — wits who once said, or, 
peradventure, repeated a clever thing, and 
have made it last. But it was later than our 
party had intended to remain — or, whatever of 
attraction the crowd might yet retain was to 
them of no avail, 

As they were leaving the room, Lady Man- 
deville entered. She glanced round, and said 
to Lorraine — " Considering, gentlemen, you 
had only yourselves to study, it must be 
owned you have shown no indiscreet careless- 
ness to your own comfort and convenience." 

" W T e want something," said Lorraine, " to 
console us for your absence." 

" Nay, nay — it is to show us how well you 
3an do without us," replied Lady Mandeville. 
*' I daily expect, in these times of reform and 
retrenchment, that a bill will be brought into 
the House for the suppression of the female 
sex, as an expensive and useless superfluity." 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

" A change came o'er the spirit of my dream." — Byron. 

Now, though we do not believe much of 
the ancient belle alliance between Cupid and 
the Graces yet remains — though we do not 
believe that the milliner accelerates the match, 
and that the colour of a capote may be the 
colour of our fate, or the turn of a curl the 
turn of our fortune ; having a theory of our 
own, that such things come by chance, and go 
by destiny ; yet we can perfectly understand 
a young lady's drapery being influenced by 
her feelings, and that hope may cast her cou- 
leur de rose over the mirror— that study of the 
fair conqueror. Emily lingered and lingered 
for a longer time at the glass than either Mrs. 
Radcliffe or Mrs. Hannah More would have 
approved of, — one for the sake of romance, 
the other for that of morality. 

It is still a disputed point among authors, 
whether it be best or not to describe their 
heroine ; I must own I lean to the descriptive 
myself; I like to have the lady placed bodily 
before me — I like to know whether the eyes 
with whose tears I am to sympathize are of 
the true blue of patriotism, or of the deep blaels 
of poetry. I can call up the image more dis 
tinctly, when I know if her cheek is like 

" The lady lily, paler than the moon ;" 
or like 

" The red rose, fragrant with the breath of June." 

Judging of others by myself, and quoting the 
Spectator for my authority, let me, as some 
old author says, " paint my ladie with words." 
Parted in the middle into two rich braids, 
the dark hair divided so as to do full justice 
to the oval of the face, and caught on its 
auburn wave the first shade of the crape hat, 
whose yellow was delicate as the earliest 
primrose — that faint soft yellow, so trying, yet 
so becoming; a colour to be avoided equally 
by the bright and the sallow, making the bright 
seem coarse, and the sallow sickly— but ex- 
quisite on that clear pale skin where the rose 
visits, but dwells not, and the blush passes 
with the feelings it betrays. 

Not one in a thousand knows how to put on 
a bonnet : they set it on one side like a dis- 
agreeable recollection ; or bolt upright, as if 
they wanted to realize Shakspeare's worst of 
puns, — "and she, like France, was at war 
with her hair (heir.)" No such very great 
degree of genius can be displayed in the rest 
of the toilette. The dress has been chosen — 
it fits you a ravir — it has simply to be put on 
with mathematical accuracy; but the bonnet 
is the triumph of taste — you must exert your 
intellect' — your destiny is in your own hands. 
Emily was successful : brought a little for- 
ward on the face, its shade was the coquetry 
of timidity; and the dark eyes were more 
piquant from the slight difficulty of meeting 
them. Her dress was the deepest Parma 
violet, — so beautiful a colour in itself, — so 
picturesque in its associations, — the crimson 



ROMANCE AND REALITY 



03 



of war and the purple of royalty blended in 
one : it opened at the throat, whose whiteness 
was, if possible, softened by that most aerial 
of inventions, a blonde ruff: finish the costume 
with gloves, whose tint was of the same deli- 
cate hue as the hat; put the feet into slippers 
fit for Cinderella, if she had worn black satin 
instead of glass, — and you have an exact idea 
of the figure which two glasses were now re- 
fiectino-. An open window gave cause for a 
shiver— and that was excuse for the boa, too 
graceful for even June to banish. With a secret 
consciousness that she was dressed in the very 
colour which Lorraine had, a week before, said 
was his favourite, she ran down to the draw- 
ing-room, and, approaching a stand of flowers, 
paused for a moment on the choice of scarlet 
geraniums, heliotropes, lilies, &c, when Ed- 
ward came from the other room. 

" Nay, Miss Arundel, the blossoms before 
you are too sophisticated — their life has been 
for a whole morning artificial : unwilling to 
delegate the choice, I drove this morning to 
Colville's, — allow me to offer you my selec- 
tion ;" and he gave her two of the freshest of 
moss-rosebuds, — those very loveliest of infant 
flowers. 

Lorraine might have been struck with the 
deepness of her blush — fie only noticed the 
beauty of it. 

"Do you know," said he, laughingly, "if 
you blush your thanks so prettily, 1 must 
apply to you the compliment paid the Italian 
poet, 

' Tutti sei pensieri sono de' rose.' " 

Lady Alicia now came in, and, while wait- 
ing for Mr. Delawarr, they could not do less 
thaimdmire each other. People are often very 
generous in giving what is of no value : is it 
on this principle that one lady is usually so 
profuse in her admiration of the dress of 
another? Truly, that afternoon they ought to 
have enjoyed themselves : it was a bright, be- 
coming day, — one of those fairy gifts with 
which summer now and then surprises us. 
Their progress had all the exhilaration of rapid- 
ity : four horses with 

' Bit of foam, and hoof of speed ; ; ' 

and a carriage, light as if meant more for air 
than earth, combine the opposite pleasures of 
indolence and motion. Nothing could be 
gayer than the scene through which they 
passed : it had only one fault — they were used 
to it. 

Soon the sound of music, and an atmosphere 
heavy with the odour of the most aromatic 
plants, announced their arrival at Lady Wal- 
singham's villa, where Ambition was giving 
ixfete to Pleasure, as Fashion's prime minister. 
Lady Walsingham was rich — even in Lon- 
don ; she had rank, but she had not always had 
it. Her first husband was a horror, but he 
had money, — her second was a fool, but he 
had a title ; and thus possessed of riches and 
rank, she only wanted fashion. The re-union 
to-day was political as that of the Field of the 
Cloth of Gold ; splendour was at once to con- 
ciliate and to dazzle ; not an orange tree but 



had a purpose, — not an acacia but was charg- 
ed, not only with its flowers, but "with Ulys* 
ses' fate." Notoriety is born of novelty ; and 
exertion and imagination were alike exhausted 
to give character to the fete. Grecian temples 
were surrounded by hawthorn hedges, — Turk- 
ish tents stood in the shade of the oaks, —and 
one Chinese pagoda was dexterously entwined 
with honeysuckle ; there were conservatories 
filled with the rarest plants, and avenues with 
ladies walking about as if in a picture; ices 
were served in the grotto; and servants in the 
oriental costume handed almond-cakes. 

On the turf-sweep before the house— her 
head heavy with feathers, her ears with dia 
monds, and her heart with anxiety — stood the 
hostess. Every nation has its characteristic — 
and an Englishwoman's is standing, distribut- 
ing her smiles, as if, as some one has observ- 
ed, she had bought them, like her rouge, 
wholesale. 

" This do I for your applause, O Athe- 
nians !" Thus did the conqueror of the world 
apostrophize the inhabitants of a city, who, 
if they took any thought about his drowning, 
would rather have preferred it. And thus did 
that hope of to-morrow — which, why it should 
be glory in one case and folly in another, I 
never could properly understand — support the 
countess. 

" Very pretty indeed," ejaculated Mr. St. 
John; "quite in character, — just like a scene 
in a play." 

" Take me away," lisped the pretty and 
mignonne Mrs. De Grey, " lest I grow like 
what I do look upon, — I feel the reflection of 
her ladyship's full pink upon my own face !" 
"All of luxury except its refinement," was 
the encomium of Lord Alfred Vernon. 

" C'est que Madame a etc, comme Cicerone, 
consulter P oracle, qui lui a dit, de suivrc la 
nature, el die Pa suivie,son naturel," whisper- 
ed the young Compte de Merivale, who 
brought to England little besides a contempt 
for it. 

Emily, however, had not this morning one 
critical qualification ; no discontent for a com- 
mencement — no jarring interest for a continua- 
tion; she looked on her roses, and their per- 
fume seemed to have a power like the white 
ones of Alnaschar, to charm away all suffer- 
ing ; she was leaning on Lorraine's arm — and 
who shall deny the intense happiness of the 
mere presence of one we love ] — not those who 
have felt it. 

" So," said Mr. St. John, " after canvass- 
ing enough for two counties — a correspond- 
ence worthy of the days of Richardson — our 
countess has prevailed on Lady Lauriston to 
allow the beauty to grace her/e/e." 

" What !" exclaimed Edward; " Lady Ade- 
laide here ?" 

" Yes ; in the very next walk, — I have just 
paid my homage." 

" Old friends of mine, — shall we go and 

speak]" — and Lorraine turned towards, the 

next walk with an earnestness which made 

Emily bow, not speak, her assent. 

They soon reached the trellis-work of roses 






64 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Deneath whose arch Adelaide and her brother 
were standing-. A face of the most surpassing- 
beauty lighted into smiles as Lorraine ap- 
proached, — a few inquiries were made, — they 
moved on together, — the walk became nar- 
rower, — and in five minutes more, Emily 
found herself transferred to Lord Merton's 
care, and Lady Adelaide and Lorraine follow- 
ing". She had not even the satisfaction of 
watching her companions. Engrossed in their 
own conversation, they lingered behind, — a 
gay laugh at first gave sign of their presence, 
but that soon subsided to a low whisper, which 
implies such interest in discourse : — 
" Speak low if you speak love." 

Once she turned back ; — Edward's eyes were 
fixed with most eloquent earnestness on the 
exquisite face of his companion, — the rich 
colour of excitement had banished his usual 
paleness. Emily felt it almost a relief to look 
towards Adelaide ; but the expression was not 

" The soft, betraying air, 
That woman loved and flatter'!] love to 'rear ;'' 

there was consciousness, but it was that of 
beauty — and brilliancy, but it was that of 
triumph. 

In the mean time, Emily was progressing 
most rapidly in Lord Merton's favour. He 
had not always been the eldest son — a steeple 
chase had put one brother out of the way, and 
a duel another. He was shy from habit, and 
talkative from nature : the last quality made 
him wish for a listener, and the first to be 
obliged to one. Talking uninterruptedly was 
a luxury he had not yet enjoyed enough for 
indifference. Abroad, he had hitherto been 
one of those juveniles to whom no calculation 
forbids contradiction, and no interest necessi- 
tates attention. At home, his mother never 
ceased talking, neither did his sisters; and 
silence in a woman had become to him her 
perfection. For above an hour, with a feeling 
of most enviable content, he had been detailing 
to Emily how his beautiful chestnut mare, 
Zephyr, had caught, suffered from, and been 
cured of her last cold. At first he expected 
to be interrupted — then looked to see if she 
yawned — but neither of these conversational 
contingencies occurring, and Emily giving a 
proper quantity of acquiescing bows, he yield- 
ed himself up to the full enjoyment of so de- 
lightful a companion. 

In one part of the grounds were stationed 
some jugglers — these suggested a full account 
of how, when he was at college, he had taken 
some lessons of one, till he was nearly as ex- 
pert in catching the balls as his master. The 
Prague minstrels, stationed in a young plan- 
tation of furs, gave another occasion of dis- 
course, how he had once attempted the French 
horn himself, but found his lungs too delicate 
— how his mother had been afraid of a con- 
sumption. Many a passer-by thought Miss 
Arundel was listening to some subject of most 
touching interest: his lordship was only de- 
tailing the benefit he derived one wet day from 
his caoutchouc cloak. The truth is, Lord 
Merton was, simply, naturally, and intensely 



selfish ; he was himself " the ocean of his 
thoughts ;" he never considered the comfort 
of other people, because he never looked at if 
as distinct from his own ; and the most ro- 
mantic devotion, the most self-denying love, 
would have seemed, if he were the object of 
it, as quite in the common course of things. 

This is a common character, which age 
alone developes into deformity. Youth, like 
charity, covers a multitude of sins ; but 
Heaven help the wife, children, servants, and 
all other pieces of domestic property, when 
such a man is fifty, and has the gout ! 

It is an ill wind that blows nobody any 
good; and Lady Walsingham was made happy 
by the sincerity and warmth with which Lord 
Merton assured her he was delighted with her 
entertainment, and especially charmed with 
the jugglers and lfiinstrels. 

Emily now pleaded fatigue, and seeing Lady 
Alicia seated on a most rural-looking bench, 
with an awning of blue silk, she took a place 
beside her : but Lord Merton was too well 
pleased with his companion to part ; and some- 
what unceremoniously appropriating a shawl 
which hung near, spreading it, lest the grass 
should be damp, he seated himself at their 
feet — a plan which succeeded beyond his ex- 
pectations, for he thus secured two listeners. 
Emily assumed an air of attention, but her 
thoughts were far away. She looked on the 
flowers which Lorraine had given her a few 
hours since— they were drooping already ; and 
was this the day from which she had expect- 
ed so much pleasure ? What a stupid thing 
-d.fe.ic was ! What a waste of time and ex 
pense ! So much bad taste too ! Lucky is it 
for a hostess her verdict does not depend on 
young ladies, unless she could call a parlia- 
ment of love, and arrange all its little affairs 
in her own favour. And yet all this was not 
so much discontent as disguise. W T ho does 
not shrink from love's first avowal 1 and how- 
much so, when that avowal is to be made in 
secret, in silence, and in vain 1 ? Her temples 
beat with that acute pain which makes every 
sound a torture ; her sight was as confused as 
i her thoughts ; and she breathed with difficulty : 
to speak almost choked her. She thought not 
! of weeping ; yet a world of tears was now at 
her heart. 

" O, join us !" said Lady Mandeville, as 
a flourish of trumpets announced that the re- 
freshment-room was thrown open. 

Adelaide and Lorraine came up at the same 
moment; Lord Merton sprang from his seat 
with all the agility of expectation ; and in a 
few moments they were seated at one of the 
tables, in a tent whose scarlet and gold were 
worthy of Tippoo Saib, and whose size emu- 
lated that given by the fairy to her princely 
lover. How mistaken is the phrase, " every 
delicacy of the season" — they mean out of 
season. Grapes are ripe at the same time as 
strawberries, and peaches come in with the 
j crocuses. A breakfast a la fourchette is ths 
[ "chartered libertine" of gastronomy — one eata 
j ice, another soup, and a pate a la financier 
I rivals its neighbour pine-apple. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY 



65 



" What with their tents, turbans, coffee, and 
fountains, all signs du meilleur goid, 1 think 
the Turks a most refined people," said Lady 
Mandeville. " If it ever be my sorrowful 
destiny to enact the Ephesian, I shall set off 
for Constantinople — try the effect of mes beaux 
yeux on the Sublime Porte, and make a futu- 
rity of cachemeres and rose-water." 

"Ah!" exclaimed Lorraine, "the Turks 
know how to manage you ladies — 

4 There rolls the sea, and yonder yawns the sack.' " 

" Is that your idea of gallantry ?" said Mr. 
Delawarr. 

" It is its excess, I grant," interrupted Lor- 
raine; "but I must say, I think the Turk in- 
vests his homage to woman with that mystery, 
that solitude, that setting apart from life's daily 
and common use, which constitutes so much 
of poetry. His beautiful Circassian or Geor- 
gian mistress is a thing too sacred for common 
eyes. I quite enter into the feeling which 
shuns a profane eye resting on the face we 
love. What a charm must be in the veil our 
hand only is privileged to raise ! His w T ealth, 
nis taste, are lavished on his harem. He 
makes the shrine worthy of the idol. Her 
delicate step falls on the velvet carpet — her 
sweet mouth inhales an atmosphere of per- 
fume — the chain of pearls, the fragrant attar, 
the crimson ruby, are heaped on the fair fa- 
vourite, who wears them only for him. Libe- 
rality is an imposing term for indifference. 
We guard the treasure we value ; and I should 
expect my jealousy to be taken as a proof of 
my devotion." 

"Then," said Lady Mandeville, "you in- 
tend making love with a bunch of keys in one 
hand, and a dagger in the other." 

" Alas ! I live in an age when Bedlam is 
considered fitting temple of romance. I must 
content myself with an abstract admiration of 
Turkish seclusion." 

" Romance ! All nonsense," said Lord 
Merton, reaching across Emily for another 
slice of pine. 

"On the contrary," replied Lorraine, "I 
think romance can never take a very high 
tone but in times of great civilization. Ro- 
mance is more matter of feeling than of pas- 
sion; and if violent passions belong to a bar- 
barous, strong feelings belong to a civilized 
state. Exemption from great bodily exertion 
is favourable to habits of thought. The re- 
finement of our tastes, of course, is communi- 
cated to our sentiments ; and we exaggerate, 
subtilize, and spiritualize — the three chief in- 
gredients of romance." 

"I believe," said Lady Mandeville, "that 
we abuse the age we live in, on the same prin- 
ciple that we take liberties with our friends. 
The poor present time, how it is calumniated ! 
degenerate, immoral, irreligious, are its best 
epithets ; and we talk of the good old time till 
we really believe it existed." 

" Even," observed Mr. Delawarr, " as we 
eulogize the peace and innocence of a country 
life ; for the peace of the parish, apply to the 

Vol. I. — 9 



rector on the tithe day — for its innocence, to 
the justice of the peace." 

" But do you not think," asked Lorraine, 
" that these ideal excellencies have their ori- 
gin in our nature's better part 1 The first step 
either to goodness or happiness is to believe in 
their existence." 

" We shall lose the fireworks if we sit 
talking here," said Lord Merton. 

Even Lady Alicia was startled out of hsi 
passiveness by this announcement; and the 
whole party hurried towards the piece of 
water, by whose side the exhibition was to 
take place. Lord Merton still kept his place 
at Emily's side, and narrated to her divers of 
his juvenile feats with gunpowder; and he 
was one, as we have said, to whom not talking 
was listening. 

It was a magnificent display of the most 
magnificent of elements: the rocket swept 
through the air like a spirit, and the skies 
seemed to realize the old saying, and rained 
gold, and silver ; while the water below spread 
like an immense mirror, till above and below 
gleamed with light. But Emily's eyes wan- 
dered from the scene before her; and every 
fugitive glance only brought back fresh con- 
viction of Edward's interest in the beautiful 
face whose smiles were exclusively enough 
given to himself, to have made one far less 
perfect very fascinating. 

Adelaide was too quick-sighted not to per- 
ceive that Miss Arundel, when she first saw 
her talking to Lorraine, wore a very different 
air from Miss Arundel listening to Merton ; 
and a rival was the sauce Robert, which would 
have made her not eat, but flirt with her grand- 
father. 

However, there is always one solace to 
misery, as there is one drawback to pleasure, 
they must all have an end, and so had Lady 
Walsingham's/e/e. The carriage drove off, 
but the place opposite Emily was vacant ; Lor- 
raine had accepted a seat in Lord Merton's 
cabriolet. Miss Arundel was not the only 
listener, for which her brother was that day 
indebted to Adelaide. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

" It is a fearful thing 
To love as I love thee ; to feel the world, 
The beautiful, the bright, joy-givina; world, 
A blank without thee. * * ~ * 
He is the star, round wdiich my thoughts revolve 
Like satellites. My father! can it be, 
That thine, the unceasing love of many years, 
Doth not so fill my heart as this strange gueef. V 

The Ancestress. 



What an odd thing experience is ! — now 
turning over so rapidly the book of life, now 
writing so much on a single leaf We hear 
of the head turning gray in a single night, — 
the same change passes over the heart. Af- 
fection is the tyrant of a woman, and only 
bids her to the banquet to suspend i cutting 
sword over her head, which a word, a look 
f2 



66 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



may call down to inflict the wound that strikes 
to the death, or heals, but with a scar. Could 
v;e fling back the veil which nature and society 
alike draw over her feelings, how much of 
sorrow — unsuspected because unexpressed — 
would be found ! — how many a young and 
beating heart would show disappointment 
graven on the inmost core ! — what a history of 
vain hopes, gentle endeavours, anxieties, and 
mortifications, laid bare ! There is one phrase 
continually occurring in conversation, — " O, 
a woman never marries the man to whom she 
was first attached." How often — how lightly 
is this said !— how little thought given to the 
world of suffering it involves ! Checked by 
circumstance — abandoned from necessity, the 
early attachment may depart with the early 
enthusiasm which youth brings, but leaves 
not; still the dream was sweet, and its 
waking bitter. But Emily was not one to 
whom such vision would be 

" Sweet, not lasting, 
The perfume and suppliance of a moment." 

Nature had given her the keenest sensibility ; 
and the solitude in which much of her life 
had hitherto been passed had left free scope 
for the imagination to spiritualize and exalt. 
Living entirely with her uncle and aunt, she 
had insensibly caught the quiet manners of 
these, much advanced in life, — the young are 
great imitators. Unaccustomed to witness 
strong bursts of feeling, she never thought of 
giving outwardly way to her own ; thus, hers, 
unrelieved and unexhausted by display, grew 
stronger from concealment. She had mixed 
little with those of her own age, — hence she 
was reserved ; and the confidante and the con- 
fession weaken love, by mixing up with it 
somewhat of vanity, and taking from its mys- 
tery. Emily's idea of love was of the most 
romantic and exalted kind. Whether borrowed 
from the Dutchess of Cleves, and the other old 
novels with which the library abound, where 
love is a species of idolatry; or from the pages 
of modern poetry, where all that is spiritual 
and beautiful is thrown around its nature; — 
all made love to her a species of religion. 

She had arrived in London with no very ac- 
curate notion of what she had to expect; but 
it was to be something very delightful. Ac- 
customed to be made much of — aware of her 
own pretensions, she had come prepared for 
entertainment and homage ; but she had found 
neither; — and though rich, pretty, and high- 
born, she was at nineteen very near being phi- 
losophical, and pronouncing the pleasures of 
the world to be vanity and vexation of spirit. 

Lorraine's arrival had changed all this. At 
a glance he saw how weary a time the young 
friend of his sister must be passing ; and 
mere good-nature only would have prompted 
his attention to the stranger — to say nothing 
of that stranger being an elegant and interest- 
ing girl. 

Emily now had a partner, who decided the 
fact of her fairy-like dancing — whose author- 
ity was sufficient for admiration — whose at- 
tention settled the worthiness of the object on 



which it was bestowed : she owed him much 
more than himself. Again, the mornings 
passed away so pleasantly when there was 
some one to whom she could talk about last 
night; and it was much more agreeable to 
sing to Edward than to herself. He loved 
music ; he liked the grace, the wit of female 
society; he was very handsome; and there 
was nothing improbable in supposing he had 
a heart to lose, and, moreover, he might lose 
it. Not that Emily had given one thought to 
such chance, — Love is the least calculating of 
all dreamers, — she had been very happy, and 
such shrink intuitively from asking why. 
Mortification had forced the conviction upon 
her; and who ever saw the one they love 
devoted to another, and found not the fatal 
truth written on their heart, and forever? 
Many and bitter were the tears Emily shed 
that night over two withered roses : she wept 
for vain hopes, for regret, but for shame more 
than all. Shame is the worst pang of unre- 
quited affection. Heavens! to be forced to 
ask ourselves what right we had to love. 

One of our most celebrated authors (a lady, 
by the question) once asked, how is it that 
women in the utmost depths of grief never 
forget to curl their hair 1 — Vanity was the 
cause assigned ; but I say, shame. We shrink 
from showing outward sign of sorrow, if that 
sorrow be in aught connected with the feelings ; 
and the reason of this must be sought in some 
theory of innate ideas not yet discovered. 

Emily the next morning appeared with the 
usual grapelike curls, and her cheek no paler 
than fatigue might authorize. 

" ' Ah, the day of my destiny's over,' " 

said Lorraine ; " and, a fair exchange being 
no robbery, I quote the next line a little varied, 

' The star of my fate is on high.' 

Listen to the importance of yesterday : — 
' Yesterday Lady Walsingham's splendid villa 
was thrown open to the fashionable world, 
which crowded to enjoy all that taste could 
invent, or luxury supply, — breakfast was laid 
for two hundred.' There lies the spell ; pines 
and Champagne who can resist — even though 
through the medium of Lady Walsingham ! 
How tired, how fat her poor ladyship looked ! 
like Mont Blanc, she was covered with the 
crimson of the evening." 

"Nay, now, Edward," said Mr. Delawarr, 
" you were there yourself." 

"Yes; and am I not just acting up to our 
great social principle — go first, and grumble 
afterwards ] Besides, the fete was given not 
to pleasure, but to pretension — and pretension 
is' a sort of general election, depending on 
universal suffrage, and subject to canvassing 
and criticism. Born a milk-maid, meant for 
a farmer's wife, why are Lady Walsingham's 
nature and fate at variance 1 Those red arms 
should have been celebrated for their skill in 
bacon, and her cheeses noted the country 
round. How comfortable she would have 
looked in her crimson shawl — how respectable 
in her flowered print ! What can she have 






ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



67 



;o do with French kid 1— her gloves are her 
•jiartyrs. That countenance shining through 
blonde — those elephantine ears, whose giran- 
dole of diamonds is the size of a chandelier 
in half the drawing-rooms of genteel resi- 
dences for small families or a single gentle- 
man — what part can she have in the airy em- 
pire of caprice, the Parthian-arrow-guarded 
world of fashion 1 Why does not she live in 
the country, roast whole oxen on her wedding- 
day, keep open house at an election, shake her 
acquaintance heartily by the hand, and drive 
in a coach-and-four with outriders, every Sun- 
day to church ? Her idea of taste (the ocean 
whence fashion springs) is like the pupil's 
idea of Helen, to whom Apelles said, 'Not 
being able to make her beautiful, you have 
made her splendid.' " 

" Strange," said Mr. Delawarr, " the influ- 
ence of opinion ! We know people to be fools 

•individually we should disdain their judg- 
ment; yet, taken in a mass, no sacrifice seems 
too great to secure their suffrage. The desire 
of notoriety, and the love of fame, differ but 
little; yet one is the meanest, the other the 
noblest feeling in our nature: the one looks to 
the present, and is a mixture of the selfish and 
the commonplace — the other dwells upon the 
future, and is the generous and the exalted." 

"Lady Walsingham's is a very beautiful 
place," observed Emily, from the mere desire 
of saying something. It is curious, that when 
we feel in ourselves the most inclined to si- 
lence, we almost always fancy it is absolutely 
necessary we should talk. 

"It is indeed," replied Lorraine; "I know 
no places that so realize my ideas of luxury as 
these villas — so near our crowded, hot, dusty, 
noisy metropolis; yet so green, so cool, so 
quiet, and so filled with flowers. I dislike 
Richmond itself exceedingly ; just a place of 
visit en Sunday — with its hill covered with 
people, evidently labouring, not against its 
height, but their own good dinner. The curse 
of the steamboat is upon the lovely river; but 
some of the villas, imbedded in their own old 
trees — surrounded by turf the fairy queen 
might tread — girdled with every variety of 
flowery shrub — I do not quite say I could 
spend the whole day there, but I could have a 
luxurious breakfast — one ought to indulge in 
natural tastes of a morning. Alas ! with what 
regret do I see the brick-dust generation in 
which we live, so prolific in squares, crescents, 
places, rows, streets, — tall, stiff houses, with 
red curtains and white blinds ! If this city 
system of colonization goes on, our children 
will advertise a green tree, like an elephant, 
as ' this most wonderful production of nature ;' 
and the meaning of green grass will only be to 
be found in the dictionary." 

"What a valuable art will landscape paint- 
ing be in those days ! A view from nature 
will, both for beauty and rarity, be the chef- 
d'oeuvre of an artist." 

" I must own, landscapes are not my favour- 
ite style of art : it is the feeling, more than the 
seeing, of the country in which I delight ; the 



warm, soft air — the many musical noises — the 
wandering through the lights and shadows of 
thick trees, rather than looking on any given 
point of view." 

" I do agree with you — I hate* a fine pros- 
pect by profession — one that you are expected 
to admire, and say fine things about ; but in 
landscapes I like and dislike what 1 do in 
W 7 ordsworth's poetry : I admire its mountain 
range of distant hill and troubled sky — or the 
lonely spot of inland shade, linked with human 
thought and human interest; but I detest its 
small pieces of rurality, its sheep and its cows. 
In painting, as in poetry, I like to be some- 
what carried out of my every-day existence. 
For example, I give my utmost praise — or, I 
should rather say, my homage — to the Ode on 
Immortality, Tintern Abbey, &c. ; hut my taste 
revolts from Goody Blake and Harry Gill. 
Now, Hofiand's pictures are great favourites 
of mine: there is not only the lovely scene — 
the moon reflected in her softest mirror, the 
wave — but something or other that calls up 
the poetry of memory in the gazer; the battle- 
ments of some old castle, whose only banner 
is now of ivy, or a fallen temple whose divi- 
nity has departed, but whose beauty remains, 
and whose 'fine electric chain' is one of a 
thousand associations." 

"While on the subject of pictures, I heard 
the other day — we cannot vouch, as the news- 
papers say, for* the truth of the report — that 
Lady Walsingham has had her picture and 
her husband's taken in a style at once allego- 
rical and domestic. His lordship is holding a 
cage of doves, to which she is throwing roses : 
I understand her ladyship particularly request- 
ed the cage might be richly gilt." 

"As it is the great principle of political 
economy to tax luxuries, why are not reports 
taxed % Are they not the chief luxuries of so- 
ciety 1 Of all my senses, I thank heaven that 
of hearing is limited : the dative case is very 
well — hearing what is said to me ; but preserve 
me from the ablative case — hearing what is 
said about me." 

" Would Lady Walsingham enjoy hearing 
to-day what is said of her fete yesterday ?" 

"Ah!" exclaimed Emily, "how unkind — 
how unjust this is !" 

"You remember the old proverb, 'a fair 
exchange is no robbery' — or the anecdote of 
Piron, who said that the only speeches neces- 
sary on admission to the French Academy, 
were for the received to say, ' Grand merely 
messieurs;' and for the receivers to reply, -II 
rty a pas de quoi.'' Most hosts and guests 
might exchange these courtesies; and the 
''Grand mercV of vanity might be answered 
by the l ll rty a pas de quoV of ostentation. 
We speak ill of our neighbours, not from ill- 
nature, but idleness; satire is only the cayenne 
of conversation: people have so few subjects 
for talking about in common with their friends 
but their friends — and it is utterly impossible 
to dress them as Fontenelle did his asparagus, 
toute en huile" 

" One reason why Mr. Heathcote who dines 



68 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



here to-day, is called so entertaining-, is, that, 
like the conquerors of old, he gives no quar- 
ter." 

" I regret my absence," said Lorraine; "but 
1 have promised to go and congratulate Lady 
Lauriston on her leaving the oaks of her park 
for the acacias of her villa. Still I lament Mr. 
Heathcote: he knows all the world, and has 
an anecdote for and an epigram upon every- 
body. He kills with diamond arrows; his 
voice is so low, his smile so bland, his whole 
manner so gentle, that you are barely aware 
of the concentrated acid and bitter of his speech. 
I call him cream of tartar. I am sure you will 
be so much amused." 

Emily felt no such certainty — she felt as if 
she could never be amused again. She wan- 
dered into the drawing-room alone; she tried 
her harp — it was out of tune ; her new songs — 
they were not pretty ; she took up a new novel 
— it was so dull! She went into the front 
room — it was too sunny; into the back — it 
was too dark. The sound of Lorraine's cabri- 
olet attracted her to the window; the fear of 
being seen kept her away. At length it drove 
olT; she held her breath to listen to its latest 
sound: another nearer carnage drowned the 
roll of the distant wheels, and s'he felt as if 
even this small pleasure were denied. Strange, 
how any strong feeling refers all things to 
itself! — we exalt by dint of exaggeration. Not 
a creature was in the spacious and beautiful 
rooms : she almost started to see some four or 
five whole-length reflections of herself: the 
solitude made them painful: and, catching up 
a book, she threw herself into an arm-chair, 
which, at least, had the advantage of being far 
from any glass. 

There is a certain satisfaction in the appear- 
ance of employment, and Emily opened her 
book: but she could not read — her thoughts 
were far away. Mortification had added divers 
prose notes to the poetry of the last few weeks. 
Her first impulse was to deny her feelings 
even to herself — her second to laugh bitterly 
at such vain deceit. Then she recalled words, 
looks, whose softness had misled ; — alas ! a 
slight investigation served to show how much 
their colouring had been given by herself : and, 
as a last resource, she began to magnify the 
merit of Edward Lorraine. 

Our being attached to a hero almost makes 
a heroine ; and excellence is an excellent ex- 
cuse for admiration. Yes, he was worthy of 
devotion, such as the heart pays, and once 
only, to the idol it has itself set up ; but it 
was to be deep, silent, and unsuspected. And 
Adelaide — she would love her ! How kind, 
how true, were the next moment's wishes for 
their happiness ! 

What a pity it is that our most pure and 
most beautiful feelings should spring from 
false impressions! What generous self-sacri- 
fice — what a world of gentle affection, were 
now called forth in Emily by a moment's phan- 
tasy, whose life depended on that frailest of 
frail things, a coquette's vanity ! 

How untrue, to say youth is the happiest 
reason of our life: it is filled with vexations, 



for almost all its ideas are lalse ones they 
must be set right — and often how harshly! 
Its hopes are actual beliefs; how often must 
they be taught doubt by disappointment ! 
And then its keen feelings, laying themselves 
so bare to the beak of the vulture experience ! 
Youth is a season that has no repose. 

They spent the next fortnight at Richmond 
— and a very miserable fortnight it was ; for 
Lady Lauriston's villa was at Twickenham, 
and whether on the river or the road, the ar- 
rangement was always the same — Adelaide 
was the care of Lorraine. Emily soon founa 
her fancy for cultivating the friendship of her 
fair rival was fancy indeed. Lady Adelaide 
had been brought up in a proper sense of the 
danger of confidence: young friends, as her 
mother used to observe, are either useless o T 
mischievous; and Adelaide duly considered 
her young friends as nonentities or rivals. 

If, however, the sister was as cold as po- 
liteness, the brother was being animated very 
rapidly into something like warmth. Now an 
only son, it was his duty to marry : moreover 
he thought a married man more comfortable 
than a single one: many little liberties were 
taken with a single, never taken with a mar- 
ried man ; it was purchasing an exemption 
from young ladies at once. Finally, he 
thought Emily was in love with him ; she 
always took "his arm in walking, and they 
were sure to sit by each other at dinner. He 
forgot Emily had no choice. Preoccupied 
and absent, Lord Merton never came into 
Emily's head: excepting their intervisiting, 
both families were living rather retired, — so 
there was no third' person to say, " Ah, what 
a conquest you have made !" This phrase, 
which so often opens the eyes to what does 
not exist, gave here no intimation of actual 
mischief. 

Yet our four lovers were all on the brink of 
discord. Lorraine was beginning to think his 
divinity not quite so divine — delays are dan- 
gerous — and neither his vanity nor his senti- 
ment was satisfied at the little progress he had 
made. Adelaide was tiring of flirtation, which 
had only held so long a reign from the death 
of a relation having forced them into most 
unwilling retirement. It was very tiresome 
of aunts to die, if they were to be considered 
relations. 

The second season thus broken up, Lady 
Lauriston was daily impressing on her beau- 
ty's mind the necessity of a "further-looking 
hope" and an establishment. Emily was sad, 
weary, and seemed ill : all said late hours 
were too much for her — a good sign, thought 
her calculating lover, in a wife; and every 
morning, between the paragraphs of the 
Morning Herald, Lord Merton weighed the 
advantages and disadvantages of wedded life. 

Miss Arundel had never been properly 
brought out as an heiress; and amazing ani- 
mation was added to the attachment, when, 
one evening, Lady Lauriston detailed to her 
dear Alfred much excellent advice, and the 
information that Emily was her uncle's adopt- 
ed child, and, as such, certain of a noble for- 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



G9 



tune, — to say nothing of hopes from her aunt, 
whose property her indefatigable ladyship had 
ascertained was at her own disposal. 

The next morning, her for once very obedient 
son rode back with Lorraine. Want of some- 
thing else to say, and a very shady lane, dis- 
posed him to confidence ; and he forthwith 
began a panegyric on himself, and on .the good 
fortune of Miss Arundel, stating, he was now 
on his road to offer himself and his debts to 
her acceptance. Lorraine was surprised. I 
have heard it said that no man ever believes a 
woman can fall in love with his friend : I 
would add, she certainly falls marvellously in 
his opinion if she doe?; — and Edward's first 
thoughts were of Lord Merton's divers imper- 
fections. Never had he seemed more selfish 
or more silly: "but, to be sure, the fool has a 
title;" and he amused himself with recalling 
all the usual commonplaces on the vanity and 
ambition of woman, while Merton poured into 
his ear the w T hole stream of his self-satisfac- 
tion. 

They arrived : one said he should prolong 
his ride for an hour or two — the other went 
into the drawing-room. Emily was seated in 
the window ; but there was room for two, and 
her unsuspected lover took his place. Me- 
chanically she shut the book, assumed an 
attitude of attention, and prepared a few yeses. 
Lord Merton began by mentioning the good 
qualities he required in a wife, and thence 
took occasion to apply them all to Emily ; but 
his introduction had been so long, that she, 
who knew no earthly reason why she should 
be interested in the various excellences of the 
future Lady Merton, allowed her thoughts to 
wander, and was only roused from her revery 
by her hand being taken — a little rapture being 
deemed necessary at her consent — so her si- 
lence had been interpreted — and kissed with 
as much devotedness as Merton could show 
any one but himself. Surprised and angry, 
she rose from her seat, and exclaimed, " I 
really do not understand" — a sentence Lord 
Merton did not give her time to finish; for 
ascribing her retreat to embarrassment, he 
was most desirous of sustaining her under the 
weight of obligation, lest her gratitude should 
be quite fatiguing. Slowly the conviction 
broke upon him that she had not heard what 
he had been saying. 

"Am I to understand, madam, that you 
have not listened to what I was mentioning ?" 

Now really sorry and confused, Emily 
pleaded headache — said she could not account 
for her absence of mind, — made a thousand 
excuses, — entreated him to mention what he 
had been saying again, a glimmering idea 
having crossed her mind of a charity fair, 
about which he had been affecting much inte- 
rest ; and referring his thanks to his supposing 
she had promised her assistance, and with 
floating visions of guitars, butterflies, and 
boots made into pin-cushions, now prepared 
to listen in good earnest. 

With the concentrated anger of fourteen 

Eatriots at a list of sinecures in which they 
ave no part, or a dozen professors who find 



they cannot get pupils — nor fees without. 
Lord Merton steadied his voice, almost inar- 
ticulate from rage, sufficiently to answer, — 

"Yes, Miss Arundel, I will repeat; but, 
remember, repetition is not renewal. I offered 
you the title of Lady Merton, I am sorry for 
you, — good morning ;" and Lord Merton left 
the room, thoroughly convinced of Emily's 
vain regrets, and with auite an elation of 
spirit from thinking his dignity had been pro- 
perly supported, and the offender punished by 
his not repeating the offer. 

Emily sat in the window, sometimes pon- 
dering on objects without, and then on those 
within, when Lorraine's entrance interrupted 
a very profound meditation on the strange 
contrarieties of love affairs in this world. 

" Has Merton been here this morning V 

Emily's blush seemed sufficient answer ; 
and Lorraine began a laughing succession of 
questions, congratulations, &c. 

Now this was really too bad, — for him to 
suppose she could think of another, and to 
take her acceptance as a matter of course, — 
and such another, too, as Lord Merton : mor- 
tification lent a helping hand to vexation. 

Lorraine was Merton's friend. Pray, was 
it that which gave such pleasant piquancy to 
Emily's bitter and contemptuous denial of all 
wish for Merton's hand or heart? Certainly 
he had not remembered till then, what a pity 
that such a sweet creature should be so utterly 
thrown away. The human heart is like Pan- 
dora's box — only it is hatred, not hope, that 
lies curled up at the bottom. It is well we are 
little in the habit of analyzing our common 
and passing sensations, — we should be horror- 
struck at our own quantity of hate. 

The next day brought a letter from Mr. 
Arundel, — for the first time he urged his 
niece's return. 

" I miss," said the letter, " your light step, 
and your dear smile, more and more every 
hour. You have many days of life before 
you, — -I but a few. I can spare you no longer, 
dearest Emily. You are not happy, — none 
of your letters breathe the buoyant spirit of 
your age. The last of a house whose branches 
have dropt off one by one, — whose records are 
filled with those who died in their youth, — 
child of a brother in whom I once cherished 
all the active hopes I never indulged for my- 
self, judge how precious you are in my sight. 
I must have you in my own care again, — I 
must have my child home." 

Long and bitterly did Emily weep over this 
letter, — she started with horror from herself. 
Was it possible that she could feel the faintest 
wish for delay 1 She recalled the many happy 
hours she had passed among the old trees, 01 
reading aloud to her uncle some book whose 
delight was too great to keep to herself — she 
thought of favourite walks ; but in the midst 
of all these recollections she found herself 
holding her breath to catch a distant sound of 
Lorraine's step, or a tone of his voice ; ana 
her heart sank cold and dead, when she re- 
membered that in a few days she should listen 
for them in vain. It was with a feeling of 



70 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



atonement she hurried her preparations ; and 
yet when the morning of departure came, it 
seemed scarcely possible it could have come 
so soon. 

No time passes so rapidly as that of painful 
expectancy, — no hour arrives so soon as the 
one we dread. It was a morning of July rain 
—the dreariest of any, perhaps from contrast ; 
we look for sunshine in summer — or because 
it washes away so many sweet flowers and 
bright leaves. Who, for example, can watch 
a tree covered with roses blown into full 
beauty, and not regret, even to pain, the ravage 
of a heavy shower on its branches — the growth 
of its year scattered and destroyed in a morn- 
ing? But every rose in the garden might 
have been destroyed before Emily had pitied 
them ; — the eyes that are filled with tears look 
inwards. Physical miseries greatly add to 
the discomfort of mental ones. Madame de 
Genlis represents one of her lovers as de- 
ploring the loss of his mistress and his feather- 
bed in a breath : and certainly early rising 
increases the pang of separation, — the raw, 
damp air, the headaching feel of lingering 
drowsiness, the cold coffee, the hurry of sleepy 
servants : the science of human happiness — 
and all is science now-a-days — is greatly in 
arrear, or we should fix the middle of the day 
for farewells. Regrets, hopes, good wishes, 
&c, mingled together, — all regretted her de- 
parture. Mr. Delawarr handed her to the car- 
riage ; she leant forward, and caught Lorraine's 
parting bow; the iron gate swung to loudly 
and heavily, — like that of Dante, it shut on 
hope. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

" Those first affections, 
Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day." 
" Though nothing can bring back the hour, 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength In what remains behind : 
In the primal sympathy, 
Which, having been, must ever be— 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering — 
In the faith that looks through death." 

Wordsworth. 

Of all passions, love is the most engrossing 
and the most superstitious. How often has a 
leaf, a star, a breath of wind, been held as an 
omen! It draws all things into somewhat of 
relation to itself: it is despotic, and jealous of 
of all authority but its own: it bars the heart 
against the entrance of other feelings, and deems 
wandering thoughts its traitors. This empire, 
and even more than this, did it hold over 
Emily; yet for a moment its authority was 
lost, while old feelings and former affections 
came thronging in its place, as she caught the 
last red sunshine on the church windows, and 
saw the old avenue of lime trees, and .he shady 
road, which wound through meadows where 
the hay was doubly sweet in the cold evening 
air. Familiar faces looked eagerly at the 
carriage as it drove rapidly by — it was in the 
avenue. Emily saw her uncle hurry down 



the steps — in another moment she was in his 
arms — a sense of security and sympathy came 
over her — tears, long restrained, burst forth ; 
hut the luxury of the moment's passionate 
weeping was interrupted by her aunt's eager 
and talkative welcome. 

" We are so glad to see you — thought you 
were never coming home — tea is ready- 
thought you would like tea after your journey 
— but have something of supper, too — you 
must want something more substantial than 
tea." ^ 

It is curious how inseparable eating an<s 
kindness are with some people. Mr. Arunde 
stopped a moment in the hall to look after the 
carriage, and Emily followed her aunt into the 
room. 

"Don't you think him altered, my ^ear 1 ?" 
— Emily looked quite unconscious of her 
meaning — " your poor, dear uncle — sadly bro- 
ken ; but he would not let you be sent for. I 
have had all the nursing ; but he was resolved 
you should enjoy yourself. You will find us 
very dull after London." 

Emily sprang out of the room — her uncle 
stood in the hall — the light of the open door 
fell full upon him. Pale, emaciated, speak- 
ing with evident difficulty, he looked, to use 
that common but expressive phrase, the pic- 
ture of death. Her very first thought was, 
" I must not let him see how shocked I am." 

With one strong effort, she rejoined her 
aunt — even Mrs. Arundel was startled by her 
paleness. " Come, come, child," said she, 
forcing her to drink a glass of wine, " I can't 
have you to nurse too. I dare say your uncle 
will soon be better : he has missed you so — 
I couldn't go walking and reading about with 
him as you used to do. He will get into good 
humour now. I think he fancies a great deal 
of his illness ; but you see he has been moped. 
Notwithstanding all I could say, he would not 
hear of hurrying you home." 

He now came into the room, and drew his 
seat by Emily. He talked so rejoicingly of 
her return, so gayly of her London campaign ; 
but the cheerfulness was an effort, and the 
silence into which they gradually sunk was a 
relief to the party, except Mrs. Arundel. 

Affection exaggerates its own offences ; and, 
in her perpetual self-reproaches for her ab- 
sence, Emily never remembered that she could 
not really consider herself to blame for what 
she could neither foresee nor prevent; all that 
she dwelt upon was, that she had been, as her 
aunt expressed it, away and enjoying herself, 
while her dear, her kind uncle had been ill and 
solitary. How vividly did she picture to her- 
self his lonely walks, the unbroken solitude of 
his study ! — no one to read aloud his favourite 
passages, or replace his scattered books ! She 
gave a furtive glance at the chess table — the 
little ivory men seemed not to have been 
moved since their last game. She was in a 
fair way of persuading herself that all his 
altered looks were to be ascribed to her ab- 
sence. 

What eager resolutions did she make of 
leaving him no more ! How attentive she 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



71 



would be -aow watch his every glance ! She 
w-.uld prevail on him to walk — he must get 
b< iter with all her care. How youth makes 
iti? wishes hopes, and its hopes certainties ! 
She only looked on his pale face to read re- 
covery. She now broke silence as suddenly 
as she had sank into it. Convinced that he 
required amusement, she exerted herself to the 
utmost to afford it; but her spirits fell to see 
how completely the exertion of listening seem- 
ed to exhaust him ; and when he urged her to 
go to bed early, on the plea that she must be 
tired with her journey, she perceived too plain- 
ly it was to prevent her observation of his ex- 
treme weakness. 

Emily went to bed, and cried herself to 
sleep ; but she woke early. It is like waking 
in a new world, the waking in the morning — 
any morning, after an entire change of place : 
it seems almost impossible we can be quite 
awake. Slowly she looked at the large old- 
fashioned bed, with its flowered curtains — she 
recognised the huge mantel-piece, where the 
four seasons were carved in wood — she knew 
her own dressing-table, w T ith its mirror set in 
silver ; a weight hung on her mind — she felt 
a reluctance to waken thoroughly. Suddenly 
she recalled last night — her uncle's evident 
illness flashed upon her memory — and she 
sprang as hastily from her pillow as if his re- 
covery depended on her rising. 

It was scarcely six o'clock, but she dress- 
ed ; and, stepping softly by her uncle's door 
— for all in his room was profoundly quiet — 
she bent her steps towards the garden ; and, 
with that natural feeling of interest towards 
what is our own, she turned towards the part 
which, marked by a hedge of the wild rose, 
had always been called hers. It was at some 
little distance: in younger days, it had been 
given as a reward and inducement for exer- 
cise — for Emily in winter preferred her own 
little niche by the fireside, or in summer a seat 
by her favourite window, where she had only 
to put out her hand and bring back a rose, to 
all the running arid walking that ever improv- 
ed constitution or complexion ; and though Mr. 
Arundel was never able to imbue her with a 
a very decided taste for weeding, watering, 
&c, still, the garden, connected as it was with 
his kindness and approval, became a sufficient 
motive for exertion; and our fair gardener be- 
stowed a degree of pains and industry on the 
culture of her flowers, for the sake of showing 
her uncle the care she took of what he gave 
ner, that not even an aloe on the verge of 
flowering — those rare blossoms it takes a cen- 
tury to produce, but only a summer to de- 
stroy — would have obtained for its own sake. 

Nothing is so ingenious in its thousand 
ways and means as affection. As she passed 
along the various paths, something of neglect 
struck her forcibly — not but that all was in 
such order as did full credit to the gardener — 
but her accustomed eye missed much of former 
taste and selection. The profusion of lux- 
uriant creepers were twisted and clipped, with 
a regularity that would have done honour to 
any nursery ground. There were more rare, 



and fewer beautiful flowers than formerly , 
and, thanks to the sunflowers and marigolds, 
yellow was the predominant colour. It was 
a relief to turn into the shadowy walk of the 
thick yews' unbroken green, which led to her 
own portion of the shrubbery. 

In a former age, this walk had been the 
pride of the domain — each side being a row of 
heathen gods and goddesses. Jupiter with his 
eagle, Juno with her peacock, Time with his 
scythe, had much outgrown their original pro- 
portions ; still the outline remained, and to 
Emily these relics of sylvan statuary seemed 
like old friends : but the air grew very fra- 
grant, and another turn brought her to her own 
garden. There, at least, she traced her uncle 
— not one of her favourites had been forgotten ; 
and never had the purple and perfumed growth 
of the heliotrope — that sanctuary of odour- 
been so luxuriant, while the bed of the rich 
crimson clove pink was like one of the spice 
islands, the very Manilla of the garden. 

" You see, Miss Emily," said the gardener, 
" we did not forget you. Master always 
would come here; but he has not been round 
our garden these three weeks. Indeed, miss, 
he took no pleasure in nothing after you went 
Why, Miss Emily, you look almost as bad as 
he does. Well, they say London is a sad 
place: nothing will thrive there." 

For the first time in his life, the old gardener 
turned away without waiting for his accus- 
tomed gossip with the young mistress, with 
wmorn he was very indignant for her sojourn 
in town. — winter he could have forgiven, but 
a summer in London! — every successive 
growth of flowers that passed by without 
Emily's seeing and praising them added to 
the deepness of her offence. A few words of 
compliment to his dahlias would have melted 
away his anger; but her silence and non-ob- 
servance of a plat where the campanella had 
been so carefully trained in capital letters form- 
ing her name, — this was too much, and he 
stalked off in one of those fits of dudgeon, the 
dearest privilege of an old and indulged ser- 
vant. However, before he reached the next 
walk, his anger softened into pity, and he went 
on muttering, — 

" Poor thing — poor thing ; she's thinking of 
her uncle. Well, well, — she won't have hirr 
long to think of, poor child. He took no 
pleasure in nothing after she went." 

These words rang in her ears. She sat 
down on a little garden-seat, and wept long and 
bitterly. The self-reproach of a sensitive and 
affectionate temper is of the most refined and 
exaggerating nature. Unmixed grief requires 
and seeks solitude — its unbroken indulgence 
is its enjoyment; but that which is mingled 
with remorse, involuntary shrinks from it- 
self, — it wants consolation — it desires to Leai 
some other voice extenuate its faults, — and 
even while disowning and denying tre offered 
excuse, it is comforted. 

It was this feeling that, as Mr. Morton's 
house in the distance caught Emily's eye. 
made her turn her steps towards it. Early as 
it was, she knew that its being Vie Sabbath 



72 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



would ensure his having risen; he was an 
old kind friend, — she would hear what he 
thought of her uncle's state, and return before 
she could be wanted for breakfast. 

A winding- walk through the shrubbery 
brought her to the little wicket which opened 
on the fields through which she had to pass. 
The first field was one of those spots which 
seem dedicated to peace and beauty; it had 

ately been mown, and the thick young grass 
was only broken by an occasional patch of the 
lilac-coloured clover. Perhaps, in times long 
passed, it had been part of a park, for it was 
as beautifully wooded as the choicest planta- 
tion, and with a regularity which was like the 
remains of an avenue — and older and finer 
beeches were not in the country ; while the 
field itself was surrounded by a hazel hedge, 
the slight boughs now weighed down by light 
green tufts of the nuts. A narrow path skirt- 
ed the side next the road, but it was little 
worn, — the nuts even on the lowest branches 

vere ungathered; for, calm and beautiful as 
tvas the place, it was haunted with one of those 

vil memories which cling like a curse. 

Two young men were travelling this road, 
oound by that early friendship which is one 
of the strongest of human ties; the one going 
down to marry the sister of his friend, — the 
other to witness his happiness. They stopped 
for a night at the little inn in the town; they 
supped in the most exuberant spirits — that 
contagious mirth which to see is to share ; 
they had their jest on the waiter and for the 
landlady; they pledged the landlord in the 
best china bowl, which they said had never 
held such punch before — the green parlour 
rang with their laughter : suddenly their voices 
were heard in loud debate, — then the tones 
were lower, but harsher ; this was succeeded 
by entire silence. They separated for the 
night, each to their several rooms ; but the 
bowl of punch was left almost untouched. 
Next morning their rooms were both empty, 
though in each was their travelling bag and 
portmanteau, and the purse of the darker one, 
containing some guineas, was left on the dress- 
ing-table. Their places had been taken in the 
mail which passed that morning; but they 
were nowhere to be found. At length, half 
scared out of his very small senses, a boy 
came running to the inn, with intelligence that 
a gentleman was lying murdered in the beech- 
tree field : all hurried to the spot, where they 
found the younger of the two stretched on the 
ground, — a pistol, which had been discharged, 
in his hand. The cause of his death was soon 
ascertained — he had been shot directly through 
the heart : at a little distance they found an- 
other pistol, discharged also, and the track of 
steps through the long grass to the high road, 
where all trace was lost. In the trunk of a 
beech, opposite to the deceased, a bullet was 
f ound, evidently the one from his pistol. No 
doubt remained that a duel had been fought ; 
and letters were found on the body, which 
showed that the young men were the only 
tons of two distinguished families in the ad- 
jacent county. The one who was to have 



been married had fallen ; of the survivor no 
tidings were ever heard, and the cause of 
their quarrel remained, like his fate, an impe- 
netrable obscurity. 

Enough of murder, and mystery, which 
always seems to double the crime it hides, 
was in this brief and tragic story to lay upon 
the beautiful but fatal field the memory of 
blood. The country people always avoided 
the place ; and some chance having deposited 
the seeds of a crimson polyanthus, which had 
taken to the soil and flourished, universal was 
the belief that the blood had coloured the prim- 
roses ; and the rich growth of the flowers 
served to add to the legendary horrors of one 
of the most lovely spots in the world. 

The history attached to it could not but 
recur to Emily as she passed, and her heart 
sank within her — not with fear, but at the 
thought, how much of misery there was in the 
world ; and why should she be spared amid 
such general allotment'? Often had she imaged 
the wretchedness which so suddenly over- 
whelmed two families — the despair of that 
young bride ; but never came they so vividly 
before her as now. Fear and sorrow are the 
sources of sympathy ; the misfortunes of 
others come home to those who are antici- 
pating their own. She quickened her steps to 
gain the next field — a green sunny slope lead- 
ing directly to the vicarage, which was also 
covered with sunshine: a blessing rested upon 
it; it was close by the church — one of Nor- 
man architecture — whose square tower was 
entirely hidden by the luxuriant growth of 
ivy. The church was visible, but not the 
churchyard, so that the eye rested on the sign 
of faith and hope, without the melancholy 
show of human suffering and death which sur- 
rounded it. The scene looked so cheerful ! — 
the small white house overgrown with jessa- 
mine, more rich, however, in green than in 
bloom, the leaves overshadowing the flowers, 
the more delicate for their rarity; the garden, 
whose gay-coloured beds were now distinct ; 
the quiet of the Sunday morning, only broken 
by the musical murmuring of the trees,— all 
was cheerfulness ; and with one of those sud- 
den changes outward impulses so mysterious- 
ly produce, Emily stepped lightly into the 
little garden. The old man was seated by the 
window, which opened to the ground, reading, 
and she was at his side before he raised his 
eyes. 

"My dear Emily, this is kind." 

"Say selfish, rather," almost sobbed his 
visiter, for the tone of his voice recalled her 
uncle, and with that came the full tide of re- 
collection and remorse. Mr. Morton also 
remembered — what had been forgotten in the 
first pleasure of seeing his young favourite — 
all he had proposed of comfort. He took her 
hand, and kindly led her into the breakfast- 
room; he opened the Bible, and pointed to 
one passage — "The Lord gave, and the Lord 
hath taken away; blessed be the name of the 
Lord !" Emily read the passage like a death- 
warrant, and burst into passionate reproaches 
for having left her uncle. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



73 



Mr. Morton had been overruled, not con- 
vinced, by the tenderness which had kept her 
in ignorance, to be expiated by such bitter 
after-suffering. He knew Emily, and he felt 
it would have been more real kindness to have 
recalled her — it mattered not from what: any 
thing of pleasure sacrificed would have been a 
consolation. He did not attempt to give her 
false hopes — he said little of the ignorance 
which had kept,her away — but he dwelt upon 
what she had still to do — the affectionate care 
which her uncle was yet able to enjoy and 
appreciate. " You must not suffer Mr. Arun- 
del to be much by himself: that sunny terrace 
was just made for an invalid, and your arm 
will often tempt him to walk. My sweet 
Emily, restraint on your own feelings is the 
best proof of love to your uncle." 

Few more words passed, and Emily turned 
homewards. Hope is the prophet of youth — 
young eyes will always look forward. Mr. 
Morton had spoken of exercise and attention 
— they might work miracles : the bright, 
beautiful summer — surely its influence must 
be genial ! She looked with so much reliance 
on the thousand indications of existence 
around her — the murmur of the distant village 
— all its varying sounds, its voices, its steps 
' — all blent into that one low musical echo 
which is, nevertheless, such certain sign of 
human neighbourhood. Every bough had its 
bird — every blossom its bee — the long grass 
was filled with myriads of insects. Amid so 
much of life, how difficult to believe in death ! 
One loss teaches us to expect another, but 
Emily was unfamiliar with the realities of 
death : there was no vacant place in the small 
circle of her affections — she had never yet lost 
a friend. 

Both Mr. and Mrs. Arundel were in the 
breakfast-room, and her aunt's shrill, dry voice 
was very audible. "Well, there is no ad- 
vising some people to their good : Mrs. Clarke 
told me, she knew three persons cured of ex- 
actly your complaint, by taking a raw egg 
before breakfast." 

" The remedy, my dear, was worse than 
the disease," said Mr. Arundel, turning away 
with an inward loathing from the yellow 
liquid, which, ever since Mrs. Clarke's call, 
had been duly presented every morning. 

"Men are so obstinate; but I shall Tbeat it 
up in your tea— I can't have the egg wasted : 
or, there's Emily — I dare say it's very good 
for her." 

Emily's preference of coffee, however, ren- 
dered this little plan for her good of no avail ; 
so Mrs. Arundel, after a running fire or mut- 
tered remarks on some people's obstinacy, and 
other people's not knowing what was good for 
them, ended by eating the egg herself. In- 
deed, as she afterwards observed to her friend 
Mrs. Clarke, " she wanted strengthening quite 
as much as any of them." In truth, poor Mr. 
Arundel had suffered a complete martyrdom 
of remedies : ground-ivy tea, hartshorn jelly, 
rhubarb biscuits, &c, were only a few of the 
many infallibles that had nearly driven the 

Vol. I.— 10 



complaisant apothecary out of his smiles, and 
Mr. Arundel out of his senses. 

Though it was Sunday, Mrs. Arundel had 
always some household arrangements to 
make ; and for the next half hour — excepting 
that twice every thing in the room had to be 
moved to look for the keys, which all the while 
were in her own pocket — Emily and her uncle 
were left to the uninterrupted enjoyment of 
conversation, whose expression was affection, 
and whose material was confidence. Ah ! 
how pleasant it is to talk when it would be 
impossible to say whether speaking or listen- 
ing is the greatest pleasure. Still, Mr. Arun- 
del saw, and saw with regret, that Emily 
returned not home the same as she went. 
The narrative of the young carries its hearer 
along by its own buoyancy — by the gladness 
which is contagious ; but Emily^s recital was 
in the spirit of another age- — there lay a fund 
of bitterness at her heart, which vented itself 
in sarcasm ; she spoke more truly, more 
coldly of pleasures than suited her few years 
— surely, it was too soon for her to speak of 
their vexation and^vanity. 

But the bustle'and hurry which always 
preceded Mrs. Arundel's going to church — for 
which she was always too late — put an end to 
their conversation, and they hurried across the 
fields — her aunt only interrupting her account 
of how tiresome it was that Mr. Arundel 
would take nothing that did him any good, and 
of what a deal of trouble she had had with him, 
by incessant inquiries if Emily could hear the 
bell, which, near as they were to the church, 
no one could avoid hearing, if it were going. 
Most of the congregation were seated before 
they arrived, and Emily had no time to look 
round for familiar faces, ere Mr. Morton's deep 
sweet voice impressed even the most thought- 
less of his listeners with somewhat of his own 
earnest attention. 

" It is good for me that I have been afflict- 
ed," may be said in many senses, but in none 
so truly as in a religious one. It is our own 
weakness that makes us seek for support — it 
is the sadness of earth that makes us look up 
to heaven. Fervently and confidingly did 
Emily pray that day ; and who shall say that 
such prayers are vain 1 They may not be 
granted ; but their faith has strengthened the 
soul, and their hope is left behind : and if the 
feelings of this w r orld did intrude on her de- 
votion, they were purified and exalted by 
thoughts of the world to come. 

Amid the many signs of that immortality of 
which our nature is so conscious, none has the 
certainty, the conviction, of affection : we feel 
that love, which is stronger and better than 
life, was made to outlast it. In the memory 
that survives the lost and the dear, we have 
mute evidence of a power over the grave: and 
religion, while it holds forth the assurance of 
a blessed reunion, is acknowledged and an- 
swered from our own heart. We stand beside 
the tomb, but we look beyond it — and sorrow 
is as the angel that sits at the gates of heaven 

Many kindly greetings awaited Emily in 
G 



74 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



the churchyard — the more cordial, perhaps, 
that the givers were inferiors ; for, with the 
exception of the apothecary's lady, who was 
thinking- that Miss Arundel, just from London, 
ought not to have come to church in a large 
straw-bonnet, — Mrs. Smith was one of those 
quick-eyed persons who take a pattern, or 
something like it, at a glance, — and the law- 
yer's feminine representative, an expansive 
and comely dame — one who looked little ac- 
customed to act, still less to think, but with 
the scarlet-shawled,' (it was July,) silk-bon- 
netted air of one well to do in the world — and 
truly, as the husbands of these ladies could 
have witnessed, those have a thriving harvest 
who reap from human sickness and sin ; — 
with these exceptions, the whole congregation 
belonged to the order of the respectable rather 
than the genteel — though that word is now so 
ramified in its branches as to include far more 
than our most speculative ancestors ever 
dreamed of in their philosophy. But those 
now assembled decidedly belonged to what a 
patriot from the hustings would call " that in- 
estimable class of individuals" — or, as Gold- 
smith entitles them, " their country's pride" — 
from which we beg leave to differ — " the pea- 
santry." 

Not that we are in the least detracting from 
a body of people whose honesty and industry 
we are most ready to acknowledge when we 
find them ; but, thinking as we do, that the 
watch-word of the day, " melioration," could 
never be better put into action than for the 
benefit of this very class — when we consider 
the want — and want is the parent of more 
crime than even idleness, that root of all evil, 
as our copy-books assure us — the ignorance, 
often almost brutality — the discontent, so sad- 
ly justified by toil, so unredeemed by aught 
of higher hope — the mornings of hard work — 
the weekly evenings of dispute — and the Sab- 
bath evening of drunkenness : — truly, a coun- 
try which considers such a race as " her pride," 
is deplorably in want of something to be 
proud of. Let any one wmo indulges in such 
mischievous (we say mischievous, where these 
reveries take the place of remedies) visions 
of rural felicity, spend a week in the house 
of any country justice. The innocence of the 
country is very much like its health — a sort 
of refuge for the destitute : the poet talks of 
its innocence, from not knowing where else to 
place it — and the physician of its health, 
sending thither his incurable patients, that 
they may at least not die under his hands. 

Few now assembled but had a remembrance 
of some of those thousand little kindlinesses 
which daily occur in the common intercourse 
of life. How often had her intercession been 
asked and obtained ! Not a cottage but she 
had been in the habit of visiting. And who 
does not know that notice is often more grate- 
fully remembered than service ] — the one flat- 
ters, the other only obliges us. All the child- 
ren crowded round with mingled impressions 
of joy and fear, according as memories of 
gingerbread or the Catechism prevailed ; for 



Emily had taken much delight — perhajs a 
little pride — in her school. Sancho Panza 
says, it is pleasant to govern, though only a 
flock of sheep. Mrs. Arundel, however, hur- 
ried home — the popularity of another requires 
strong nerves! — not but that she herself was 
kind in her own way, and charitable too ; but 
the difference was this — the aunt gave and 
scolded, the niece gave and smiled. 

Mr. Arundel had lain down some time. 
Mrs. Arundel remained in the parlour with the 
medical and legal ladies — she for news, they 
for luncheon — while Emily stole softly to her 
uncle's room. Though the light fell full on 
his face, he was asleep — a calm, beautiful, 
renovating sleep — and Emily sat down by his 
bedside. The love which bends over the 
sleeping is, save in its sorrow, like the love 
which bends over the dead — so deep, so so- 
lemn ! Suddenly he opened his eyes, bu* 
without any thing of the starting return to 
consciousness with which people generally 
awake — perhaps her appearance harmonized 
with his dream. Without speaking, but with 
a look of extreme fondness, he took her hand, 
and, still holding it, slept again. 

Emily felt the clasp tighten and tighten, 
till the rigidity was almost painful : she had 
drawn the curtains, lest the sun, now come 
round to that side of the house, should shine 
too powerfully; a. strange awe stole over her 
in the gloom: she could scarcely, in its pre- 
sent position, discern her uncle's face, and she 
feared to move. The grasp grew tighter, but 
the hand that held hers colder; his breathing 
had all along been low, but now it was inau- 
dible. Gently she bent her face over his : 
unintentionally — for she dreaded to awaken 
him — her lips touched his; there was no 
breath to be either heard or felt, and the mouth 
was like ice. With a sudden, a desperate 
effort, she freed her hand, from which her 
uncle's instantly dropped on the bed-side, 
with a noise, slight indeed, but, to her ears, 
like thunder; she flung open the curtains — 
again the light came full into the room — and 
looked on a face which both those who have 
not, and those who have before seen, alike 
know to be the face of death. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

" And the presence of death was in the house, and the 
shadows of the grave rested upon it." 

" You had far better, Emily, go to bed, and 
take a little hot wine and water — the r.urso 
can sit up. What," in a lower tone, " is she 
here for]" 

" I cannot — indeed I cannot," was the an- 
swer. 

"Well, you always were obstinate;" and 
Mrs. Arundel took her own advice, viz., the 
hot wine and water, and the going to bed, 
leaving Emily to that sad and solemn watch 
the living* keep by thn &eh&. A week had now 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



75 



elapsed ; and let even the most indifferent — 
those linked to the dead by no ties of love or 
kindred — say what such a week is. The 
darkened windows — the empty rooms, whose 
very furniture looks unfamiliar in the dim, ex- 
cluded light— the stealthy steps, the whisper- 
ing voices — faces with a strange, because neces- 
sary, gravity — and, whether it be those bowed 
down with real affliction, or those whose only 
feeling can be the general awe of death, all 
differing from their ordinary selves. And, 
with one of life's most usual, yet most pain- 
ful contrasts — while the persons are so much 
changed, yet the things remain the same. 
The favourite chair, never to be filled again 
by its late occupier — the vacant place at table 
— a picture, perhaps now with more of life 
than its original — the thousand trifles that re- 
call some taste or habit — and all these things 
so much more deeply felt when no long ill- 
ness has already thrown events out of their 
usual circle, already broken in upon all old 
accustomed wa) T s. When he who is now de- 
parted was amongst us but yesterday — when 
there has been, as it were, but a step from the 
fireside to the death-bed — a surprise and a 
shock add to the sorrow which takes us so 
unawares. And then the common events that 
fill up the day in domestic life — the provision 
for the living made in the presence of the 
dead ; in one room a dinner, in the other a 
coffin — that strange mixture of ordinary oc- 
currence and unusual situation. And yet 'tis 
well : — make that week the gloomiest we can 
— exclude the glad daylight — silence the hu- 
man voice and step — yet how soon, amid the 
after-hurry and selfishness of life, will that 
brief space of mourning be forgotten ! There 
is wisdom in even the exaggeration of grief — 
there is little cause to fear we should feel too 
much. 

It was nearly one o'clock when Emily be- 
gan her solitary watch ; and as the last sound 
died along the passage, her heart died within 
her too. Who shall account for the cold, 
creeping sensation that, in the depth of night, 
steals over us 1 Who is there that has not 
felt that vague, but strong terror, which in- 
duces us — to use a childish but expressive 
phrase — to hide our head under the bedclothes, 
as if there was some appearance which to look 
for was to see? — when we ourselves could 
give no definite cause for our fear, which our 
reason at the very moment tells us is folly, 
and tells us so in vain. 

Even grief gave way before this sensation 
in Emily. She had said to herself that she 
would pray by the dead — take a long, last 
gaze on features so dear ; and now she was 
riveted to her chair by a creeping terror, per- 
haps worse for having no ostensible cause. 
The arm-chair where she sat seemed a protec- 
tion ; what did, what could she dread in 
moving from it ! She knew not, but she did 
dread. Her sight seemed to fail her as she 
looked round the vast dim room : the old 
painted ceiling appeared a mass of moving and 
hideous faces — the huge, faded, red curtains 
nad, as it were, some unnatural motion, as if 



some appalling shape were behind — and the 
coffin — the unclosed coffin — left unclosed at 
her earnest prayer — her limbs refused to bear 
her towards it, and her three hours' vigil 
passed in mute terror rather than affliction. 
Suddenly a shadow fell before her — and not ii 
life had depended on its suppression, could 
Emily have checked the scream that arose to 
her lips ; it was only the nurse, who, her own 
sleep over, was to share the few hours that 
yet remained. The relief of a human face— 
the sound of a human voice — Emily felt ab- 
solutety grateful for the old woman's company. 
It was oppressively hot, and the nurse, draw- 
ing back the heavy curtains, opened one of the 
windows. Though the shutters still remained 
closed, a gleam of daylight came warm and 
crimson through each chink and crevice — 
"and it has been light some time," thought 
Emily ; and shame and regret, at having 
wasted in fear and folly hours so sacred, so 
precious, smote upon her inmost heart. 
Seated in an arm-chair, with her back to the 
light, her companion was soon again sleeping ; 
and Emity, kneeling beside the coffin, looked 
for the last time on her uncle. 

Deep as may be the regret, though the lost 
be the dearest, nay, the only tie that binds to 
earth, never did the most passionate grief give 
way to its emotion in the presence of the dead. 
Awe is stronger than sorrow : there is a calm, 
which, though we do not share, we dare not 
disturb ; the chill of the grave is around them 
and us. I have heard of the beauty of the 
dead : it existed in none that I have seen. The 
unnatural blue tinge which predominates in 
the skin and lips; the eyes closed, but so evi- 
dently not in sleep — in rigidity, not repose ; 
the set features, stern almost to reproof; the 
contraction, the drawn, shrunk look about the 
nose and mouth; the ghastly thin hands,— 
Life, the animator, the beautifier — the marvel 
is not, how thou couldst depart, but how ever 
thou couldst animate this strange and fearful 
tenement! Is there one who has not at some 
time or other bent down — with that terrible 
mingling of affection and loathing impulse, 
each equally natural, each equally be}*ond our 
control — bent down to kiss the face of the 
dead ] and who can ever forget the indefinable 
horror of that touch ] — the coldness of snow 
the hardness of marble felt in the depth of 
winter, are nothing to the chill which runs 
through the veins from the cold hard cheek, 
which yields no more to our touch : icy and 
immovable, it seems to repulse the caress in 
which it no longer has part. 

Emily strove to pray; but her thoughts 
wandered in spite of every effort. Pra3'ers for 
the dead we know are in vain ; and prayers for 
ourselves seem so selfish. The first period is 
one of such mental confusion — fear, awe, grief, 
blending and confounding each other; we are, 
as it were, stunned by a great blow. Prayers 
and tears come afterward. 

She was roused from her revery by woids 
whose sense she comprehended not, but me- 
chanically she obeyed the nurse, who led her 
into the adjoining room. It was her uncle s 



76 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



' ressing closet, and his clothes were all scat- 
tered about. There is no wretchedness like 
the sight of these ordinary and common ob- 
jects — that these frail, worthless garments 
should thus outlast their wearer ! But the 
noise in the next room became distinct- — heavy 
steps, suppressed but unfamiliar — a clink as 
of workman's tools— and then the harsh grat- 
ing sounds : they were screwing down the 
coffin. She threw herself on her knees; she 
buried her head in the cushions of the chair in 
vain ; her sense of hearing was acute to agony ; 
every blow struck upon her heart; but the 
stillness that followed was even worse. She 
rushed into the next room : it was empty — the 
coffin was gone ! The sound of wheels, un- 
noticed till now, echoed from the paved court- 
yard — the windows only looked towards the 
garden ; but the voices of strangers, from 
whose very thought she shrank, prevented her 
stirring. Slowly one coach after another 
drove off; she held her breath to catch the last 
sound of the wheels. All in a few minutes 
was silence, like that of the grave to which 
they were journeying. 

Emily suddenly remembered that one of the 
windows commanded a turn in the road. She 
opened it just in time to see the last black 
coach wind slowly through the boughs, so 
green, so sunny : that, too, past — and Emily 
sunk back, as if the conviction had but just 
reached her, that her uncle was indeed dead ! 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

" He seem'd 
To common lookers-on like one who dream'd 
Of idleness in groves Elysian. Ah, well-a-day ! 
Why should our young Endymion pine away 1" 

Keats. 
" The fateful day passed by; and then there came 
Another and another." Marcian Colonna. 

" Do you know this Lord Etheringhame of 
whom I hear such romantic histories 1" said 
Adelaide Merton to her brother. 

" Not I. There's devilish good shooting 
in his woods ; but they say he won't let a 
creature come near his grounds — he can't bear 
to see anybody." 

" How very interesting !" 

"A great fool." 

" It is a noble place." 

" He is not married, Adelaide." 

"Do you know," said the lady, reining her 
norse closer to her brother's, with whom, f ante 
de mieux, she was riding, " I have taken a 
strange whim into my head 1 Now, Alfred, 
do let us contrive an introduction to this most 
unsociable gentleman. I am dying of ennui 
at my uncle's, and it would be quite an adven- 
ture." 

" You are mighty clever — always were, in 
managing your own matters — not so stupid as 
you think me. What do you want with Lord 
Etheringhame V 

" Want with him ! Nothing but the pleasure 
of doing what nobody else could — gaining ad- 
mittance into this inhospitable castle." 



" Fine shooting," again muttered Lord Mer« 
ton ; " and if I knew Lord Etheringhame, he 
might ask me to shoot over his grounds." 

Campbell talks of the magic of a name — 
yes, if the name be partridges. 

" Well, Adelaide ; but how do you mean to 
contrive it ]" 

" The very elements conspire for rat," re- 
plied Adelaide, pointing to two or three rain- 
drops on her habit. " We are now in the only 
permitted road of the Park ; but young people 
are very thoughtless. These fine old trees, a 
good point of view, tempt us to diverge — we 
take this road," turning her horse into one 
closely shaded by beech : " this, after a few 
more turns, brings us to a kind of pavilion. 
By that time — I do like showery weather — 
yonder black cloud will oblige us with its con- 
tents. You insist on my taking shelter in the 
pavilion : there we find Lord Etheringhame. 
We are distressed beyond measure at the in- 
trusion — so surprised at finding him there. 
Talk of my delicate health : your romantic 
gentlemen have a great idea of delicacy. 
Leave the rest to me." 

" Be sure you turn the conversation on 
shooting." 

But the rain, which now began to fall in 
good earnest, somewhat hurried their proceed- 
ings. A smart gallop brought them to the 
pavilion. A gallop always puts people in a 
good humour; and Merton helped his sister to 
dismount more amiably than she expected. 

They entered ; and, sure enough, there was 
Lord Etheringhame. The intelligence of that 
purveyor of ringlets and reports, her maid," 
was true, that there he usually spent his 
mornings. Apologies, and assurances that 
apologies were needless — exclamations at the 
weather, filled up the first ten minutes. 

The surprise was something of a shock; 
but people may be frightened into their wits 
as well as out of them ; and the necessity for 
exertion usually brings with it the power — 
and really Lord Etheringhame succeeded won- 
derfully well. Conversation became quite 
animated ; the beauty of the scenery led to 
painting ; painting to poetry. It was singular 
how well they agreed. It was very true Ade- 
laide had read little more than the title-page 
of the works they talked about; but where a 
person is predetermined to acquiesce, compa- 
rative criticism is particularly easy. Perhaps 
his constitutional timidity had done more to- 
wards banishing Etheringhame from society 
than his melancholy; perhaps that shame at- 
tendant on change of opinion, however justi- 
fiable, (we hate to contradict ourselves, it is 
so rude,) also supported the claims of a seclu- 
sion which had long been somewhat weari- 
some : but here time had not been given him 
for thick-coming fancies — and he found him- 
self talking, nay, laughing, with a very lovely 
creature, and secretly asking himself, where 
was the embarrassment of it ] 

But neither showers nor any other means of 
human felicity ever last. The clouds broke 
away, and the sun shone most provokingly in 
at the windows — a fact instantly stated by 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



77 



Lord Merlon, who was getting very tired of a 
conversation which as yet had not turned on 
. his sort, of game. 

Adelaide was too scientific to prolong her 
stay : she had made her impression, and never 
had she looked more loveJy. The slight, fine- 
ly-turned shape was seen to advantage in the 
close habit ; its dark colour was in good con- 
trast to a cheek flushed into the purest and 
most brilliant crimson by exercise ; while her 
bright hair, relaxed by the rain, hung down 
in that half-curled state, perhaps its most be- 
soming. A lingering hope of the covies gave 
unusual animation to her brother's manner, 
when he hoped their acquaintance was only 
begun : here Adelaide interposed : 

" Mamma would be so delighted to offer her 
thanks. I am such a spoiled child, that every 
thing is of consequence. You do not know 
what an important thing a cold of mine is. 
But really we are such quiet people, I am 
afraid to ask you where there is so little in- 
ducement, unless" — and here she laughed one 
of those sweet frank laughs of childish re- 
liance — " unless you come to see ourselves." 

What could a gentleman say but yes — "such 
quiet people," "only ourselves?" Why a re- 
fusal would be downright rude : nothing like 
putting a person under an obligation of doing 
what they wish. Our recluse said, " He must 
do himself the honour of inquiring if Lady 
Adelaide had taken cold." 

Oil they rode, and left a blank behind. 
Etheringhame took up a book, and thought 
how much pleasanter it was to talk than to 
read. He walked out— looked at his watch — 
wondered it was not later — wished dinner 
were ready ; in short, was in that most un- 
comfortable situation — of a young gentleman 
who has nothing to do ; went to bed, and spent 
a restless night. 

"Very well managed," said Adelaide, as 
they rode that morning aw r ay from the pavi- 
lion. 

"I am sure," rejoined Merton, "I would 
not have gone in but for your promise about the 
shooting. Not a word did you say, though : — 
you won't find it so easy to take me in again." 

"Wait a little, my good brother, and when 
those manors are at my feet, you shall shoot 
over them till you have killed partridges enow 
for a pyramid," 

A single "humph" — much the same sort 
of reply as the swine made to the lady in love 
with him — was the fraternal answer ; and they 
proceeded homewards. 

With all the pleasant consciousness of meri- 
torious endeavour and successful pursuit, did 
Adelaide hasten to her mother's dressing-room, 
which only that very morning had been the 
scene of most ungracious recrimination, — the 
daughter complaining bitterly of a summer of 
life's most important, i. e. most marriageable 
time, being wasted in a neighbourhood whose 
only resemblance to heaven was, that there 
was neither marrying nor giving in marriage — 
there was not so much as a widower in the 
county. Certainly, her uncle, Mr. Stan- 
more's residence, where they were upon a 



visit, had but a poor perspective for a young 
lady with speculation in her eyes. The 
mother, in return, eloquent on the folly of 
flirtation, and the involvement of debt — said 
Edward Lorraine might have been secured— 
and the parties had separated in sullen silence 

Lady Lauriston was therefore proportionably 
surprised to see the young lady re-enter, all 
smiles, eagerness, and apologies. Her adven- 
tures were soon recounted — plans formed — and 
assistance promised. Lord Etheringhame's 
noble descent and nobler fortune rose in vivid 
perspective. 

The next morning Lady Adelaide was sur- 
prised by her visiter at her harp. The open 
window and the figure were quite a picture — 
and Algernon had an eye for the picturesque. 
The countess, however, only allowed time for 
effect, and entered. Conversation was soon 
pleasantly and easily begun. Nothing like 
feminine facilities for discourse; and with 
little talent and less information, — but with a 
tact, w r hich, commenced by interest and sharp- 
ened by use, stood in lieu of both, — Lady 
Lauriston was a woman with whom it would 
be as wearisome to talk, as it would be to pe- 
rambulate long a straight gravel walk, and 
neatly arranged flowers ; but the first approach 
was easy — nay, even inviting. Lady Adelaide 
was what the French term spirituelk— one of 
those epithets, which, like their bijouterie and 
souvenirs, are so neatly turned. Both saw at 
a glance that the common topics of the day 
would have reduced Algernon to silence ; he 
could take no part where he was so profoundly 
ignorant. Each, therefore, aided the other in 
guiding the dialogue to general subjects of 
taste, blent with a little tone of sentiment. 

Imperceptibly the morning slipped away. 
Mr. Stanmore came in. Lady Lauriston con- 
fessed the early hours they kept. Dinner was 
just ready, and Lord Etheringhame stayed ; and 
after, when the gentlemen were left to their 
wine tete-a-tete — for Merton was from home — 
the uncle unconsciously forwarded all their 
plans. A plain, good man, whose kindness 
was the only obstacle to his shrewdness, and 
who, if sometimes wrong in his judgment, was 
only so from leaning to the favourable side, 
Mr. Stanmore w r as rejoiced to see his neigh- 
bour though but for a day leave a seclusion 
which very much militated against the ideas 
of one whose utility was of the most active 
description. A man of less warmth of heart 
might have been too indifferent — one of more 
refinement too delicate — to touch on Lord 
Etheringhame's habits. A kindly intention is 
often the best eloquence; and whether the 
prosperity of an argument, like that of a jest, 
lies in the ear of him who hears, certainly Mr. 
Stanmore had not his arguments so frequently 
followed by conviction. But the repose of oui 
recluse had lately been broken in npon by 
divers and vexatious complaints. Grievances 
to be redressed, leases to be renewed, and a 
few plain facts of the mismanagement and 
even misconduct of those around him, stated 
by an eyewitness, brought forcibly forward the 
evil of his indolent solitude. Hitherto he had 

62 



78 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



consoled himself by that most mischievous of 
axioms — it hurts no one but myself. He was 
now obliged to acknowledge that it injured 
others also ; — and when Mr. Stanmore pro- 
posed a ride round a part of the estate now in 
sad and wasteful disorder, it met with ready 
acquiescence from his guest. 

The evening passed delightfully. Adelaide 
soon found that talking of his brother was a 
great source of pride and pleasure to Algernon, 
in whom she forthwith expressed great interest, 
but of the most subdued and quiet kind. The 
avowal that a gentleman is a young man whom 
every one must admire, never implies any very 
peculiar admiration on the part of the speaker; 
still, the acquaintance was a bond of union 
between them. The character that Adelaide 
was now supporting was one of unbroken 
spirits and natural vivacity, with an under- 
tone of deep feeling which as yet had never 
been called forth. The liveliness was on the 
principle of contrast — the "feeling on that of 
sympathy. For a love affair, a mixture of the 
two is perfect. Love is at once the best 
temptation for a hermit, and the best cure for 
a misanthrope. 

All the evening he thought her most fasci- 
nating; but when, on his departure, both Mr. 
Stanmore and Lady Lauriston pressed the 
renewal of his visit, she looked towards him 
with a sweet, sudden glance of hope — and 
then dropped her eyes with such an exquisite 
mixture of eagerness and embarrassment, he 
felt she was quite irresistible. Vanity is 
love's vizier, and often more powerful than 
his master. 

Lord Etheringhame rode home slowly and 
musingly. A thousand delicious sensations 
quickened the beating of his pulses; — a beau- 
tiful face fioated before him — a delicate voice 
sounded, fairy-like, in his ear; all of imagina- 
tion which had lain dormant sprang up again — 
like colours in a painting brought from some 
dusty corner into a clear, bright light. 

We talk of the folly of dreams — the waking 
and the vain — we should rather envy their hap- 
piness : analyze their materials — foresee their 
end — and what remains 1 Vanity and vexa- 
tion of spirit. 

Much it would have added to Lord Ether- 
inghame's enjoyment, could he have known 
that his feelings were being calculated upon 
by a beautiful coquette and a match-making 
mother; tha* it was his castle that was more 
matter of conquest than himself; and that his 
family diamonds were his fair mistress's only 
idea of domestic felicity ! 

O, life ! — the wearisome, the vexatious — 
whose pleasures are either placed beyond our 
reach, or within it when we no longer desire 
them — when youth toils for the riches age may- 
possess, but not enjoy; — where we trust to 
friendship, one light word may destroy; or to 
love, that dies even of itself; — where we talk of 
glory, philosophical, literary, military, political 
— die, or, what is much more, live for it — and 
this coveted possession dwells in the consent 
of men of whom no two agree about it. First, 
et us take it n its philosophical point of view : 



the philosopher turns from his food by day, 
his sleep by night, to leave a theory of truth 
to the world, which the next age discovers to 
be a falsehood. Ptolemy perhaps bestowed 
as much thought on, and had as much pride 
in his solar system as Galileo. — Then in its 
literary, and truly this example is particularly 
encouraging: the poet feeds the fever in his 
veins — works himself up to the belief of ima- 
ginary sorrows, till they are even as his own 
— writes, polishes, publishes — appeals first to 
a generous and discriminating public, then 
discovers that posterity is much more gene- 
rous, and discriminating also — and bequeaths 
his works to its judgment. Of the hundred 
volumes entitled "The British Poets," are 
there one dozen names "familiar as household 
words" (that true glory of the poet) among 
them 1 — Come we next to the military : the 
conqueror Alexander, in the danger and hurry 
of a night attack, when the flash of the sword 
and the glitter of the spear were the chief lights 
of the dark wave, dashed fearlessly on, en- 
couraging himself with the thought, " This do 
I for your applause, O, Athenians !" It would 
be very pleasant to the warrior, could he hear 
the Athenians of our age call him a madman 
and a butcher ! — The politician — O, Job ! the 
devil should have made you prime minister — 
set the Tories to impeach your religion, the 
Whigs your patriotism — placed a couple of 
Sunday newspapers before you — he certainly 
would have succeeded in making you curse 
and swear too ; and then posterity — it will just 
be a mooted point for future historians, whe- 
ther you were the saviour, the betrayer, or the 
tyrant of your country, those being the three 
choice epitaphs kept for the especial use of 
patriots in power. 

Or — to descend to the ordinary ranks and 
routine of life — we furnish a house, that our 
friends may cry out on our extravagance or 
bad taste ; — we give dinners, that our guests 
may hereafter find fault with our cook or our 
cellar; — we give parties, that three parts of 
the company may rail at their stupidity ; — we 
dress, that our acquaintance may revenge 
themselves on our silks, by finding fault with 
our appearance; — we marry: if well, it was 
interest — if badly, it was insanity; — we die, 
and even that is our own fanlt ; if we had but 
done so and so, or gone to Dr. Such a one, the 
accident would not have happened. A man 
accepts a bill for his friend, who pays it — the 
obligation is held trilling. "What's in a 
name ?" He fails — you have to pay it, and 
every one cries out against your folly. O, 
life ! what enables us to surmount your obsta- 
cles — to endure your disappointments — to be- 
lieve your promises — but your illusions ?- 

There is a pretty German story of a blind 
man, who, even under such a misfortune, was 
happy — happy in a wife whom he passionately 
loved : her voice was sweet and low, and he 
gave her credit for that beauty which (he had 
been a painter) was the object of his idolatry. 
A physician came, and curing the disease, re- 
j stored the husband to light, which he chiefly 
j valued, as it would enable him to gaze on the 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



79 



.ovely features of his wife. He looks, and 
sees a face hideous in ugliness ! He is re- 
stored to sight, but his happiness is over. Is 
aot this our own history? Our cruel physi- 
cian is Experience 

Lord Etheringhame, however, was enjoying 
himself. No illusions are so perfect as those 
of love — none, therefore, so pleasant. Like 
most imaginative people, Algernon was very 
susceptible to beauty. Perhaps it is with that 
attribute they so profusely endow their crea- 
tions, and it comes to them with the charm of 
familiarity. And, also, like most indolent 
people, he easily yielded to any impression ; 
his character may be summed up by saying, 
he would have made an exquisite woman. 

In the course of a few weeks the surprise 
excited in his household was raised to its 
height ; for the housekeeper had orders to pre- 
pare a luncheon for a party coming to see 
the castle. The day arrived, and with it Lady 
Lauriston and her daughter. Enough had 
been heard of its history, to know that the 
study would be rather awkward as a show- 
room in company ; but a tete-a-tete is so confi- 
dential. With a little of mamma's assist- 
ance, Adelaide contrived to separate from the 
others, enter the room alone, and Lord 
Etheringhame was obliged to follow. " Con- 
stancy till death" is a common motto on glass 
seals — very proper substance for such an in- 
scription ; and before the picture of his late 
love, Algernon offered his vows to the new. 
Sympathy and confidence open the heart 
wonderfully; and Adelaide left that room the 
future Countess of Etheringhame. 

Lady Lauriston was astonished and affected, 
after the most approved fashion. Mr. Stan- 
more was really surprised ; and having some 
idea that it was a man's duty to marry, (he 
had had two wives himself,) was very ready 
with his rejoicings and congratulations, which 
Lady Lauriston diverted most ingeniously 
from the lover, whose nerves she still consi- 
dered in a most delicate state. 

One disagreeable part of the business re- 
mained for Algernon, which was to write to 
his brother. Change of opinion is like waltz- 
ing — very much the fashion, and very proper; 
but the English have so many ridiculous pre- 
judices, that they really do both as if they 
were doing something very wrong. 

It is to be doubted whether Lord Ethering- 
hame, after destroying some dozen sheets of 
paper, and pens the produce of a whole flock 
of geese, would not almost sooner have re- 
nounced his beautiful bride, than have had his 
letter to write — only that the former alterna- 
tive was now the greater trouble of the two. 

"After all," said the unwilling writer, "I 
am only doing what Edward himself advised. 
I wish I had not been quite so positive when 
he was last here." 

All who hate letter-writing, particularly on 
disagreeable subjects, can sympathize with 
Lord Etheringhame. It is very pleasant to 
"ollow one's inclinations ; but, unfortunately, 
we cannot follow them all. They are like 



the teeth sowm by Cadmus ; they spring up ; 
get in each other's way, and fight. 

The letter was at length written and de- 
spatched; — then, as usual, came the after- 
thoughts of a thousand things left unsaid, or 
that might have been said so much better 
Algernon started up ; — man and horse were 
hurried after the epistle; — but time, tide, and 
the post wait for no one ; — it was off by the 
mail. 

Well, an ohstinate temper is very disagreea- 
ble, particularly in a wife ; a passionate one 
very shocking in a child ; but, for one's own 
particular comfort, heaven help the possessor 
of an irresolute one ! Its day of hesitation — 
its night of repentance — the mischief it does 
— the miseries it feels ! — its proprietor may 
w T ell exclaim, " Nobody can tell what I suffer 
but mvself !" 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

' Thus death reigns in all the portions of our time. The 
autumn, with its fruits, provides disorders for us, and the 
winter's cold turns them into sharp diseases; and the 
spring brings flowers to strew our hearse, and the summer 
gives green turf and brambles to bind upon our graves." 

" You can go no whither, but you tread upon a dead 

man's bones. ' : — Jeremy Taylor. 

In all the slowness of sorrow, in all the 
weariness of monotony, had the last few 
months worn away: Emily recovered from 
regretting her uncle only to find now much 
she missed him. It is a wretched thing to 
pass one's life among those utterly incapable 
of appreciating us ; upon whom our sense or 
our sentiment, our wit or our affection, are 
equally thrown away : people who make some 
unreal and distorted picture of us — say it is 
our likeness, and act accordingly. 

After the first grief, or rather fright, of Mr. 
Arundel's death, and when broad hems and 
deep crape-falls had been sufficiently discussed 
to have induced an uninitiated person to believe 
that people really died to oblige others to wear 
bombasin ; Mrs. Arundel w ? ent back to her or- 
dinary avocations — small savings and domes- 
tic inspections. To her the putting out of an 
extra candle, or detecting an unfortunate house- 
maid letting a sweetheart into the kitchen, 
were positive enjoyments. Intended by na- 
ture for a housekeeper, it was her misfortune, 
not her fault, that she was the mistress. She 
was one of those who, having no internal, are 
entirely throwm upon external resources ; they 
must be amused and employed by the eye or 
the ear, and that in a small way. She never 
read — new T s was her only idea of conversation. 
As she often observed, Wi She had no notion of 
talking about what neither concerned herself 
nor her neighbours." Without being vulgar 
in her manners — that, early and accustomed 
habits forbade — she was vulgar in her mind. 
She had always some small, mean motive to 
ascribe to every action, and invariably judged 
the worst, and took the most unfavourable* 



80 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



new of whatever debatable subject came be- 
fore her. Like most silly people, she was 
selfish ; and the constant fear of being- over- 
reached sometimes gave a degree of shrewd- 
ness to her apprehensions. Your weak ani- 
mals are almost always cunning ; and when 
any event, however improbable, justified sus- 
picions, perhaps quite unjustifiable in the on- 
set, then great was her small triumph — that 
ovation of the little mind : to borrow again 
one of her favourite expressions, " Well, 
well. I don't set up for being so over clever; 
I'm rone of your bookish people ; but, thank 
heaven, I have plenty of common sense" — as 
if common sense were occasioned by the mere 
absence of higher qualities ! 

The secret of Mrs. Arundel's character was, 
that she was a very vain woman, and had 
never had her vanity gratified. As an only 
child, she had enjoyed every indulgence but 
flattery. Her father and mother had been, 
after the fashion of their day, rather literary : 
the lady piqued herself upon writing such 
clever letters ; and the gentleman had main- 
tained a correspondence with the Gentleman's 
Magazine, touching the reign to which two 
brass candlesticks in the parish church be- 
longed ; which important and interesting dis- 
cussion arrived at every thing but a conclu- 
sion. 

Her deficiency in, and disinclination to, all 
kinds of literary pursuits — the utter impossi- 
bility of making the young idea shoot in any 
direction at all, occasioned such accomplished 
parents to undervalue, if possible, Mrs. Arun- 
del's understanding. In short, as her mother 
justly observed, in a very clever letter to Mrs. 
Denbigh, her corresponding friend, " she was 
just fit to be married." And married she 
was, thanks to the affinities of landed property ! 

To prcttines? — even with her most becoming 
cap, or her mo«it, indigene mirror, she could 
make r.o pre + e^sion. Her ambition had hither- 
to been confined to being the best of wives, — 
so she scolded the servants — opened no book 
but her book of receipts — made soup without 
meat — decocted cowslips, parsnips, currants, 
and gooseberries, which, if not good wine, 
were very tolerable vinegar — bought bargains, 
for which no possible use could afterwards be 
found — worried her husband with petty eco- 
nomy, and yet contrived to combine all this 
with a very handsome share of personal ex- 
pense ; and as to her accounts, they would 
have puzzled the calculating boy himself. 

While Mr. Arundel lived, the innate re- 
spectability of his character communicated 
itself in a degree to hers. Naturally of quiet 
and retired habits, the seclusion of his library, 
at first a refuge, soon became a necessity. 
At home he had no society ; his wife's conver- 
sation was made up of small complaints, or 
smaller gossip ; his health was too delicate, 
his tastes too refined, for the run of county 
sports and county dinners — he was therefore 
thrown much upon his own resources, and his 
books became, what Cicero emphatically calls 
them, Ms friends and companions. But though 
hey employed, they did not absorb ; and he 



early saw the propriety of a checK on many 
domestic theories, equally destructive of credit 
and comfort ; and little manoeuvres to avoid his 
disapprobation, or conceal from his knowledge, 
were the grand employment of his lady's most 
abstruse faculties ; so that if Emily missed his 
society, Mrs. Arundel still more missed his 
authority. 

The delightful feeling of opposition— -obsti- 
nancy is the heroism of little minds — was 
past ; she had, however, found a great resource 
in the society of a Mrs. Clarke. That perfec 
knowledge of our neighbours — which, in spite 
of the selfishness ascribed to human nature, is 
always so much more interesting than our 
cwn — only to be obtained by personal inspec- 
tion, from which Mrs. Arundel was, in her 
present early stage of widowhood, debarred 
was supplied by this invaluable friend, with 
all the poetry of memory. 

Pleasant was the sound of Mrs. Clarke's 
clogs deposited in the hall — a whole host of 
circumstantial details, inferences, and deduc- 
tions waited thereupon ; or when the doctor 
could be induced to stir out of an evening by 
the overpowering temptation of " My dear, 
poor Mrs. Arundel is all alone : it would be 
but kind if w T e stepped in to see how she is." 

"All alone, indeed! Hasn't she got her 
niece V 

"Ah! that puts me in mind that Miss 
Emily was saying you owed her her revenge 
at chess." 

" Did you tell cook to put by the leg of the 
turkey, to be deviled for my supper ?" 

"Talking of supper, poor Mrs. Arundel 
would keep a peasant, sent yesterday, for our 
supper to-night. I can assure you she quite 
relied on our coming; and, to tell you the 
truth, I did not refuse. I am always glad 
when you go to the Hall — that old port wine 
of poor dear Mr. Arundel's is quite a medicine 
to you." 

" Well, as you say, poor thing ! she is very 
lonely — I don't care if we do go ; though 
Miss Emily is not much company, except to 
play chess." 

Evening after evening was thus passed 
away — poor Emily tied to the chess-board 
with an adversary who seemed to look upon 
her as a machine to move the pieces, with 
which he could be cross when beaten ; while 
the two ladies discussed such circumstantial 
evidence as the day had collected, and com- 
municated their various fancies founded on the 
said facts. Can it be wondered at that Emily's 
thoughts would wander from scenes like these ] 
Thoughts rarely wander without an object ; 
and that object once found, they fix there with 
all the intensity which any thing of sentiment 
acquires in solitude or idleness. 

Absence is a trial whose result is often fatal 
to love ; but there are two sorts of absence. 
I would not advise a lover to stake his fortune 
or his feelings on the faith of the mistress 
whose absence is one of flattery, amusement, 
and that variety of objects so destructive to the 
predominance of one — at least not to trust an 
incipient attachment to such an ordeal ; but he 






ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



SI 



may safely trust absence which is passed in 
loneliness*, where the heart, thrown upon itseif, 
finds its resource in that most imaginative 
faculty — memory. The merits of that lover 
must be small indeed, whom a few lonely 
walks, the mind filled with those dreaming 
thoughts which haunt the favourite path in the 
shrubbery, or under the old trees of the 
avenue ; a few evenings passed singing those 
songs he once heard; or during a chain of 
those romantic plans which occupy the 
thoughts while the fingers are busy with 
lace-work or satin-stitch needle-work — why, a 
love-dream has no greater assistant ; — again, 
[ say, a lover must have few merits indeed, 
whom a few such mornings and evenings do 
not raise into a standard of perfection ; and till, 
from thinking how happy one might be with 
him, it seems next to an impossibility to be 
happy without him. 

Every girl has a natural fancy for enacting 
the heroine — and, generally speaking, a very 
harmless fancy it is, after all. Certainly, the 
image of Lorraine was very often present to 
Emily. Occupations she had none but what 
she made for herself — objects for affection, 
none ; and her uncle's death gave a shade of 
sadness to her sentiments, the best calculated 
for making them indelible ; while the worst of 
her present mode of life — especially to one so 
imaginative, and whose feelings, though so 
timid, were so keen — was, that it passed in 
indolent melancholy, too likely to become habi- 
tual. One consequence of her recent loss was, 
that any return of gay spirits seemed — as it 
ever seems at first to grief — sacrilege to the 
memory of the dead ; whereas the remem- 
brance of Lorraine was so unallied to hope, 
that the sadness of her love was meet compa- 
nion for the sorrow of her affection. 

A long melancholy winter passed away, and 
Emily looked quite pale, and thin enough to 
justify her aunt's frequent and pleasant pre- 
dictions, that she was either in a consumption 
or in love ; both which were duly ascribed to 
her London visit. Mrs. Arundel recommend- 
ed warm milk from the cow ; and Mrs. Clarke 
turned in her mind the advantages of another 
lover. 

Mrs Arundel's lacteal plan came to nothing. 
Emily was " as obstinate as her poor dear 
uncle," and could never be persuaded or coax- 
ed to rise on a raw cold morning — not for all 
the benefits of the milky way. Mrs. Clarke's 
sentimental system had its consequences. 

It was one of those bright soft mornings, 

" Like angel visits, few and far between," 

when sprir.^ and sunshine take February by 
surprise — when or.a faint tinge of green is seen 
on the southern side of the hedge — when every 
little garden has its few golden crocuses, and 
the shrubbery is overrun with thousands of 
snow-drops — the fair slight flower which so 
looks its name — that Emily was passing 
through the little wood, whose old trees and 
huge branches in winter gave warmth, as in 
summer they gave shade. The clear blue sky 
peering through the boughs — the sunshine re- 

VOL. I. — 1 1 



fleeted from the silvery stems of the birch — an 
occasional green old laurel, whose size was 
the only mark of its age — the warm air, — all 
seemed to bid a cheerful farewell to winter ; 
and Emily loitered on her homeward path, lest 
in visionary creations, which perhaps took an 
unconscious brightness from the glad influ- 
ences of sun and air — when her revery was 
broken in upon by a strange step and voice. 
" The pleasure I feel at seeing Miss Arundel 
again will perhaps prove my excuse for thus 
trespassing on her solitary meditations." A 
primrose kid glove put aside the branches, a 
breath of perfume aux milks fieurs came upon 
the air, and a very good-looking cavalier 
stepped forward ; though, with what preoccu- 
pation, surprise, and actual forgetful ness, it 
w T as some minutes before she recalled the 
identity of the stranger with that of Mr. Boyne 
Sillery. 

Now this recognition was any thing but 
pleasant. In the first place, he had broken in 
upon the pleasures of hope — his interruption 
had destroyed a most fair and fairy castle ; 
secondly, he was connected with any thing 
but the pleasures of memory. The conversa- 
tion at Howell and James's rose to her mind — 
the knowledge of which, however, was not 
sufficiently flattering for her to display it ; a 
civil answer was therefore necessary, though, 
it must be owned, the civility was chilling 
enough. 

Mr. Boyne Sillery was, however, not to be 
deterred — though his companion was not in- 
clined to talk, he was. He enlarged on the 
beauty of the country, ventured to hint that hi? 
fair companion looked somewhat paler than in 
London, apropos to which he recounted some 
deaths, marriages, and fashions, which had 
taken place since her departure ; when, sud- 
denly, Emily thanked him for his escort, mut- 
tered something about her aunt's not being at 
home, and disappeared through the little gate 
of the shrubbery. 

With what eyes of shame does a young lady 
look back to a flirtation of which she was 
heartily tired ! That evening she lingered 
somewhat longer than usual in her own apart- 
ment, despite of divers summonings dowm 
stairs, when, what was her surprise, on enter- 
ing the room, to see her aunt, Mrs. Clarke, 
and Mr. Boyne Sillery, seated, in apparently 
high good humour, round the tea-table. Mrs. 
Clarke immediately bustled up, and left room 
for Emily between herself and the gentleman, 
whom she introduced as her brother; and, 
taking it for granted that the young people 
must make themselves agreeable to each other, 
forthwith directed her conversation entirely to 
Mrs. Arundel. 

The young people, however, were not quite 
so agreeable as one of the party, at least, could 
have wished. Emily's coldness was neither 
to be animated by news nor softened by flat- 
tery ; since Mrs. Danver's ball, her taste had 
been sufficiently cultivated to see through the 
pretensions of affectation; moreover, she was 
past, the season of innocent entire belief; and 
the thought would cross her mind, that th& 



e< 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



heiress of Arundel Hall was a more important 
person in Mr. Boyne Siliery s eyes than Lady 
Alicia's pretty protegee. 

The evening passed heavily, and Emily ex- 
tinguished her candle that night in the con- 
viction that an equal extinguisher had been 
put on Mr. Boyne Sillery's hopes, and, she 
could not help adding, his sister's, too, from 
whose fertile brain she conceived that the plan 
of capture, or, at least, the information of the 
heiress, had emanated. She was not far wrong 
there. 

Mrs. Clarke was one whose whole life had 
been a practical illustration of the doctrines of 
utility. The eldest daughter of a large family, 
with neither fortune nor face meant to be one, 
Miss Siliery could not, at thirty, recollect a 
single opportunity which she had ever had of 
escaping the care of her mother's keys and her 
younger sisters. She had been saving and 
sensible to no purpose — in vain had the ma- 
ternal side of the house eulogized her pru- 
dence, or the paternal her cookery — the house 
she was to manage with such perfection was 
not yet hers. However, as some Arabic poet 
says, 

" The driest desert has its spring ;" 

or, as our own language less elegantly ex- 
presses it, 

" Luck knocks once at every man's door ;" 

and the knock at Miss Sillery's door, and the 
spring in her desert, came in the shape of the 
Rev. Dr. Clarke; of whom little can be said, 
except that he was a lucky clergyman with 
two livings, who had the appetite of a glutton 
with the daintiness of a gourmet, and w r ho had 
once, in a fit of delight at a haunch of venison 
done to a turn, narrowly escaped marrying the 
cook, when he fortunately remembered it 
would spoil her for her situation. 

Distantly related to the Sillery's, he paused 
there for a night on a journey — he hated sleep- 
ing at inns, the beds were so often damp; and 
they received him with that glad respect 
which poor relations pay to their rich ones. 
At dinner he was very much struck with the 
gravy to the wild ducks ; a college pudding 
forced from him an inquiry : both were made 
by Miss Siliery. Some potted larks next 
morning completed the business : he finished 
the jar, and made her an offer, which was re- 
ceived with all the thankfulness due to unex- 
pected benefits. 

Henry VIII. rewarded the compounder of a 
pudding which pleased his palate by the gift 
of a monastery ; Dr. Clarke did more — he gave 
himself. To say the truth, the marriage had 
turned out as well as marriages commonly 
do : she was fortunate in having a house to 
manage, and he in having a wife to scold ; and 
certainly their dinners were as near perfect 
felicity as earthly enjoyments usually are. 

Now it so happened that Francis was Mrs. 
Clarke's favourite : whether from having seen 
the least of him, or from the great difference 
between them — two common causes of liking 

or because she felt some sort of vanity in 
her near relation sh'o to so very fine a gentle- 



man, are points too curious to be decided by 
any but a metaphysician. However, having 
his interest at heart, and some idea that his 
fortune must and ought to be made by mar- 
riage, she had sent the invitation and intelli- 
gence which led to Emily's meeting so inte- 
resting a companion in her morning walk. 

To be sure, the tete-a-tete to which Mrs. 
Clarke's good management had that evening 
consigned them had been rather a silent one; 
still, as it never entered the elder lady's head 
that such a nice young man could fail to be a 
very Caesar of the affections — to come, see, 
and conquer — she only remarked, as they 
walked home, " Poor stupid thing — but never 
mind, Frank, she'll make the better wife ;" 
and forthwith she commenced enumerating a 
series of divers alterations and reformations 
(now-a-days, we believe, the one word is 
synonymous with the other) which were to 
take place when her brother was master of 
Arundel Hall. 

There never was woman yet w^ho had not 
some outlet for disinterested affection. Mrs. 
Clarke was as worldly in a small way as a 
country lady could be, and possessed as much 
selfishness as ever moral essay ascribed to a 
fashionable one; and yet her desire for her 
brother's success was as entirely dictated by 
sincere and uncalculating attachment to him 
as ever was that of heroine of romance who 
pra) r s for her lover's happiness with her rival. 

Mr. Boyne Siliery did not interrupt her: a 
plan, in which, as Byron says, 

" The images of thincrs 
Were dimly struggling into light,' 

now floated before him, but in which it was 
something too premature to expect her co-ope- 
ration — indeed, her absolute opposition was to 
be feared. 

The next day a severe cold confined her to 
the house, with which piece of information he 
was duly despatched to the Hall : apparently, 
he found his visit pleasant, for he only reap- 
peared at diriner-time, and then not till the 
doctor had finished his first slice of mutton. 
The doctor never waited — the warmth of a 
joint, like the warmth of a poet's first idea, 
was too precious to be lost. This system of 
never waiting was equally good for his consti- 
tution and his temper ; so that Mr. Sillery's 
late entrance only produced pity, and a recom- 
mendation for a hot plate, as the gravy was 
getting quite cold. 

He was sent again the next day, to ask 
Mrs. and Miss Arundel to dinner. But Emi- 
ly's excuse could not be gainsayed — she had 
that morning received news of the death of 
Lady Alicia Delawarr. At all times this 
would have been a shock — but now, how 
forcibly did it recall her uncle ! Two deaths 
in a few short months ! — the grave became 
familiar only to seem more terrible. 

Lady Alicia's summons w r as awfully sud- 
den. She had returned from the Opera, 
seemingly in perfect health: as she crossed 
the hall, Mr. Delawarr was entering his libra- 
ry; he stopped a moment, and fastened on ne* 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



93 



beautiful arm an exquisite cameo. To Dela- 
ware his wife was a species of idol, on which 
he delighted to lavish offerings : perhaps her 
calm, placid temper suited hest with his fever- 
ish and ambitious life ; what to another would 
have been insipidity was to him repose. As 
usual, on entering the drawing-room she sank 
into an arm-chair, when, missing her shawl, 
which she had dropped while holding out her 
hand for the bracelet, she desired her maid to 
fetch it, as she was cold. On the attendant's 
return, which was delayed by some trifling 
accident, she was surprised to see that her 
lady's head had fallen on one side, and one 
hand had dropped nearly to the ground, her 
weight supported only by the arm of the chair : 
she hurried forward, and the first look on the 
face was enough — it was deadly pale, and the 
features set as if by some sudden contraction. 

Assistance was soon procured — but in vain'; 
and Mr. Delawarr, who had himself been the 
first to enter, and had carried her to the sofa 
in her dressing-room, heard the physician pro- 
nounce that to be death, where there had been 
no thought of even danger. There she lay — 
so quiet, and looking so beautiful — for, to a 
face whose outline was perfect as a statue, the 
repose of utter stillness rather added to than 
diminished its beauty — the rich hair orna- 
mented with gold flowers — the diamond neck- 
lace, catching the various colours of the room, 
and casting them on the neck — the slender 
fingers, so cold, so stiff, but glistening with 
gems — the crimson dress, whose contrast now 
seemed so unnatural to the skin, which had 
the cold whiteness of marble ; and, as if every 
mockery of life were to be assembled round 
the dead, a large glass opposite reflected her 
whole face and figure — while a canary, to 
which she had lately taken a fancy, awakened 
by the light and noise, filled the room with his 
loud and cheerful song. The bird effected 
what no entreaties could effect : Mr. Delawarr 
started from the ground, where he was kneel- 
ing beside the body, as if insensible to the 
presence of every one, and hurried to his 
library. He locked the door, and no one that 
night ventured to disturb him. 

To say that Emily felt very passionate grief 
would be untrue ; but her heart was softened 
by her own recent loss, though her regret was 
scarcely powerful enough to prevent the 
thought, that with Lady^Alicia was lost the 
only link between herself and Lorraine. But 
the hopelessness of her attachment gave it a 
species of elevation ; and love driven from one 
place of refuge to another, only made an altar 
of the last. 

There was something odd that day about 
Mrs. Arundel, which very much puzzled Mrs. 
Clarke — surely her friend had put on a little 
rouge ; and hair, on whose curl evident pains 
had been bestowed, took off much of the pre- 
cision of the widow's cap ; moreover, there 
was a flutter in her manner — a little girlish 
laugh — less interest than usual was taken in 
the news of the village — no allusion was made 
to pear dear Mr. Arundel— and there was that 
fidgety mysterious air which seems to say, 



there is a secret longing to be cold. There 
were two reasons why it was noi .old — first, 
Mrs. Arundel was not quite sure whether she 
really had a secret to tell ; and, secondly? 
what with hoarseness, headache, and w T ater- 
gruel, Mrs. Clarke was not in the best pos- 
sible condition for cross-questioning. 

Well, a fortnight passed by, during which 
that lady did not see Mrs. Arundel, when her 
principles received a shock by the astounding 
news that Miss Barr, the glass of fashion, the 
milliner of the adjacent town, had sent to the 
Hall two caps — not widow's caps, but, as the 
young person, who called on her way home, 
said, ;i such light tasty things ;" and a ser- 
vant who had been there with a message 
brought back word that one of these " light 
tasty things" was actually on Mrs. Arundel's 
head. 

Now, Mrs. Clarke was one of those to whom 
caps and crape were the very morality of 
mourning — she w T as not the only one, by-the- 
by, with whom propriety stands for princi- 
ple, — and this deviation of her friend at first 
excited surprise, then softened into sorrow, 
and finally roused into anger — which anger, 
under the name of opinion, she forthwith set 
out to vent on the offender, after having be- 
stowed a portion of it on her husband, who 
encountering her, cold, cloak, and all, had 
raised her indignation by not being so much 
astonished as herself, and calmly replying, 

"Well, my dear, this said cap — I dare say 
she is sett'ng it at your brother." 

If there be two things in the world — to use 
a common domestic expression — enough to 
provoke a saint, it is, first to have your hus- 
band not enter into your feelings — (your feel- 
ings sound so much better than your temper) — 
and, in the second place, laughing at them. 
Now, Dr. Clarke's not regarding a widow's 
conduct in leaving off her cap as absolutely 
immoral, was not very tenable ground, for men 
are not supposed to know much about such 
matters; but this allusion to Boyne was a very 
respectable outlet for resentment. 

" Her brother, indeed, to marry such an old 
woman ! She was very much deceived if there 
were not younger ones who would be glad to 
get him; and really she did not think Dr. 
Clarke was at all justified in speaking so lightly 
of Mrs. Arundel — she could not bear such ill- 
natured insinuations." 

Amid a shower of similar sentences, the 
doctor escaped, and his lady proceeded on her 
way. 

People in general little know how much they 
are indebted to those matrimonial discussions. 
Many a storm has fallen softly on the offend- 
er's head, from a part having been previously 
expended on a husband or wife, — it is so con- 
venient to have somebody at hand to be angry 
with; — and whether it was the quarrel with 
her husband, or the walk, that did Mrs. Clarke 
good, she certainly arrived at the Hall in a 
better humour than could have been expected 
She was met at the door by Emily, whose 
slight confusion at encountering her was 
immediately interpreted mysteriously an 



84 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



favourably ; and when the young lady evidently 
hesitated as she said, " I have left my aunt 
and Mr. Sillery in the breakfast-room," Mrs. 
Clarke was very near congratulating- her fu- 
ture sister, who, however, disappeared too 
rapidly. 

She found Mrs. Arundel in a lace cap, and a 
dress — black, it is true, but black silk ! Had 
she bade farewell to her senses, decency, and 
bombasin together 1 All those delicate inqui- 
ries were, however, postponed by the presence 
of her brother ; but, as we say poetically, " her 
thoughts were too great for utterance;" con- 
versation languished; and but for discussing 
the merits of some black-currant jam, which 
had been sent for, as Mrs. Clarke seemed 
hoarse, it would have sunk into silence. 

The visit was short and embarrassed ; and 
she was scarcely out of the house, before se- 
vere animadversions were poured forth, on 
Mrs. Arundel's most improper dress, to Mr. 
Boyne Sillery, her companion home. 

" Why, you see, my dear sister, it is quite 
unnecessary for a lady to lament one husband 
who is meditating taking another." 

"Stuff! — you are just as silly as the doc- 
tor : I should like to see who would put such 
nonsense into her head." 

" I am glad you would like to see the indi- 
vidual — for, my dear Elizabeth, he is now 
walking with you." 

" Why, you have never been so silly as to 
advise her to marry?" 

"Indeed I have most strongly advised it." 

" Good Lord ! don't you know that her for- 
tune is all at her own disposal, and would 
certainly go to Miss Emily at her death 1 ?" 

"I do not see any reason why I should be 
so careful of Miss Emily's interests : I freely 
confess I prefer my own." 

" Don't you see they are all one 1 Mrs. 
Arundel's property will be a very pretty wind- 
fall when you have been married a few years — 
not but that Emily has a handsome fortune — 
still, I don't see any necessity for being so 
disinterested : and pray, who has the foolish 
woman taken into her head]" 

" Her choice will, I flatter myself, at least 
please you, as I myself am the fortunate man." 

" I do beg you will not be so provoking — I 
am not in a humour for a joke." 

" Joke, my dear sister 1 — marriage is a very 
serious piece of business." 

" You don't mean to say that you are going 
to marry Mrs. Arundel?" 

"Indeed I do. Now, to speak plainly — as 
I ought to do to a woman of sense like your- 
self — I am in debt over head and ears. Des- 
perate diseases require desperate remedies. 
Miss Arundel has some silly fancy of her own : 
I remember she and Lord Merton flirted des- 
perately. Besides, to tell you the truth, in 

town I rather slighted her : women are d d 

unforgiving. I like the aunt quite as well as 
^ do the niece ; her fortune is at her own 
disposal, and your brother may as well bene- 
fit by it as another — I shall make her an excel- 
j&nt husband." 

Surprise is the only power that works mira- 



cles now-a-days ; it fairly silenced Mrs. Clarue 
for full five minutes. Vexation at what she 
thought her brother's throwing himself away 
— mortification beforehand at her husband — 
for Dr. Clarke had a love for ponderous and 
orthodox jokes, whose edge had worn off by 
long use — anger at Emily, whom she consi- 
dered the ca^use of all this — wonder at Airs. 
Arundel — together with a gradual awakening 
to the pecuniary advantages of the match — all 
crossed and jostled her mind at once. At last 
she gasped out — "Are you sure Mrs. Arundel 
will have you 1" 

" I suppose so. I made her an offer this 
morning, which she accepted." 

True enough : for the last fortnight he had 
been a constant visiter at the Hall ; and Emi- 
ly, who naturally supposed she was the object 
of his attraction, gave his visits only one 
thought — and that was, how to avoid them. 
Lady Alicia's death had, even more than 
usual, thrown her among her own reflections : 
once or twice, to be sure, her maid had said, 
" Lord, miss, you see if your aunt does not 
run away with your beau !" 

A young man, in the country, is always dis- 
posed of, whether with or without his consent , 
and Emily considered it quite in the commop 
course of things that Mr. Sillery should be set 
down to her account; and as for the remark 
about her aunt, she held it to be an imperti- 
nence which it would be wrong to encourage 
by even listening to such an absurdity. 

One morning, however, entering the break* 
fast-room rather suddenly, to her surprise she 
saw her aunt and Mr. Sillery seated, her hand 
in his, while he was speaking with great earn- 
estness. Retreat she could not, without 
being perceived — and she stood one moment 
in all the embarrassment of indecision ; when 
Mr. Sillery, who had seen her enter, rose — 
and, before she could speak, led her forward, 
and with the utmost coolness entreated her to 
plead for him. " Yes, dear Miss Arundel, join 
your persuasions with mine — implore our kind 
friend to make me the happiest of men." 

This was really too good ; and Emily hur- 
ried from the room. At the door she encoun- 
tered Mrs. Clarke; and the late conversation 
proved that the gentleman needed no eloquence 
but his own. 

The next meeting between Emily and her 
aunt was awkward enough. Emily could not 
but. feel how little respect had been shown to 
her uncle's memory. Of course, she saw 
through and despised Mr. Sillery's mercenary 
motives ; but equally saw that remonstrance 
would be vain. Mrs*. Arundel, like most 
people who have done a silly thing, was 
rather ashamed to confess it, and yet glad tc 
have it come out — we judge of others by ou. 
selves — and had screwed her courage up foi 
taunts and reproaches ; and when Emily in 
dulged in neither, but only quietly and dis- 
tantly* alluded to the subject, she felt rather 
grateful to her than otherwise. 

At the vicarage — for Dr. Clarke's parish lay 
close enough to be always disputing with its 
neighbour about boundaries and paupers — a* 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



55 



the vicarage the disclosure was made. After 
dinner, the doctor was in high good humour 
at. what he called his penetration — joked Mr. 
Boyne Sillery — was, or at least did his best 
to be witty about widows — and really did re- 
member a prodigious number of jests, respect- 
able at least for their antiquity. Mrs. Clarke 
comforted herself by the moral reflection of, 
"Money is every tiling- in this world," and 
giving vent to her spleen by an occasional 
sneer! while Mr. Sillery bore it all with a 
tolerably good grace, and meditated how soon 
he should be able to manage a separation. 

In a few days the news was whispered 
through the village. Nothing circulates so 
rapidly as a secret. One made one remark, 
and another made another; — some said, "How 
shameful !" — others, " How silly !"' — but the 
sum total of all their remarks seemed to be the 
old proverb, " No fool like an old one !" 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

u Who loves, raves- -'tis youth's frenzy— but the cure 
Is bitterer Still; as charm by charm unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and" we see, too sure, 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
Ideal shape of such ;'y<n still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on." 

Byron*. 

" We shall find her such an acquisition to our circle."— 
Common Country Expression. 

It is said, when things come to the worst, 
they mend. General assertions, like general 
truths, are not always applicable to individual 
cases ; and though fortune's wheel is gene- 
rally on the turn, sometimes when it gets into 
the mud, it sticks there. However, the pre- 
sent case is confirmatory of the good old rule; 
for Emily's situation was on the point of being 
greatly altered, by one of those slight circum- 
stances which are the small hinges on which 
the ponderous gates of futurity turn. 

The entrance to Fonthil! — that truly cloud- 
capt palace, so fantastic and so transitory — 
was by two stupendous doors, which seemed 
to defy the strength of giants. A black dwarf 
came, and opened them at a touch ; the mighty 
doors revolved on some small spring. These 
portals are the seemingly insuperable difficul- 
ties and obstacles of life, and the dwarf is the 
small and insignificant circumstance which 
enables us to pass through them. 

A severe shower in the park, which wetted 
Frank Mandeville to the skin, gave him cold, 
and in a few weeks reduced the beautiful and 
delicate child to a skeleton. Half the doctors 
in London were summoned ; Lady Mandeville 
never stirred from his bedside ; when one of 
them said, " The child is being petted to 
death ; — let him try his native air, run about, 
and don't let him eat till he is hungry." 

His advice was followed. Norville Abbey, 
uninhabited since the first year of her marriage, 
was ordered to be prepared. Windows were 
opened, fires lighted, rooms dusted, the avenues 
cleared, th j shrubbery weeded, with all the 
celerity ot the rich and the wilful. Ah! 

Vol. I. 



money is the true Aladdin's lamp ; and I have 
often thought the Bank of England is the mys- 
terious roc's egg, whose movements are for- 
bidden to mortal eye. 

The village and the bells were alike set in 
motion ; the butcher and the baker talked cf 
the patriotism of noblemen v. ho resided on 
their estates, and went up to solic't orders ; 
Mrs. Clarke wondered whether her ladyship 
would visit in the country; Mrs. Arundel sim- 
pered, aad hinted "she daresayed some time 
hence they would be delighted neighbours;" 
Emily said that Lady Mandeville, whom she 
had seen in London, was a very lovely woman, 
and thought no more about her, — except, one 
day, when she heard a carriage drive into th? 
court, to be out of the way — and once, when 
she caught sight cf a strange shawl to turn 
into another path ; for she had gradually sunk 
into that sickly and depressed state of spirits 
which dreads change, and nervously shrinks 
from the sight of a stranger ; — when, ono 
morning, her path was fairly beset by two 
fairy-like children, and Lady Mandeville, 
stepping forward, said laughingly, " My pri- 
soner, by all the articles of war, I shall not 
let you go without ransom." Escape was 
now impossible. They took the remainder of 
the walk together ; and, her first embarrass- 
ment past, Emily was surprised, when they 
reached the little shrubbery gate, to find ths 
morning had passed so quickly. 

TIip next day brought her the following note 
from Lady Mandeville : — 

" In begging you, my dear Miss Arundel, 
to come to-day and dine with Lord Mandeville 
and myself, I only hold out, as your induce- 
ment, that a good action is its own reward, 
Hospitality is the virtue of the country; — dc 
give me an opportunity of practising it. To 
be the third in a matrimonial illc-u-tcle, is, I 
confess, rather an alarming prospect ; but ws 
promise not to quarrel, and to make a greai 
deal of yourself. 

" So oblige yours truly, 

" Ellen Mandeville." 

Lady Mandeville, even in London, where 
only to remember anybody is an effort, had 
always liked Emily; and in the country 
which her ladyship thought might be healthy 
but that was all that could be said for it — such 
a companion would be inestimable; and, to do 
her justice, she had other and kinder motives. 
A week's residence had given her sufficient 
knowledge of the statistics of the country to 
pity Emily's situation very sincerely. She 
foresaw all the disagreeableness of her foolish 
aunt's still more foolish marriage, to one espe- 
cially who was so friendless, and whose 
beauty and fortune seemed to be so singular- 
ly without their usual advantages. 

Lady Mandeville was, like most affectionate 
tempers, hasty in her attachments. The per 
son to whom she could be kind was alway:; 
the person she liked, and was, moreover, the 
most perfect person possible. Perhaps there 
was a little authority in her affection — certain- 
ly it was a very creative faculty ; and long be 
H 



86 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



fore Emily came, her new friend had sketched 
out for her a most promising futurity — a bril- 
liant marriage, &c. &c. &e. ; nay, had com- 
municated a portion to her husband, who, as 
usual, smiled, and said, " Very well, my dear ; 
we shall see." 

Whatever the future might be, the present 
was most delightful. It has been so long 
since Emily had spoken to any one 'capable of 
even comprehending a single idea, much less 
of entering into a single feeling, that conver- 
sation was like a new sense of existence. 

How irksome, how wearying, to be doomed 
always to the society of those who are like 
people speaking different languages ! It re- 
sembles travelling through the East, with a 
few phrases of lingua franca — just enough for 
the ordinary purposes of life — enow of words 
to communicate a want, but not to communi- 
cate a thought ! Then, again, though it be 
sweet to sit in the dim twilight, singing the 
melancholy song whose words are the expres- 
sion of our inmost soul, till we could weep at 
the echo of our own music, still it is also very 
pleasant to have our singing sometimes listen- 
ed to. At all events, it was much more agree- 
able to hear Lord Mandeville say, " We must 
have that song again — it is one of my great 
favourites," than Mrs. Arundel's constant 
exclamation, " Well, I am so sick of that 
piato !" 

One day led to another, till Emily passed 
the greater part of her time at the abbey. Her 
spirits regained something of their naturally 
buoyant tone, and she no longer believed that 
everybody was sent into the world to be mise- 
rable. Not that Lorraine was forgotten. Often 
did she think, " Of what avail is it to be loved 
or admired 1 — he knows nothing of it ;" and 
often, after some gay prediction of Lady Man- 
deville's, of the sensation she was to produce 
next season, she would weep in the loneliness 
of her own chamber, over one remembrance, 
which distance, absence, and hopelessness 
seemed only to render more dear. 

"Is it possible," she often asked herself, 
" that I am the same person who, last spring, 
fancied a visit to London the summit of earth- 
ly enjoyment? I remember how my heart 
beat while reading Mr. Delaware's letter; 
what did I hope for'? what did I expect 1 — no 
one positive object. But how little it took 
then to give me pleasure ! — how many things 
I then took pleasure in, that are now, some 
indifferent, many absolutely distasteful ! I no 
longer read with the enjoyment I did : instead 
of identifying myself with the creations of the 
writer, I pause over particular passages — I 
apply the sorrows they depict to my own feel- 
ings ; and turn from their lighter and gayer 
pages — they mock me with too strong a con- 
trast. I do not feel so kind as I did. I wonder 
how others can be gratified with things that 
seem to me positively disagreeable. I ought 
to like people more than I do. Alas ! I look 
forward to next year and London with disgust. 
I would give the world to remain quiet and 
unmolested — to make my own life like a silent 



shadow — and to think my own thoughts. I 
wish for nothing — I expect nothing." 

Emily had yet to learn, that indifference is 
but another of the illusions of youth : there is 
a period in our life before we know that enjoy- 
ment is a necessity — that, if the sweet cup of 
pleasure palls, the desire for it fades too — that 
employments deepen into duties, and that, 
wnne we smile, ay, and sigh too, over the 
many vain dreams we have coloured, and. the 
maay rain hopes we have cherished — a period 
of reaction, whose lassitude we have all felt : — 
this influence was now upon Emily. She was 
young for such a feeling — and youth made the 
Knowledge more bitter. 

" I do not think," said a welcome though 
unexpected visiter, in the shape of Mr. Mor- 
land, " that Miss Arundel's roses are so bloom- 
ing in the country as they were in town. Pray, 
young lady, what have j^ou done with your 
allegiance to the house cf Lancaster V' 

" What !" exclaimed Lady Mandeville, 
" Mr. Morland among the rural philosophers, 
who talk of health as if it grew upon the haw- 
thorns 1" 

" My dear Ellen," said her husband, who. 
had his full share of love for the divers species 
of slaughtering, 

" Whether in earth, in sea, or air," 
that make up the rustic code of gentlemanlike 
tastes, "I do wonder what you see in London 
to like." 

" Every thing. I love perfumes: will you 
tell me the fragrant shower from my crystal 
flask of bouquet de roi is not equal to your rose, 
from which I inhale some half-dozen insects, 
and retain some dozen thorns'? Hove music; 
is not the delicate flute-like voice of Sontag 
equal at least to the rooks which scream by 
day, and the owls which hoot by night 1 Is 
not Howel and James's shop filled with all 
that human art can invent or human taste dis- 
play — bijouterie touched with present senti- 
ment, or radiant with future triumph 1 Or 
your milliner's, where vanity is awakened but 
to be gratified, and every feminine feeling is 
called into action 1 Are not those objects of 
more interest than a field with three trees and 
a cow T And then for societ}^ — heaven defend 
me from localities, your highways and byways 
of conversation, where a squire, with a cast- 
iron and crimson countenance, details the 
covey of fourteen, out of which he killed five; 
or his lady, with the cotton velvet gown — 
her dinner-dress ever since she married — re- 
counts the trouble she has with her servants, 
or remarks that it is a great shame — indeed, a 
sign of the ruin to which every thing is hasten- 
ing — that aJl the farmers' daughters come to 
church in sivk: o-owns ; a thing which the 
queen win not allow in the housemaids of 
Windsor Castle. Then the drives, where you 
see no carnage but your own — the walks., 
where you leave on every hedge a fragment 
of your dress. Deeply do I sympathize with 
the French countess, who (doomed to the 
society of three maiden aunts, two uncles — • 
one of the farming, the other of the shooting 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



87 



species — and a horde of undistinguishable 
cousins) said, when advised to fish for her 
amusement, or knit for her employment, 
'Alas! I have no taste for innocent plea- 
sures.' " 

"I do think," returned Mr. Morland, "that 
the country owes much of its merit to being' 
unknown. The philosopher speaks of its 
happiness, the poet of its beauties, on the 
Tsry reverse principle of Pope's : they should 
s.ter this line, to say, 
They best can paint, them who have known them least.' 

Still, the country is very pleasant sometimes. 
I do not feel at all discontented just now," 
glancing first round the breakfast table, and 
(hen to the scene without, which was quite 
lovely enough to fix the glance that it caught. 

Spring and Morning are ladies that owe 
half their charms to their portrait painters. 
What are they in truth 1 One, a mixture of 
snow that covers the fair earth, or thaws that 
turn it into mud — keen east winds, with their 
attendant imps, coughs and colds — sunshine, 
which just looks enough in at the window to 
put out the fire, and then leaves you to feel 
the want of both. As for the other, what is it 
but damp grass, and an" atmosphere of fog — to 
enjoy which, your early rising makes you 
sick and tired the rest of the day 1 These 
are the harsh and sallow realities of the red- 
lipped and coral-cheeked divinities of the 
picture. 

After all, the loveliness of spiing and 
morning is like that of youth — the beauty of 
promise; beauty, perhaps, the most precious 
to the soul. Campbell exquisitely says, 
1 'lis distance lends enchantment to the view ;'" 

ind let the heart be thankful from its inmost 
depths for that imaginative and self-existent 
faculty which first lends enchantment to the 
distance. « 

Spring, however, now and then gives us a 
beautiful day — to show, if she does make a 
promise, she has a stock of sunshine on hand 
wherewith to keep it. Such a day was now 
shining on Norville Abbe} r . The gray mist, 
which imparts such indescribable beauty to an 
English landscape, was now T illuminated with 
the morning light, and hung round the turrets 
a bright, transparent mass of vapour, w T hich 
you seemed to expect would every moment 
clear away, like those which, in the valley of 
St. John, opened and gave to view the en- 
chanted castle. They never did clear away — 
still it was something to have expected. 

One side of the building Avas completely 
covered with ivy: it was like a gigantic 
bower ; and the numerous windows where the 
branches had been pruned, seemed like vistas 
cut in the luxuriant foliage. The rest of the 
walls were stained and gray, carved with all 
varieties of ornament; flowers cut in the 
crone, the cross at every angle, the winged 
Steads representing the cherubim — niches, 
where male and female saints stood in divers 
altitudes of prayer — and arched lattices, whose 
Bmail glittering pane* seemed too thankful for 



a sunbeam not to reflect it to the utmost. The 
imagination must have been cold, and the me- 
mory vacant indeed, which gazed unexcited 
on the venerable pile. 

Religion was never more picturesque than 
in the ancient monastery. History, poetry, 
romance, have alike made it the shrine for 
their creations. The colour thrown over its 
remembrances is like the rich and purple hues 
the stained glass of the painted window flings 
on the monuments beneath. 

The situation, too, was one of great natural 
beauty. At the back was a smooth turf, un- 
broken save by two gigantic cedars, stately as 
their native Lebanon, and shadowy as the 
winters they had braved. This sloped down 
to a large lake, where the image of the abbey 
lay as in a mirror — every turret, every arch, 
dim, softened, but distinct ; beyond, were 
fields covered with the luxuriant and rich- 
looking green of the young corn — for the park 
had not been preserved — till the varied oat- 
lines of undulating hedge, groups of old elms, 
distant meadows, and the verdant hills, were 
lost in the blue sky. 

The view from the breakfast room was of an 
utterly different and confined character. The 
thick growth of the fine old trees, and the un- 
dipped shrubs, shut out all but the small por- 
tion of shrubbery, which was like one bright 
and blooming spot in a wilderness. The win- 
dows opened upon a broad terrace, against 
whose stone balustrade a few pots of early 
flowers were placed — not very rare, for the 
hot-house had been neglected ; still there were 
some rose trees, putting forth buds at least, 
some myrtles, some deep purple hyacinths, 
The steps led down into the garden, whose 
beds were rich in white and crimson daisies, 
hepaticas, and violets, whose breath perfumed 
the whole place. The turf was of that rich 
dark emerald which promises softness fit for 
the chariot of the fairy queen ; and, spreading 
his magnificent plumage in the sunshine, 
which brought out a thousand new colours, a 
peacock stood gazing round, either for admira- 
tion, or with an Alexander Selkirk looking 
feeling, which said, " I am monarch of all I 
survey." 

" I must say," observed Lord Mandeville, 
opening the window till the room seemed 
filled w T ith fragrance and sunshine, "a street 
sacred to Macadam's dynasty of mud, and the 
blinds, bricks, and smoke of our opposite 
neighbours, are not quite equal to a scene like 
this." 

!i On to the combat, say your worst,' 
And foul fall him who flinches first !" 

replied Lady Mandeville. "The exception 
proves the rule; but there js such an argu- 
ment in your favour, that for once I will give 
up the dispute— but mind, it is not to be con- 
sidered a precedent." 

So saying, she stepped upon the terrace tu 
meet a beautiful boy, who came, glowing and 
out of breath, to ask for bread for the peacock. 
In sober seriousness, there is more poetry than 
truth in the sweet poem of Allen Cunniog- 



88 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



ham — the Town and Country Child : witness 
the cheerful voices and the rosy faces to be 
met with in the smallest street and closest 
alley in London; but if an artist had wished 
for a model for the children so beautifully 
painted by the poet, Frank Mandeville — two 
months ago pale and languid, and now Frank 
Mandeville bright-eyed and cheerful — might 
*airly have sat for both likenesses. 



CHAPTER XXX. 

" The schoolmaster is abroad."— Brougham. 

'■ Now, be sure you learn your lesson, you tiresome 
child."— Juvenile Library. 

" Thank goodness, I am not a child," said 
Lady Mandeville, turning over a collection of 
those juvenile tomes, which are to make the 
rising generation so much wiser than their 
grandfathers or grandmothers — catechisms of 
conchology, geology, mathematical questions 
for infants, geography, astronomy ; " the child 
may be ' father to the man ;' but the said fa- 
ther must have had some trouble with his off- 
spring." 

"I often wonder," replied Lord Mande- 
ville, " how I ever learnt to read ; and to this 
day I sympathize with the child in the song, 
who says, 

' The rule of three doth puzzle me, 
And practice drives me mad.' " 

" I cannot but think," rejoined Mr. Morland, 
" our present mode of education has too much 
of the forcing system in it. The forward child 
grows into the dogmatic youth, and it takes 
ten years of disappointment and mortification 
to undo the work of twenty. Nothing leads 
to such false idea of self-importance as dis- 
play. I dislike those rail-roads to informa- 
tion, because the labour of acquiring know- 
ledge is even more valuable than the know- 
ledge acquired. It is a great misfortune to 
children to be made of too much conse- 
quence." 

"It seems to me," observed Lady Mande- 
ville, " that we over-educate the memory, 
while the temper and the feelings are neglect- 
ed, forgetting that the future will be governed 
much more by the affections than by the un- 
derstanding. I would, both for his own hap- 
piness and that of those connected with him, 
a thousand times rather see Frank affectionate 
and generous, than like a little dictionary at 
my side for memory and correctness." 

" Never tell me," said Lord Mandeville, 
" but that a child must be the better for read- 
ing anecdotes of generosity, kindliness, and 
self-devotion. It would give me more plea- 
sure to have Frank's enthusiasm excited by 
such acts, than to hear him name every Roman 
pinperor from Augustus to Constantine." 

" I feel convinced that one of Miss Edge- 
worth's stories for children is worth all the 
questions and answers that ever made history 
asy, or geography light." 



" Do you remember," said Emily, " a little 
story called the Rival Crusoes 1 I cannot 
describe the effect it took on Frank, as I was 
reading it to him : but, if I may venture a re- 
mark among you higher authorities, it seems 
to me it gave him a more touching lesson 
against overbearing temper, and of affectionate 
forgiveness, than all the advice in the world 
could have done." 

" Her aunt," said Mr. Morland, " has the 
care of my Helen. My only injunctions were 
— educate her as little, and keep her a child res 
long as possible." 

" And she is one of the sweetest girls I ever 
saw, because one of the most natural — loving 
birds, flowers, and fairy tales, with a taste at 
once so simple and so refined ; and, to make 
my confession, I do not like her the less for 
being a most lovely creature." 

"I wonder," exclaimed Emily, " whether 
she still wears her hair in those beautiful natu- 
ral ringlets 1 — they always put me in mind of 
that exquisite simile applied to Ellen Glan- 
ville, ' her curls seemed as if they had taken 
the sunbeams prisoners.'* When I last saw 
her she was very eloquent in praise of a cer- 
tain tortoiseshell comb. Turning up the hair 
is the great step to womanhood in a girl's life." 

" What admirable theories of education," 
observed Lord Mandeville, " one might erect ! 
only who would ever have the patience to exe- 
cute them] Our only consolation is, that do 
what he will, circumstances will do still 
more." 

" Yet those circumstances may, and ought 
to be modified ; but a truce to our present 
discussion — for here come the letters." 

0, for some German philosopher, with the 
perseverance of the African travellers, who 
seem to make a point of conscience to die on 
their travels, not, though, till the said travels 
are properly interred in quartos — with their 
perseverance, and the imagination of a poet 
to examine into the doctrine of sympathies! 
And to begin with letters, in what consists the 
mysterious attraction no one will deny they 
possess ] Why, when we neither expect, 
hope, nor even wish for one, and yet when 
they are brought, who does not feel disap- 
pointed to find there are none for them 1 and 
why, wmen opening the epistle would set the 
question at rest, do we persevere in looking at 
the direction, the seal, the shape, as if from 
them alone we could guess the contents! 
What a love of mystery and of vague expect- 
ance there is in the human heart ! 

In the mean time, Emily sat picking to 
pieces a rosebud, from the first deep crimson 
leaf to the delicate pink inside. O ! that 
organ of destructiveness ! She had gathered 
it only an hour ago — a single solitary flower, 
where the shrubbery had run into too luxuriant 
a vegetation for much bloom — the very Una 
of roses among the green leaves, 

" Making a sunshine in the shady place ;" 

and now she was destroying it. 

Suddenly, Lord Mandeville, who had beea 
* Pelham. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



89 



tost in the columns of the Times, exclaimed, 
11 Why, the Lauristons' villa at Twickenham 
is for sale. What can have induced them to 
part with it]" 

" The Morning Post explains the mystery. 
Do let me read you the announcement of Lady 
Adelaide Merton's marriage." 

A flush passed over Emily's face, bright as 
the red leaves she had been scattering round, 
and then left her cheek even whiter than the 
hand on which it leant. 

" I am surprised — I really thought it was to 
have been a match between her and Mr. Lor- 
raine : but, lo and behold ! she has married 
his elder brother, Lord Etheringhame. But 
this marriage of her last daughter accounts for 
the sale of the villa. No one knew better 
than Lady Lauriston the advantage of a dis- 
tance from town, to which a young cavalier 
could drive down in an hour — dine en famille 
— spend an evening with all the amusement 
but none of the restraint of a London party : 
and then the windows opened upon the lawn, 
and a warm evening often tempted a young 
couple to step out — and then moonlight, and 
that beautiful acacia walk, were terribly sen- 
timental. That pretty garden has witnessed 
more tban one offer; but 

'Othello's occupation's gone.' 

What wiil Lady Lauriston do without a daugh- 
ter to marry ] She really must advertise for 
one." 

" I should have been very sorry had Lor- 
raine married Lady Adelaide Merton," said 
Mr. Morland ; "yet I always felt his admira- 
tion was 

'The perfume and suppliance of a minute.' 

He is too imaginative not to be attracted by 
beauty ; but he has a depth of feeling, a poetry 
of thought — no mere coquette would ever 
satisfy." 

" I do not know any one who better realizes 
my idea of a preux chevalier than Mr. Lor- 
raine," replied Lady Mandeville. " He is so 
very handsome, to begin with ; and there is a 
romantic tone about him, which, to its origi- 
nal merits of fine taste and elevated feelings, 
adds also that of being very uncommon." 

" I never yet knew a woman who did not 
admire him," said Mr. Morland ; " and I 
ascribe it greatly to a certain earnestness and 
energy in his character. You all universally 
Uke the qualities in which you yourselves are 
deficient : the more you indulge in that not 
exactly deceit, which, in its best sense, be- 
longs to your sex, the more you appreciate and 
distinguish that which is true in the character 
of man. Moreover, Edward has a devotion 
of manner, which every female takes as a 
compliment to herself; and a spirit of roman- 
tic enterprise, enough to turn your heads and 
hearts, like the love-charms of the Irish story- 
tellers." 

" Why !" exclaimed Lord Mandeville, " you 
must have seen a great deal of him. How, 
Miss Arundel, did y u ever withstand his 
fascinations V 

Vol. I.— 12 



Most probably Emily did not hear this 
question ; for she was in the act of opening 
the window, to walk on the terrace. Lady 
Mandeville alone caught sight of her face, 
coloured with the brightest carnation. What 
betraying things blushes are ! Like sealing- 
wax in the juvenile riddle, a blush " burns to 
keep a secret." 

She turned into the most shadowy walk — 
one whose thick laurels shut out all but the 
green winding path below. She wished foi' 
no companion to break in upon her thoughts. 
We use the phrase, " too confused for happi- 
ness ;" but I doubt whether that confusion be 
not our nearest approach to it in this life. 

Involuntarily her light step quickened ; and 
the buoyant pace with which she reached the 
end of the walk was in unison with the rapid 
flight fancy was taking over the future. Hope, 
like an angel, had arisen in her heart ; and every 
flower of the summer sprang up beneath its 
feet. Youth is the French count, who takes 
the Yorick of Sterne for that of Shakspeare: 
it combines better than it calculates — its 
wishes are prophecies of their own fulfilment. 

To meet Lorraine again, with all the advan- 
tages she really possessed, and with Lady 
Mandeville to set those advantages in a pro- 
per light — to have him not insensible to them 
— to be enabled to show the perfect disinte- 
restedness of her attachment, from his brother'?' 
marriage — all these happy conclusions were, 
in her mind, the work of a moment. Wf 
build our castles on the golden sand; the ma 
terial is too rich to be durable. 

From that day a visible change passed ove< 
Emily. She played with the children as 
usual ; but now it was as if she entered her- 
self into the enjoyment she gave them. Still, 
she was sometimes abstracted and thoughtful, 
but now, instead of a look of weariness and 
dejection, she started from her fit of absence 
with a beautiful flush of confusion and plea 
sure ; and the subject of the next spring, from 
which she had hitherto shrunk, was now 
entered into with all the eagerness of anticipa- 
tion. 

" How much Miss Arundel is improved !" 
said Lord Mandeville. " I do not know 
whether our coming here has done Frank oi 
herself most good." 

Lady Mandeville only smiled. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

" Marriage and hanging go by destiny."— Old Proverb. 

Every street in London was Macadamizing 
— every shop was selling bargains, — the pale 
pink, blue, and primrose ribands were making 
one effort for final sale, before the purples and 
crimsons of winter set in. Women in black 
gowns, and drab-coloured shawls hung upon 
their shoulders as if they were pegs in a pas- 
sage — men in coats something between a 
great-coat and a frock — strings of hackney 
coaches which moved not — stages which dro^e 
h2 



90 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



along- with an empty, rattling sound — and 
carts laden with huge stones, now filled Pic- 
cadilly. All the windows, that is to say, all 
of any pretensions, had their shutters closed, 
excepting here and there an open parlour one, 
where the old woman left in care of the house 
sat for her amusement. 

Every thing bespoke the season of one of 
those migratory disorders, which, at certain 
periods, depopulate London. Still, one man- 
sion, which the time ought to have unpeopled, 
was evidently inhabited; and in one of its 
rooms — small, but luxurious enough for a sul- 
tana in the Arabian Nights, or a young gentle- 
man of the present day — were seated two per- 
sons in earnest, conversation. 

After a time, one of them — it was Mr. Dela- 
warr — rose and left the room, saying, " I own 
the truth of your remarks — it makes good the 
observation, that a bystander sees more of the 
game than those who are playing ; — and now 
let me remind you of the assistance you can 
rentier me ; that will be a more powerful mo- 
tive than all I could urge of your own ambi- 
tion and advancement." 

Lorraine rose, and paced the room in an ex- 
cited and anxious mood : he felt conscious of 
his own great powers, and of the many ad- 
vantages he possessed for bringing them into 
action. But pleasures are always most de- 
lightful when we look back upon, or forward 
to them ; and he felt an indolent reluctance to 
turn from the voice of the charmer — charm 
she never so wisely — and assume those en- 
during habits of industry and energy which 
are as much required as even talent in an Eng- 
lishman's public career. He only wanted the 
influence of a more powerful motive than the 
theoretic conviction of the excellence of such 
exertion ; but the necessity was even now on 
its road. 

Noon and the post arrived together ; and 
they brought that letter which had given Lord 
Etheringhame such trouble in its composition, 
announcing his engagement with Lady Ade- 
laide Merton. Lorraine was as completely 
taken by surprise as it was well possible for 
a gentleman to be. His brother's marriage 
had long ceased to enter into his calculations ; 
but if it were possible for any human being 
to be without one grain of selfishness in his 
composition, Edward Lorraine was that being; 
and his first vague astonishment over, his next 
feeling was to rejoice over an event so certain 
to restore his brother's mind to a more healthy 
tone — to recall him to his place in society ; 
and never was a letter more frank or affec- 
tionate in its congratulations than the one he 
forthwith despatched to the earl. He could 
not but feel curious to know how the conquest 
had been managed, and perhaps thought any 
other match would have been as good. Still, 
a young man is rarely very severe on the faults 
of a very beautiful girl; and, moreover, it 
Was a flattering unction to lay to his soul, that 
lie, rather than the lady, had been the first to 
wi' lid raw from their flirtation. 

He then went to communicate the affair to 
Mr. Delawarr, whose equanimity, being unsup- 



ported by affection, was much the m( it dis- 
turbed by the occurrence. His judgment, 
unbiassed by any brotherly partiality, drew no 
flattering conclusions for Lord Etheringhame's 
future, either as a brilliant or as a useful ca- 
reer — 

"Unstable as water, thou shalt net excel ;" 

and he foresaw Lord Etheringhame would 
just be a puppet in the hands of his very- 
lovely wife. These reflections he deemed it 
unnecessary to communicate, and finished the 
dialogue by exclaiming, " Well, Edward, I 
only wish you had married her yourself." In 
this wish, however, his auditor did not quite 
cordially join. 

Lord Etheringhame had many feminine 
points in his character : this his very letter 
evinced. Part of its most important informa- 
tion was in the postscript, viz., that Mr. May- 
nard had died suddenly ; his physician said 
by his cook — the jury, by the visitation of 
God. The borough he liad represented was 
now vacant : it was his lordship's, and the 
seat was offered to Edward, and accepted. 
The grief into which Lady Alicia's death 
plunged Mr. Delawarr, made Lorraine's pre- 
sence and assistance invaluable to one who 
had quite enough of business to justify his 
saying, " He had not a moment's time to him- 
self;" — an assertion more pleasant than we 
are ready to admit. No thoroughly occupied 
man was ever yet very miserable. 

March arrived, and with it the period fixed 
for the marriage, which had been delayed, and 
was now to be private, on account of the re- 
cent loss. Lady Lauriston and her daughter 
had spent a quiet fortnight in London : people 
cannot be married without a clergyman — the 
milliner and the jeweller are equally indis- 
pensable. They returned to Stanbury Park, 
whose owner made his niece a present of a set 
of pearls and a cookery book; and at last the 
day came when the ceremony was to be per- 
formed in the chapel of Etheringhame Castle. 

From a delay on the road, almost impossi- 
ble in these days — but rapid driving does 
sometimes accomplish impossibilities — -Ed- 
ward only arrived that very morning in time 
to accompany his brother, who walked up and 
down the hall, sipping his coffee at intervals, 
and having very much the air of a soldier who 
would retreat if he could. 

Any great change is like cold water in win- 
ter — one shrinks from the first plunge; and a, 
lover may be excused who shivers a little at 
the transmigration into a husband. It is a 
different case with the lady — she has always 
been brought up with the idea of being mar- 
ried — moreover, she must be very much taken 
up with her blonde — and, to conclude, a woman 
gains her liberty, but a man loses his. 

Edward was the only one of the party suffi- 
ciently unoccupied to appreciate the propriety 
and the picturesque of the scene. Lord Lau- 
riston, watching his lady in evident trepida- 
tion lest his conduct should not meet her ap 
probation — Lord Merton, obviously tired ot 
the forms, but subsiding into patience as he 






ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



91 



met his mother's eye — Mr. Stanbury, with a 
face full of congratulations and a mouth full 
of jokes, all equally checked by Lady Lauris- 
ton's glance — she, all dignified quiet, only 
touched by a most maternal sadness at parting 
with her daughter — and the daughter herself, 
nothing - could be more perfect, whether in 
dress or demeanour. 

After much hesitation, and consideration of 
the will yet unwritten, the property at his own 
disposal, Lady Lauriston consented that Ade- 
laide should be married with her head unco- 
vered. "No girl," said Mr. Stanbury, "in 
his tinw ever wore one of those frightful huge 
bonnets ;" and it was finally arranged that his 
niece Gnould not. A dress of the most deli- 
cate white silk, made open so as to display 
the collarette beneath, so favourable to the 
display of her exquisitely turned neck — the 
small ruff that encircled her slender throat, 
which rose white and graceful as the swan's 
— the beautiful hair, which descended in light 
ringlets like a summer shower, ever} r drop 
filled with sunshine, whose profusion was re- 
strained, not concealed, by the wreath of 
orange flowers, — and the blonde veil that fell 
to her feet. 

She entered clinging timidly to her father's 
arm, and knelt in an attitude perfectly inimi- 
table before the altar, while, from one of the 
painted windows of the little chapel, the most 
exquisite rose tint fell over her figure; it was 
as if her own rich blush had coloured the at- 
mosphere around. Her voice, throughout the 
whole response, was quite inaudible — just a 
whisper — fairy music; and, after the ceremo- 
ny, she leant on her husband's arm with an 
air so different from that with which she had 
leant on her father's — she clung to the one, 
while she seemed to shrink from the other — 
gradual!}^ however, drawing towards him, as 
if for support. When the rest crowded round 
with their congratulations, Edward felt greatly 
inclined to laugh as he offered his : their eyes 
met, and he was convinced the bride smother- 
ed a smile too ; but whether the smile was 
mirth or triumph, would have been a difficult 
question to decide. 

We must not forget the bridemaids, who 
were selected with as much judgment as the 
rest : young, pretty, well calculated to set off 
the scene, but slight, and brunettes, they were 
admirably calculated also to set off the height 
and fairness of Lady Adelaide. 

The breakfast was as stupid as such break- 
fasts usually are. The bride is all timidity — 
the parents sorry, of course, to lose their 
sweet child — and the bridegroom is a nonen- 
tity. Lady Etheringhame changed her dress, 
and looked almost lovelier still in her travel- 
ling costume. She was now overwhelmed 
with affliction. Lady Lauriston implored 
Algernon to watch over the happiness of the 
dearest of her children. Adelaide was almost 
borne to the carriage — her mother retired to 
her own room, overcome with her feelings — 
and Edward thought it very ungrateful that the 
audience did not rise and clap the perform- 



CHAPTER XXXIT. 



"Blessings be with them and eternal praisn, 
Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares; 
The poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays." 

Wordsworth. 

Emily's time was now passing most plea- 
santly : she had been solitary enough durincf 
winter to give society that advantage of con- 
trast which does so much towards teaching 
the full value of any thing; she had just 
enough of annoyance from her aunt to make 
her feel thankful that she was not more ex- 
posed to it. She became attached to Lady 
Mandeville, with all the enjoyment and warmth 
of youthful affection — that age when we are 
so happy in loving those around us. Many 
sources of enjoyment were laid open; and the 
future seemed as promising as those futures 
always are which we make for ourselves. 

Lady Mandeville was one of those women 
for the description of whom the word "fasci- 
nating" seems expressly made. She had seen 
a great deal of society, and she talked of it 
delightfully ; she had that keen sense of ridi- 
cule so inseparable from perceptions at once 
acute and refined; and, like most of those ac- 
customed to every species of amusement, she 
easily wearied of it, and hence novelty became 
indispensable; and from this arose much of her 
fondness for society, and quickness in per- 
ceiving every variety of character. A new 
acquaintance was like a new book — and, as in 
the case of the book, it must be confessed she 
often arrived very quickly at the end. 

Emily's very reserve — the necessity there 
was to divine the feelings she herself rarely 
expressed — made her, of all others, the most 
secure in retaining the friendship she had 
inspired. There was always something to 
imagine about her — and imagination is as use- 
ful in keeping affection alive, as the eastern 
monarch's fairy ring was in keeping alive his 
conscience. Moreover, Emily's very friend- 
lessness gave Lady Mandeville a pleasurable 
feeling of protection — we like those we can 
oblige — and she felt as the writer of a fairy 
tale, while laying down plans for her future 
destiny. 

"Pra3 T , have you agreed to group for a 
picture V said Mr. Morland, who, with Lord 
Mandeville, entered the room just as Emily 
read the last line of the Lady of the Lake ; and 
it was a question De Hooge might have asked ; 
for one of those breaks of sunshine, so like 
reality in his pictures, came from the half- 
opened glass door, and fell full on the large 
old crimson arm-chair, w T here Lady Mandeville 
was seated w T ith a little work-table before her, 
at w^hich she was threading those brilliant and 
diminutive beads which would make fitting 
chain armour for the fairy king and his knights. 
The rest of the apartment was filled with that 
soft green light where the noon is excluded 
by Venetian blinds, or the still softer shadow 
of creeping plants; and here on the south side 
of the house, a vine had been trained, whichi 
luxuriant and unpruned, seemed better calcu 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



.ated for foliage than for fruit: a green basket- 
Btand, filled with pots of early roses, stood 
between the windows — and so near, that their 
crimson reflected on the face of the young boy 
who was asleep on the carpet: not so the 
elder one, who sat at Emily's feet, his cheek 
glowing with the excitement of the narrative, 
and his large blue eyes almost double their 
usual size with eager attention. 

"I have always thought," said Lord Man- 
deville — " and Frank seems to think with me 
— that no poet ever carried you so completely 
along with him as Sir Walter Scott: he is the 
poet, of all others, made to be read aloud. 
What is the reason I like to read Lord Byron 
to myself, but like Scott to be read to mel" 

"Because," said Mr. Morland, "the one is 
the poet of reflection, the other of action. 
Byron's pages are like the glasses w r hich re- 
flect ourselves — Scott's are like those magic 
mirrors which give forth other and distant 
scenes, and other and passing shapes: but this 
is a sweeping remark — and both poets often 
interchange their characteristics. Scott will 
excite pensive and lingering thought — and 
"Byron, as in the Corsair and Lara, carry us 
along by the mere interest of the story." 

" I think," observed Emily, " in the Lay 
of the Last Minstrel there is one of the most 
exquisite touches of natural feeling lever met 
with. Sir William Deloraine uncloses the 
tomb of Michael Scott, while the monk, his 
early friend, stands by : when the body is un- 
covered, the monk turns away his face — 

' For he might not abide the sight to see 
Of the man he had loved so brotherly.'"* 

" I remember," returned Lady Mandeville, 
" another instance, where a single thought has 
produced the effect, on me at least, of a whole 
poem of images : it is from Byron. The 
Prisoner of Chillon is speaking of the younger 
brother who lies buried at his side : he says, 

'For he was beautiful as day, 
When day was beautiful to me.'" 

"And, while we are remembering, let me 
recall another passage from Scott that has al- 
ways especially delighted me," observed Lord 
Mandeville. " The Minstrel is relating to the 
captive chieftain the battle in which his clan 
have been worsted ; he softens the defeat by 
ascribing it all to his absence, and sinks the 
flight in the exclamation, 

' O, where was Roderic then ?— 
One blast upon his bugle horn 
Were worth a thousand men.' " 

" Of all questions," remarked Lady Mande- 
ville, "I dislike being asked, 'which is your 
favourite poet V Authors who appeal to the 
feelings are those of whom our opinions must 
inevitably vary most : I judge according to my 
mood." 

"Another odious fashion of conversation is 
that of comparison : I look upon them as if 
' Their souls were each a star, and dwelt apart.' " 



*I find this remark previously made in the National 
Portrait Gallery ; and I am glad to observe the opinion con- 
firmed by such authority as the author of tho3e biographical 
fetches. 



" Are you an admirer of Wordsworth V 

" Yes — he is the most poetical of philoso- 
phers. Strange, that a man can be so great a 
poet, and yet deficient in what are poetry's 
two grand requisites, — imagination and pas- 
sion. He describes what he has seen, and 
beautifully, because he is impressed with the 
beauty before his eyes. He creates nothing : 
I cannot recall one fine simile. He has often 
expressions of touching feeling — he is often 
melancholy, often tender— but with more of 
sympathy than energy; and for simplicity he 
often mistakes both vulgarity and silliness. 
He never fills the atmosphere around with 
music, ' lapping us in Elysium,' like Moore : 
he never makes his readers fairly forget their 
very identity, in the intense interest of the 
narrative, like Scott : he never startles us with 
the depth of our secret thoughts — he never 
brings to our remembrance all that our own 
existence has had of poetry or passion — the 
earnestness of early hope, the bitterness of af- 
ter-disappointment — like Byron. But he sits 
by the fireside or wanders through the fields, 
and calls from their daily affections and sym- 
pathies foundations whereon to erect a scheme 
of the w T idest benevolence. He looks forth on 
the beautiful scenery amid which he has 
dwelt, and links with it a thousand ties of the 
human loveliness of thought : I would say, his 
excellence is the moral sublime." 

"The common people of England," observ- 
ed Lord Mandeville, " seem to me to have less 
feeling, taste, or whatever we please to call it, 
for poetry, than almost any other country. 
Look at the common songs of the Scotch — 
verse " familiar as household words" — what 
touches of exquisite feeling — what natural yet 
delicate thoughts ! Look at those of the Irish 
peasantry — what fine and original imagery is 
to be met with ! But the run of English bal- 
lads are as vulgar in expression as they are 
coarse or common in idea. No nation takes a 
higher poetical rank than our own — how, 
therefore, do you account for this V 

" I am not one of those," returned Mr. Mor- 
land, " who deem it necessary to give a reason 
for every thing ; and of all hypotheses, thoso 
which account for the various workings of the 
imagination are to me especially unsatisfac- 
tory. That a peculiar temperament is required 
for poetry, no one will deny ; but what pro- 
duces that temperament? — scenery and cir- 
cumstances certainly do not. I, for one, am 
content to leave the question with the longi- 
tude and the philosopher's stone." 

" The poetical habits of a people do not lead 
to their producing great poets, else those among 
the Italians of the present day would be the 
first in the world. Their country is unrivalled 
in its loveliness — all their old associations are 
of the refined and elevated order — their taste 
for music is as exquisite as their taste for 
painting. Objects of beauty are constantly 
before them, for the picture or statue gallery 
is open to all — their churches are the noblest 
monuments of human power — the common 
wants of life are easily supplied — and then 
their indolent summer habits are so favourable 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



03 



to the train of imaginary creations. I have 
seen an Italian peasant, seated, perhaps, by 
one of the ruined fountains, half ivy, half wa- 
ter — or beneath an old tree, through which the 
moonlight was falling like rain — and he has 
sung some one of those divine airs whose 
popularity has verily floated on the wings of 
the wind. Gradually his voice has died away, 
and he has sat silent and absorbed, as if wholly 
given up to the quiet enjoyment of the soft 
summer night. Ought not that man to have 
been a poet]" 

"The feeling for poetry is not the power, 
and I firmly believe its source lies not without, 
but within." 

" Nothing struck me so much as the ex- 
treme beauty of the women. To take one in- 
stance out of many — look at the young pea- 
sants who plait the Leghorn straw : brought 
up from infancy to that most feminine employ- 
ment, which requires the utmost delicacy of 
touch, their hands and arms are as white as 
those of the heroines of romance always are ; 
the outline of their face is perfect — the finely 
formed nose, the ivory teeth, the high, intel- 
lectual forehead — and such eyebrows — to say 
nothing of their large dark eyes, either of a 
deep purple blue, or a radiant black ; and then 
their hair, so profuse, so exquisitely dressed, 
put up into those rich masses of shade, and 
falling into one or two large ringlets that 
Berenice might have envied. I have often 
seen one of those girls, with her classically- 
turned head, bending over her work, who 
might have served as a model for ' a nymph, 
a naiad, or a grace.' " 

" Do you remember," said Lady Mandeville, 
" the first fete after our arrival"? O, Emily, 
it was matter for severe study ! Their ex- 
quisite coquetry — each peasant had her lover, 
who was treated with that perfection of ' beau- 
tiful disdain' which does so much in a love 
affair. And then their dress — the fine plaited 
chemisette close round the throat — the long gold 
ear-rings, those indispensables of their toilette 
— the black velvet bodice, showing the figure 
to such advantage, laced with gold and colour- 
ed silks — the full petticoat — the apron trim- 
med with gay ribands ; all put on so neatly, 
and with such a fine taste for harmony of 
colouring. I always think national costumes 
invented for the express advantage of travel- 
lers." 

" I must own," replied Mr. Morland, "the 
pleasures of travelling seem to me quite ideal. 
I dislike having the routine of my existence 
disarranged — I dislike early .rising — I dislike 
bad dinners — I dread damp beds — I like new 
books — I like society — I respect my cook, and 
love my arm-chair; so I will travel through 
Italy in a chapter — and am not quite sure but 
these engravings are more picturesque than 
the originals." 

< " And I," replied Lady Mandeville, " de- 
light in its difficulties : a bad dinner is a no- 
velty, and a little danger is an enjoyment for 
which I am thankful. There are two readings 
rf content — and mine would be monotony." 

" Blessed be that amiable arrangement of 



fate, which gives such variety of tastes ! ] 
knew a lady who made a pet of a dove — 1 
knew another whose passion was for grass- 
hoppers. I'll tell you a story, at which I 
laughed at first, and afterwards philosophized 
upon. You know the frightful goitres which 
so disfigure the inhabitants of the Valais ; but 
they themselves consider them to be personal 
advantages of no small attraction. In my 
youth I was a little touched with those vagrant 
habits you have been advocating ; and one day 
I found myself in a small mountain chapel, 
where a Swiss pastor was encouraging con- 
tent among his congregation, by dwelling on 
the many levelling circumstances of humanity 
— the si«kness or the sorrow which brought 
the happiness of the wealthy to a level with 
that of the poor. Taking it for granted I was 
as ignorant of his language as he was of mine, 
he looked upon my appearance as quite a case 
in point: " Observe this young stranger — rich, 
free to do his own pleasure, healthy ; but, to 
counterbalance these adv< 
has denied him a goitre." 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

" Nobody dies but somebody's glad of it." 

Three Courses and a Desert. 

We differ from our ancestors in many things 
— in none more than in cases of sentiment. 
Formerly, it was your susceptible school-girl, 
"your novel-reading miss" — now, women 
only grow romantic after forty. Your young 
beauty calculates the chances of her Grecian 
nose, her fine eyes, and her exquisite com- 
plexion — your young heiress dwells on the 
claims of her rent-roll, or the probabilities of 
her funded property; it is their mothers who 
run away — their aunts who marry handsome 
young men without a shilling. Well, the 
prudence of youth is very like selfishness, and 
the romance of age very like folty. 

Mrs. Arundel was arrived at the romantic 
age; and Emily, on her return from a fort- 
night's stay at Norville, was somewhat sur- 
prised to hear from her own lips that her 
marriage with Mr. Boyne Sillery was to take 
place immediately. So soon ! and was this 
all ] A few months, and her uncle's memory 
seemed to have utterly passed away. Alas ! 
oblivion is our moral death, and forgetfulness 
is the second grave which closes over the 
dead. In the same spirit with which a drown- 
ing man catches at a straw, Emily hoped that 
perhaps Mrs. Clarke might be induced to 
listen to arguments against such indecorous 
haste, and that her influence might prevail on 
the impatient gentleman and yielding lady to 
let the twelve months pass — and then, thought 
Emily, " I shall be glad it is no worse." 

This hope was not a very promising one ; 
for she could scarcely flatter herself that her 
opinion would have much weight : she well 
knew Mrs. Clarke entertained a very mediocre 
estimate of her understanding ; she had neve- 



94 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



asked her for a receipt, nor offered her a pat- 1 
tern, — those alphas and omegas, with her 
female accomplishments. But, however de- 
ficient in these sciences of the spoon and the 
scissors, there was a sweetness, a gentleness 
ahout Emily which it was impossible to dis- 
like ; Mrs. Cla-rke, therefore, always spoke of 
her only pityingly. " Miss Arundel might 
have been made a great deal of, but she had 
been so badly brought up." 

The morning was raw and comfortless, as 
if winter, just awakened from his sleep by an 
east wind, had started up in that unamiable 
mood which is the mood of most when un- 
timely disturbed in their slumbers ; and March, 
which, the day before, had seemed softening 
into Aoril, was again chilled into January. 
Emily's health and habits were equally deli- 
cate ; and a wet, cold walk was to her suffi- 
ciently distasteful, without the visit at the 
end : however, she summoned her resolution 
and her cloak, and set forth. She walked up 
the neatest of gravel walks, edged by box, 
where there was not a leaf out of place, and a 
turf whose silken smoothness seemed uncon- 
scious of a tread; as Mrs. Clarke justly ob- 
served, "It was such a comfort to have no 
children to run over it." She paused on the 
cleanest of steps ; a lad in pepper-in-salt livery 
opened the door ; and she entered the hall and 
an atmosphere of most savoury soup, where 
she seemed likely to remain — for the boy 
stood debating between his right hand and his 
left, evidently quite undecided whether he was 
to show her to the drawing or dining-room. 
This mental debate was, however, decided by 
the appearance of his mistress, who had just 
taken a peep to see who her visiter was, — her 
morning costume rendering such a precaution 
very necessary. 

" Bless me, Miss Emily, who would have 
thought of seeing you in the rain 1 ? Do come 
in. Doctor, go on with your soup, my dear — 
it will do you no good if you let it get cold. 
Do take off that wet cloak — are your feet 
damp ] Don't mind the doctor — he is only 
an old married man — and there is no fire in 
the drawing-room." 

With a shiver at the thought of the cold 
blue best room, always in papers and brown 
holland, Emily took the offered seat by the 
fire, almost glad she was wet, as it delayed 
her explanation. But time has a most femi- 
nine faculty of opposition — always hurries if 
we hesitate — and the doctor finished his soup, 
and went out to hear the complaint of a man 
who applied to the justice because his wife 
insisted on giving him mint tea for breakfast. 
Mrs. Clarke arrived at the end of her apolo- 
gies for being caught such a figure — but she 
had been so busy the whole morning pickling 
walnuts ; — and Emily, finding speak she must, 
in a few words explained the object of her 
visit, and entreated Mrs. Clarke to use her in- 
fluence in persuading her aunt to delay the 
marriage. 

" Delay is all I ask — she is her own mis- 
tress — and if she can reconcile to herself the 
prudence and p opriety of such a step, let her 



marry, and I am sure I hope she will be happy ; 
and do implore her, for the sake of my uncle's 
memory — for her own sake, not to use such 
disreputable haste. If there is no affection— 
and there can be none — let there be some de- 
cency observed." 

Consternation and surprise had kept Mrs. 
Clarke silent; but at last she burst into a 
series of ejaculations — "Going to be married, 
and her husband not dead seven months % 
Disgraceful ! I thought what would come of 
leaving off her caps. And so you saw the 
white silk bonnet she means to be married 
in 1 — A fine price she has paid for it I dare 
say. She never consulted me; but she is very 
much mistaken if she thinks Dr. Clarke will 
countenance such proceedings — he shall not 
marry them." 

" If you did but know how grateful I shall 
be if you can but prevail !" 

" Ah ! Miss Emily, it is all your fault. If 
you had but married him yourself — I am sure 
I thought you would, when I asked him down 
— I had planned it all, I do assure you — you 
would have made such a nice couple." 

Emily felt any thing but inclined to thank 
her for this arrangement ; however, in spite 
of Mrs. Opie, it is not always proper to say all 
one thinks ; so she only observed, " You must 
not blame me — it was my misfortune — not my 
fault." 

" True, true. Poor dear ! it was too bad of 
your aunt to take Francis from you — and so I 
shall tell her. Going to be married, indeed ! 
and a widow only seven months ! I wonder 
what will become of all her nice new mourn- 
ing ! What shameful waste !" 

Before they parted, it was settled that Mrs. 
Clarke should call on Mrs. Arundel, and join 
her persuasions to those of Emily. Mr. Boyne 
Sillery had, excepting one short visit, been 
away for the last fortnight ; and during his 
absence, she might probably be more open to 
conviction. 

Emily returned home, and passed perhaps 
one of the most wretched days of her life. 
Great misfortunes have at least their dignity 
to support them ; but the many and small mi- 
series of life, how they do gall and wear away 
the spirit ! The contrast with the elegance 
and cheerfulness of Norville Abbey, and the 
vivacity and kindness of Lady Mandeville, 
compared with the coldness, the talking-at- 
you style of conversation, in which her aunt's 
dislike found its narrow and acrid channel, 
was too much to be borne. Strange, that one 
whose opinion we neither respect nor admit, 
should yet have power to wound ! — not stran- 
ger, though, than that it should have power to 
please. One may live to be indifferent to every 
thing but opinion. W T e may reject friendship 
which has often deceived us ; renounce love, 
whose belief once found false, leaves us athe- 
ists of the heart ; we may turn from pleasures 
which have palled — from employments which 
have become wearisome : but the opinion of 
our kind, whether for good or for evil, still re- 
tains its hold ; that once broken, every social 
and moral tie is broken too — the prisoner then 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



95 



may go to his solitary cell — the anchorite, to 
his hermitage — the last link with life and 
society is rent in twain. 

Emily was pained, more than she would 
have admitted, by the various signs of dress 
and decoration scattered around ; but the worst 
was as yet unseen. Passing along the gallery, 
there was one door open — one door which she 
never saw without a shudder — one door which 
she had never entered — the one through which 
her uncle's coffin had been carried. 

" No, no — impossible !" exclaimed she 
aloud. With an effort she entered the apart- 
ment, and saw that her glance through the 
open door was right. A great empty room, it 
had been so convenient for Mrs. Arundel's 
dresses, which were all laid out in different 
directions : a large glass, evidently used in 
trying them on, stood in the middle ; and on 
the very bed where her uncle had died was 
spread out a crimson silk pelisse, and, on the 
pillow above, a blonde cap and flowers. 

Emily's indignation was at first the upper- 
most, the only feeling. She hurried from the 
place ; but her own chamber once gained, 
anger only gave bitterness to grief. She re- 
proached herself for having forgotten her sor- 
row ; every lighter thought that had crossed 
her mind — every hope in which she had in- 
dulged seemed like a crime ; and her aunt's 
unfeeling levity was forgotten in her own 
melancholy remembrances. All was, how- 
ever, recalled by a message from Mrs. Clarke, 
who requested she would join her in the 
drawing-room. 

Sick at heart, her eyes red with crying. 
Emily obeyed the summons, and heard the 
voices of both ladies considerably louder than 
should be permitted to any debate which is 
not to end in blows. 

The first words she caught, on her entrance, 
were, " I'll tell you what, ma'am, if you will 
make such an old fool of yourself, Dr. Clarke 
shall have no hand in it; he won't marry 
you." 

"Dr. Clarke may wait till I ask him; and 
I tell you. once for all, I will not be dictated 
to by anybody ; — clever as you think yourself, 
you shall not manage me. And pray, Miss 
Emily, what brings you here '?" 

" A wish, madam, to at least endeavour to 
save you from taking a step so inconsistent 
with ihe respect you owe my uncle's memor}*. 
Surely, Mr. Sillery can wait till — " 

"Yes," interrupted Mrs. Clarke, " he can 
wait very well. He is not so old as to make 
a few months so precious." 

Emily saw such an argument was not a very 
convincing one; and approaching Mrs. Arun- 
del, urged, in the most conciliating tone, every 
consideration that was likely to either touch 
Dr soften her. " I only ask a few months of 
respect to the opinion of the world — to the 
memory of the dead. You say you find them 
solitary; — I will not leave home again — no- 
thing of attention on my part shall be wanting 
for your comfort — and if Mr. Sillery visits 
here, he shall meet at least with civility from 
me." 



" And if you can take him from your silly 
old aunt, you have my full consent," cried 
Mrs. Clarke. 

This was too much ; and snatching her hand 
from Emily, Mrs. Arundel said, " Settle it all 
your own way ;" and left the room, which 
shook with the door she slammed after her. 

"She'll repent it, Miss Emily; — never 
mind, she'll repent it ;" and with this conso- 
latory prediction Mrs. Clarke also departed. 

Emily saw no more of her .aunt that eve- 
ning. She was told Mrs. Arundel was en- 
gaged with a gentleman. Who it was, her 
niece could easily guess ; and, mortified and 
harassed, she retired early to her room. Her 
maid's face was evidently full of news, but 
Emily was in no mood to listen ; and the girl 
was dismissed, as discontented as the posses- 
sor of untold information could well be. 

Early the next morning she was awakened 
by the noise of wheels in the court-yard. 
Surprise at such an unusual sound made her 
unclose the window a little to discover whence 
it proceeded ; and she was just in time to see 
Mr. Boyne Sillery hand her aunt into a car- 
riage, jump in himself, when it drove off with 
a rapidity which scarcely allowed her to ob- 
serve that a large imperial was on the top and 
her aunt 
dickey. 

Emily rang her bell. It was answered by 
the housemaid, with a great white satin bow, 
by way of favour, in her cap. 
" What carriage was that]" 
" Lord, miss ! don't you know that mistress 
is gone to be married this morning ]" 
" Married ! Where ?" 
" Lord love you, miss ! we did think you 
were to be bridemaid, till mistress told us not 
to call you." 

" But where is Mrs. Arundel gone"?" 
This the girl did not know. 
Emily soon learned that Mr. Boyne Sille- 
ry ' s late absence was in way of business. He 

had been residing in the little town of C , 

and there her infatuated aunt was to be mar- 
ried. A lady's maid from town, recommended 
by Mr. Sillery, had been her only confidante, 
as she was now her only companion. 

Emily wandered up and down the house 
disconsolately. How large, how empty, how 
miserable every thing looked ! She thought 
of writing to Mr. Delaware, who had been 
named as her guardian, to Norville Abbey ; 
but her head swam round — she could not see 
the paper before her. The noise from the ser- 
vants' hall was rendered more acutely painful 
by her headache ; for her aunt, partly with a 
view of annoying her niece, whom she dis- 
liked — as we always dislike those we have 
used ill — had left orders for a general regale. 
Most of the establishment were new. Mr. 
Arundel had pensioned off his few morp 
ancient domestics ; and his wife was not one 
whose service was a heritage. There was 
hence little to restrain their mirth Dr their in- 
temperance. Loud bursts of laughter sounder. 
through the hall. Emily rose to ring the bell 
but sank down quite insensible 



9G 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Something she rememhered of partial revi- 
val, of motion in a carriage, of being conveyed 
to bed ; but it was not till after some hours of 
stupor that she revived sufficiently to recog- 
nise her French bed at Norville Abbey, and 
Lady Mandeville bending anxiously over her 
pillow. 

Ill news travel fast ; and Mrs. Arundel's 
marriage was like the sun in the child's riddle, 
for it went "round each house, and round each 
house, and looked in at every window." 
Norville Abbey was soon enlightened, like the 
rest ; and Lady Mandeville immediately set 
off to rescue her young friend from "the soli- 
tude, which comes when the bride is gone 
forth." She had been more amused with the 
accounts of Mrs. Arundel's wedding than Emi- 
ly might have quite liked; but her favourite's 
illness put mirth to flight. All Lady Mande- 
ville's kindness and affection were called 
forth ; and Emily might have said with an- 
other invalid, " It is worth Avhile to be ill, to 
be so petted and nursed." 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

■ At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I discover 
The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and 
was my lover?" Lockhart. 

The first great principle of our religious, 
moral, civil, and literary institutions, is a din- 
nei A church is built, a rai]-road opened, 
the accounts of the vestry inspected, a revo- 
lution occurs, a subscription is made, a death 
is to be celebrated, a friend to be supported — 
all alike by a dinner. Our heathen brethren 
are to be converted — we dine for their salva- 
tion ; our musical, theatrical, and literary 
brethren are to be relieved — we dine for their 
benefit; for the some half-dozenth time the 
French patriots alter their government — we 
dine for the conservation of their charter ; Mr. 
Pitt dies— his memory is preserved by fish 
and soup ; laws govern the kingdom, and a 
young gentleman qualifies himself to become 
their minister by a course of meals in the 
Temple Hall; and what are cabinet councils 
to cabinet dinners 1 where the Duke of Wel- 
lington once trusted his aide-de-camp, he now 
relies on his butler, and the decisions of his 
cook are as important as the movements of 
his army. 

In social life, to owe such a one a dinner is 
the most imperative of obligations — gambling 
debts always excepted. An Englishman talks 
of the Magna Charta and roast beef in a 
Dreath ; his own constitution and that of his 
country are indissolubly united. As a great 
orator once observed, " the security of your 
laws, the sanctity of your church, the bond of 
society, the cement of your religious, political, 
and moral obligations, nay, the actual existence 
of your country — its vital interests depend, 
gentlemen, on its dinners." (I quote from me- 
mory, and may be mistaken as to the form, but 
I am sure T have given the spirit of the speech.) 



It was to attend one of these national msti 
tutions — a dinner on the opening of a canal — 
that Lord Mandeville set forth, with a mouth- 
ful of patriotism and public spirit; and Lady 
Mandeville, and Emily still languid with re- 
cent illness, were left tele-d-icte. 

Night came; and the wind and rain, which 
beat against the window, only added the ad- 
vantage of contrast to the curtained, carpeted, 
and lighted boudoir; and every gust served 
as an excuse for shrinking still farther into 
the warm crimson cushions of the arm-chairs 
they had drawn almost into the fire. They 
had no new books ; Emily was still too weak 
for w T ork or music ; and it was just the most 
confidential and conversational evening in the 
world. 

Confidence is made up of confession and 
remembrances ; we all love to talk of the 
days of our youth ; and, almost before she 
was aware, Lady Mandeville was engaged in 
a sort of autobiography of herself. It would 
do, she said, as well as reading aloud, to send 
her patient to sleep. 

" I am going to enact the heroine of a nar- 
rative, though sadly deficient in all the neces- 
sary requisites. Save one, I have never had 
a misfortune happen to me — I have never been 
in such extremes of poverty that I have been 
obliged to sell even the ruby cross hung round 
my neck by my mysterious mother — or the 
locket which contained two braids of hair, 
one raven black, the other golden, the first 
love-pledge of rny unfortunate parents — I have 
never had a fever, during which my lover 
watched every look of my benevolent physi- 
cian — I have never been given over, and then 
after a profound sleep recovered — my hair has 
always come easily out of curl — I never played 
the harp — and have always been more inclined 
to laugh than to cry. My father, Lord El- 
more, lived in a large old-fashioned house, and 
in a large old-fashioned manner. By large, ] 
mean liberal : he was only less indulgent to 
his seven children than my mother, who, I be- 
lieve, never said " no" in all her life. It was 
not the system of indulgence practised by 
Dandie Dinmont's 'gude wife,' who gave ' the 
bairns their ain way, because, puir things, she 
had naithing else to gi'e them.' But my mo- 
ther, I suppose, thought, as she gave every 
thing else, she might as well give that too. 

" I pass over the dynasty of white frocks 
and blue sashes. Sometimes I learnt my les- 
sons, sometimes I did not; but really that 
which was no matter of necessity often be- 
came matter of inclination ; and I arrived at 
the dignity of fourteen, and my sister's confi- 
dante. Ah, the interest I took in her anxieties ! 
the sympathy I gave to her sorrows ! it was 
almost equal to having a lover of my own. 

" It was a provokingly happy union — both 
families equally anxious it should take place : 
only, my father insisted that Isabel should be 
eighteen before the marriage; and they did 
manage to arrange some little jealousies and 
quarrels, which agreeably diversified the delay. 
The year of probation passed, and my sister 
married. Even now, I remember how I missed 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



97 



her. I cried the first three nights I curled my 
hair by myself. However, September came, and 
with it my second brother ; and his companion 
for the shooting- season was the young, hand- 
some, and lively Henry O'Byrne, descended 
from kings whose crown was old enough to 
have been made of the gold of Ophir. I — who 
considered a lover as the natural consequence 
of being fifteen, and indeed was rather sur- 
prised 1 had not one already, and who held 
half-a-dozen blushes proof of the state of my 
feelings — lost my heart with all the ease ima- 
ginable ; and Henry made love to me, because, 
I verily believe, he considered it a proper 
compliment,. which every lady under fifty ex- 
pected. A declaration of love was to me tan- 
tamount to an offer — though, to tell you the 
plain truth, I very much doubtwhether it was 
meant to be so taken by my Milesian lover. 
My father — I really do not know how he could 
venture on such a liberty — one day actually 
said he wished I would not walk quite so 
much on the terrace by moonlight with Mr. 
O'Byrne ; — child as I was, he did not like it. 
' Child as I was !' This was adding insult to 
injury. I threw myself at his feet in the most 
approved manner — implored him not to sacri- 
fice the happiness of his child to ambition — 
talked of a cottage and content — of blighted 
hopes and an early grave. I am not quite sure 
whether my father laughed or swore ; I rather 
think he did both. However, he sent for my 
mother to try and convince me : instead, she 
endeavoured to comfort me by dwelling on the 
imprudence of poverty, and the miseries of 
an injudicious attachment; till, overcome 
with the picture of privations I should have 
to endure, and the difficulties I should have to 
encounter, she fairly wept over the hardships 
of my imaginary future. 

"Dinner came; but O'Byrne's place was 
vacant. My large tears. dropped into my soup 
— my chicken went away untouched — I re- 
fused even my favourite apricot jelly. 

"The evening, however, brought consola- 
tion, in the shape of a real, actual love-letter, 
sent through that most orthodox channel — my 
maid. I could not help reading it aloud to 
her. ' The barbarity of my father,' — ' eternal 
constancy,' — how well these phrases looked 
on Bath-post ! 

"Ah, my dear Emily, to you is closed one 
of the sweetest sources of youthful felicity. 
You have no father with a proverbially flinty 
heart, — no guardian to lock you up ! It is 
impossible for you to have an unfortunate at- 
tachment; and — young, rich, pretty — I think 
you can hardly console yourself with even an 
unrequited one. How ill-used I did think 



myself! 



r hat 



consequence it gave me in my 



own eyes ! Three weeks passed away, — I 
caught two sore throats by leaning out of an 
open wfodow, watching the moon shine on 
the terrace where we used to walk. I threat- 
ened my mother with a consumption. I sat 
up at night reading and re-reading his letter, 
and gazing on a little profile which I had 
drawn with a black-lead pencil, and called his 
Vol. I.— 13 



— Heaven knows there was no fear it would 
be recognised ! 

" Three weeks passed, when, taking up the 
paper, and turning — as a woman always does 
— to the births, deaths, and marriages, what 
should I see but — ' Married, on Thursday last, 
at Gretna, Henry O'Byrne, of Killdaren Cas- 
tle, in Connaught, to Eliza, only daughter and 
heiress of Jonathan Simpkin.' The paper 
dropped from my hand. I knew my red-haired 
rival well — she had dined at our house with 
old Lady Driscol, who patronised her, and 
had there met my faithless lover. Alas ! I 
had been w r eighed in the balance with a hun- 
dred thousand pounds — and found wanting! 
How wretched I resolved on being ! I braided 
the hair I no longer took delight in curling; I 
neglected my dress — that is to say, I only 
wore white muslin; and my kind mother, 
who had been as angry with me as her gentle 
nature was capable of being, could now be as 
angry as she pleased with him. Her surprise 
at the infidelit}'' was even greater than mine, 
and her sympathy was great in proportion. I 
talked of the perfidy of men, and said I should 
never marry. 

" Six months went by, and, to tell you the 
truth, I was getting very tired of my despair, 
when one day a young man, a cousin with 
whom in my white-frock days I had been a 
great pet, came to stay in our house. He 
seemed touched with my melancholy — I con- 
fided my sorrow 7 s from confidence — he pro- 
ceeded to consolation. 

"I do not know how it was, I thought my 
ringlets did not merit neglect — that a girlish 
fancy was but a foolish thing. Lord Mande- 
ville agreed with me; my father laughed at 
me, and said I ought to be consistent, that no 
heroine ever fell in love with the consent of 
her family ; but my mother said, ' Poor dear 
child, do not tease her.' 

" Well, my sister w-as married at eighteen 
— so was I, and the spoiling system has still 
continued. I know there is such a word as a 
contradiction in the dictionary, but my know- 
ledge is all theory. I have a husband comrne 
il n'y en a point, to whom I have made a wife 
comme il y en a peu. I have two of the pret- 
tiest children in the world — (don't answer, 
Emily — that smile is quite flattering enough ;) 
and I sometimes think whether, like the an- 
cient king, it would not be prudent to make an 
offering to destiny, and throw my set of eme- 
ralds into the lake." 

Emily could not but deprecate the emeralds 
being destined to any such preventive service; 
and Lady Mandeville soon afterwards left her 
to meditate over her narrative, one phrase of 
which certainly dwelt on her mind. " Young, 
rich, pretty — it is quite impossible for you tr 
have an unfortunate attachment !" 

The more imaginative love is, the moru 
superstitious it must be: the^elief of omens 
being past — that desire of the unattainable so 
inherent in our nature, and which shows itself 
in so many shapes — now, as far as regard 
prophecy, it takes another form, and cal} 



98 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



itself presentiment ; and Emily lay awake 
much longer than was good for her complex- 
ion, building that aerial architecture called 
chateaux <;n Espagne, on the slight foundation 
of a single sentence. 

I do not think imagination an indulgence 
at all to be permitted in our present state of 
society : very well for poets and painters — it 
is their business, the thing of all others not to 
be neglected ; but in the common construction 
of characters and circumstances, it is an illu- 
sion quite at variance with the realities on 
which we are to act, and among which we are 
fo live. In a young man it unfits him for. a 
rough career of life, as much as stepping 
within the castle's enchanted boundary un- 
fitted Sir Launcelot for his encounter with the 
giant. The sword of action hangs idly in the 
unnerved hand. We will suppose he pos- 
sesses talent and feeling — without them he 
could not possess imagination ; — he starts on 
his forward path, where, as in about ninety- 
nine cases out of a hundred, he has to make his 
own way. Conscious of his abilities, he will 
overrate, perhaps, not themselves, but their in- 
fluence. He will read the novel, till he be- 
comes, to himself, the very hero of its pages. 
In history, he will dwell only " on marvels 
Wrought by single hand," till he deems they 
say, " Go and do thou likewise." Every 
thing is seen through an exaggerated medium. 
He prepares himself for great difficulties, 
which he is to vanquish — gigantic obstacles 
which he is to overcome. Instead of these, 
he is surrounded by small impediments, 
which seem below his ideal dignity to en- 
counter. His most favourite acquirements 
are useless, because none of them have been 
called into action by his own peculiar circum- 
stances; and he reproaches Fortune, where 
he should accuse Fiction. 

Few books have been more dangerous to a 
young man of this temperament, in middle 
life, than Vivian Grey. No romance is so 
hazardous as that of real life : the adventures 
seem so possible, yet so exciting. There is 
something so pleasant in this mastery of mere 
mind: the versatility of manner, the quick 
eye of the hero to the weakness of others, ap- 
pear so completely in the power also of the 
reader; his vanity adds force to his imagina- 
tion, and our youth rises from the perusal 
convinced of the hardship of his particular 
situation, shut out from the diplomatic and 
political career, for which his now unemployed 
and undervalued talents so eminently qualify 
him ; and the chances are, that the earlier 
half of his life is filled with disappointment 
and bitterness. 

A woman may indulge this faculty with 
more impunity, because hers is generally a 
passive, not an active feeling, and principally 
confined to the affections ; all the risk of 
beau-idealizing a lover too much, is, that of 
never finding one, or being disappointed when 
found. 

Edward Lorraine had more materials for a 
her^ than many of his compeers; still, his 
most admirinor mends would have been 



rather at a loss to recognise him under the 
traits with which he was invested by Emily 
Arundel. Alas ! the heart worships in its 
idol the attributes which itself has first 
created. Illusions are the magic of real life, 
and the forfeit of future pain is paid for pre- 
sent pleasure. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

"On n'auroit guere de plaisir, si l'on ne flattait jamais.' 
— Rochefoucauld. 

" Behold they speak with their mouths, and swords are 
in their lips."— Psalm lix. 

The end of a journey is its pleasantest 
part. So thought Lord Mandeville, as the pos- 
tilions gave their whips an extra crack, in 
order to drive up the avenue in style. They 
had the credit of their horses as much at heart 
as their own. To-night, however, whipman- 
ship was somewhat wasted, — a small, heavy 
rain had made the road so soft, that the ring- 
ing wheel and clattering hoof were inaudible. 
This was a great mortification to the postboys, 
to whom noise, if not speed, was, at least, 
speed's best part. 

" How late they are, and how stupid we 
are!" said Lady Mandeville, glancing re- 
proachfully, first at Mr. Morland, who, having 
taken what he called a most constitutional 
walk, was now in a large arm-chair, sleeping 
off the effects of heath and hedge, — and then 
at Emily, who was sedulously employed in 
working a large red cross on the flag destined 
for Frank's favourite toy — a miniature frigate. 

"Do you know," added she, "what is the 
greatest torment of the idle ] To see others 
industrious." 

" I must say," replied Emily, smiling, 
" considering Lord Mandeville has been ab- 
sent but two days, your impatience for his re- 
turn is very flattering." 

There was something in this speech that 
made the hearer laugh outright — one of those 
provoking laughs which show it has touched 
some train of thought you know nothing 
about. I cannot agree with those romantic 
philosophers who hold ignorance to be bliss 
at any time ; but ignorance, when your listener 
laughs at what you say, without why or 
wherefore, is enough to enrage a saint. By- 
the-by, considering what an irascible race they 
were, the reputation of the saints for patience 
has been very easily acquired. 

The truth is, another visiter was expected 
with her husband. Lady Mandeville had 
erected a little romance in her own mind, of 
which Emily was already the heroine, and the 
anticipated guest was to be the hero. Sho 
had calculated probabilities, dwelt*, on the 
chances of association, the idleness of the 
country, the necessity of an attachment to 
give interest to the ride, and novelty to the 
walk; besides, she had recalled not one sus- 
picious blush only, but many. The feminino 
part in the drama was, therefore, cast. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



90 



Now for the gentleman. Many a heart is 
caught in the rebound. The brilliant coquette, 
who had led captivity captive, could have in- 
flicted no deeper wound than a little whole- 
some mortification, — a little preference from 
another would be especially flattering. Then 
the pretensions of her protegee were any thing 
but undervalued. Emily, certainly, was never 
seen to greater advantage than just at present. 
The sweetness of feeling, rather than of tem- 
per, was a charm of all others to be appre- 
ciated in the domestic life they were now 
leading. Unrepressed by her natural timidity, 
her mental stores developed themselves in a 
small circle where they only met with encou- 
ragement. There was extreme fascination to 
one palled with the brilliancy, and tired of 
the uniformity of society, in the freshness, the 
simplicity, so touched with romance, that 
made the poetry of Emily's character. More- 
over, Lady Mandeville took a personal inte- 
rest in her favourite. The merit we are the 
first to discover, almost seems as if it were 
our own, and that, like a newly found coun- 
try, it was to bear the name of the first finder. 

A bustle was now heard in the hall ; the 
door was thrown open; Mr. Morland lost his 
nap, and Emily her needle, in the surprise of 
Lord Mandeville's entrance with Mr. Lorraine. 
Timidity does as much towards concealing, 
as resolution does towards repressing, emotion. 
Lady Mandeville was the only one of the party 
who observed that Emily's usual blush deep- 
ened with twofold crimson — that her hand 
trembled as she eagerly resumed her work, 
to the great danger of the symmetry neces- 
sary to be observed in the red cross of St. 
George. 

It was worth while to leave home, if it were 
only to enjoy being of so much consequence 
on your return. Lord Mandeville arrived with 
all the interest of absence and news. A Rus- 
sian prince, whose carriage was lined with 
sable, and whose vehicle and self had been 
seized at the custom-house, he having refused 
to quit his shelter, on the plea of dreading 
the irregularity of our atmosphere ; the break- 
ing off of Mr. Delorme's marriage, on which 
the gentleman had observed, that it was very 
impertinent in Miss Lumleigh to offer him 
such polite attentions, knowing that her fa- 
ther was going out of parliament, and that he, 
Mr. Delorme, only married on patriotic prin- 
ciples, to strengthen his party;— two other 
marriages, one in consequence of smiles femi- 
nine, the other in consequence of frowns mas- 
culine — curious, that hope and fear should 
lead to such similar results ; — the inferences 
of half-a-dozen separations ; — details of divers 
dinners, balls, and breakfasts; a little gold 
Napoleon set as a brooch — O, conqueror of 
Europe ! to think of thy pedestal bei::g a pin ! 
— a bracelet of an Indian snake fastened by 
a locust; — and three new novels. These 
passed away the evening; and it must be 
owned Lord Mandeville well deserved his 
greeting. 

Lady Mandeville's face, like that of Cooper's 



Waterwitch, wore its most "malign smile," 
when she next morning perceived that her pre- 
destined lovers were walking on the lawn to- 
gether ; and that, when Emily entered the 
breakfast-room, her curls were just enough 
relaxed by the air to droop their gracefulest. 
The soft sunny ringlet, just dropping into a 
succession of light rings, is very becoming; 
and, moreover, she had a colour one shade 
more delicate than a most luxuriant rose she 
had gathered for Mr. Morland ; one of whose 
dogmas was, that the freshness of the morning 
should communicate itself to our feelings. 
"Our early tastes are our unsophisticated 
ones. Give me, therefore, flowers in the morn- 
ing, and perfumes at night." 

" Your garden is beautiful," said Lorraine, 
as he intentionally took his place by Emily's 
side. 

" The flowers in it are very common ; but 
we have been so long awa}"." 

" Your tone of apology is unnecessary : the 
commonest flowers are the most beautiful. 
Take the three I can most readily think of — 
the rose, the violet, the daisy — the field-daisy, 
remember ; and as the blacking advertisements 
say, ' Warren against all the world,' — where 
will you find their equals V 

"They possess," replied Mr. Morland, "the 
two greatest of charms — the association of 
memory and of imagination : they are the 
flowers that our childhood has loved, and our 
poets have sung. Flowers have much to be 
grateful for." 

" Our poets all seem to have been peculiar- 
ly alive to their beauty ; and human love and 
human sorrow 

' Have written every leaf with thoughtful tears.-" " 

" I am going," said Mr. Morland, " to make 
a bold assertion — that, with all his feeling for 
natural beauties, Wordsworth has none for 
flowers : he strings quaint conceits together 
about them. What does he call the daisy'?" 

" A little Cyclops with one eye," answer- 
ed Emily. 

" And the shield of a fairy, &c. Look at 
Burns's poem to the daisy! There are no 
pretty odd epithets in that ; but a natural gush 
of feeling, hallowing forever the object which 
called it forth." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Who cares for the 
exotics whose attractions are of the hothouse 
and the gardener 1 Their ruby leaves are writ 
with no gentle thoughts ; they are essentially 
of the drawing-room, and have no more senti- 
ment about them than the Sevre cups and 
saucers to which they are companions. Now 
there's the rose — 'spring's sweetest book'— 
why, a whole world of blushes are on its? 
leaves. Then, again, the lily; whether it be 

' The lady lily, fairer than the moon,' 

or 

1 The naiad-like lily of the vale, 
Whom youth makes so fair, and passion so pale.' " 

Mr. Morland. — " Or 

< The lily, a delicate lady, 
Who sat under the green parasol.' ' 



100 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Emily. — "My favourite flowers are vio- 
ets — 

Those early flowers, o'er which the Spring has leant, 
Till they have caught their colour from her eyes, 
Their sweetness from her breath." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Whether it is that 
your gardener has not been here, with his 
'cruel curtailments,' like Mr. Hume, — but 
how very luxuriant is the growth, of this 
myrtle ! it is 

Green as hope, before it grieves 
O'er the lost and broken-hearted — 
All with which its youth has parted." 

Lady Mandeville. — " Apropos to myrtle ; is 
there any truth in the report that Lord Merton 
is about to marry Miss Dacre ?" 

Here Emily coloured the least in the world. 
A woman has always a kind of sentimental 
consciousness about any one who has ever 
made love to her. I often think she pities the 
man she refuses, more perhaps than his case 
quite requires. Well, it ought to be a com- 
fort that a person is not so happy as we sup- 
pose. 

Edward Lorraine. — " He told me that his 
mind was divided between Miss Dacre and 
Miss Manvers." 

Lady Mandeville. — " His mind divided ! 
Verily, that is making two bites of a cherry. 
What are the rival claims of these rival heir- 
esses ?" 

Edward Lorraine. — " They are as equally 
balanced as those in the ancient apologue. I 
will only be malicious by inference. I believe, 
were such acts of faith permitted, Lady Lau- 
riston would recommend him to marry both." 

Lord Mandeville now interrupted the con- 
versation, by inviting Lorraine to walk round 
with him to see his improvements — a tax re- 
gularly levied on every new-comer by all 
country gentlemen. From the park to the pig- 
sty, all must be duly appreciated ; for, by some 
process or other, the proprietor amalgamates 
their merits with his own. The walk, how- 
ever, this morning, was something more than 
an inventory of ditches and drains. » Mande- 
ville was theoretic in his future views — which 
is very good, in talk at least: and, besides, 
there was not too much to see. The estate 
which came with the title was small ; and 
though he himself would gladly have settled 
at the abbey, and extended the boundary of 
its domains, and devoted the rest of his days 
to building and planting, corn laws and the 
country, yet to this there was a very adverse 
influence. 

We all know, either from experience or ob- 
servation, that Janus would be a very appro- 
priate marriage deity, inasmuch as he has two 
faces, which look opposite ways. Lady Man- 
deville was, as I have said, compounded, of 
all the elements of society : its love of excite- 
ment — its necessity of variety — its natural gift 
of language — its grace inherent and its grace 
acquired — its vivacity and its vanity. She 
liked talking — she looked very pretty when 
she talked ; she liked strangers — every stranger 
was a new idea ; and her mind was of that 



order which requires collision to bring out its 
sparkles. She read as an amusement rather 
than as a resource — and, moreover, thought 
the information almost thrown away which 
was not communicated. 

Again, she was accustomed to look at things 
on their ridiculous in preference to their sen- 
timental side. She loved her husband most 
entirely; but she thought it a great deal plea- 
santer to spend the morning, while he was 
away, in gay visits or a drive round the ring, 
than to sit with a work-basket in a large lone- 
ly saloon, with the pictures of their ancestors 
looking as if they had indeed lost all sympathy 
with the living. Resides, a call, in an adja- 
cent street, on one whose milliner is not the 
same, and whose friends are similar to your 
own — thus giving ample room for praise and 
its reverse — such a call is quite another thing 
from one in the country, which involves, first, 
a journey through wilds that " seem lengthen- 
ing as you go ;" and secondly, a luncheon, 
which it is your duty to eat. Alas I.when, in 
this world, are the agreeable and the necessary 
united ! Then your neighbour is a person 
whom you see twice a year — you have not a 
taste or opinion in common — the news of the 
one is no news to the other — conversation is a 
frozen ocean, and 

" You speak, 
Only to break 
The silence of that sea." 

Now these were not mornings to Lady Man 
deville's taste. As for the dinners, she had 
only one comfort, that of abusing them after; 
— an unspeakable consolation, by-the-by, in 
most cases. I cannot see why a taste for the 
country should be held so very indispensable 
a requisite for excellence ; but really people 
talk of it as if it were a virtue, and as if an 
opposite opinion was, to say the least of it, 
very immoral. 

Lady Mandeville's was essentially a town 
nature. She was born to what she was fit 
for ; she was originally meant to be ornament- 
al, rather than useful. In short, she exactly 
resembled a plume of ostrich feathers, or a 
blond dress ; now, these are best worn in the 
metropolis. - The inference from all this is, 
that though Lord Mandeville often talked of 
settling at his country seat, he never actually 
settled. 

The walk was ended, for the domains were 
not very extensive, and the gentlemen return- 
ed home. They afterwards rode out; and 
Emily felt very happy in the mere conscious- 
ness that the cavalier at her bridle rein was 
Edward Lorraine. 

That vague, self-relying, uncalculating hap- 
piness, how delicious it is — that which we 
never know but once, and which can have but 
one object! Emily quite forgot how wretch- 
ed she had been. She recalled not the once 
agony of his presence — the despondency in 
his absence. She never looked at him ; she 
scarce spoke, but she heard his voice, and 
she saw his shadow fall by her side. 

Curious, that of the past our memory retains 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



101 



po little of what is peculiarly its own. The 
book we have read, the sight we have seen, 
the speech we have heard, these are the things 
to which it recurs, and that rise up within it. 
We remember but what can be put to present 
use. It is very extraordinary how little we 
recollect of hopes, fears, motives, and all the 
shadowy tribe of feelings ; or indeed, how little 
we think over the past at all. Memory is 
that mirror wherein a man "beholdeth him- 
self, and goeth his way, and straightway for- 
getteth what manner of man he was." We 
are reproached with forgetting others ; we for- 
get ourselves a thousand times more. We 
remember what we hear, see, and read, often 
accurately : not so with what we felt — that is 
faint and uncertain in its record. Memory is 
the least egotistical of all our faculties. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

"'Tishe. 
What doth he here ?"— Bvron. 

"What ! loitering still, Emily ?" said Lady 
Mandeville, when, on entering the breakfast- 
room, she found her and Edward Lorraine 
employed, apparently, in looking over some 
scattered drawings — in reality in talking. 
Emily, happy without thinking it necessary 
to analyze, and so destroy her happiness ; and 
Edward, if not exactly thinking, yet feeling, 
it a very pleasant thing to have a most absorbed 
listener, who was not the less agreeable for 
being young and pretty. He was engaged in 
turning the leaves, occasionally referring to 
his companion. Edward possessed one great 
fascination in discourse. He had the air of 
truly valuing the opinion he asked. 

"JVousTie nous aimions pas mais notre indifference, 
Avait bien les sympt&mes de l'amour," 

thought Lady Mandeville. "I must disturb 
the study of one branch of the fine arts for the 
sake of another. You must leave the picture 
for the mirror — be most devout in the sacrifice 
you offer to the graces to-day." 

" W T hat conquest," replied Emily, smiling, 
"do you meditate for meV 

"What conquest? What a young-lady 
question ! None : this is an affair of glory, 
not of sentiment. Mr. Lara Trevyllian dines 
here to-day. You must dress for his suffrage, 
not his heart. Most persons are born with a 
genius for some one thing : Mr. Lara Trevyl- 
lian is born with a genius for two ; — he piques 
himself on his knowledge of gastronomy, and 
his knowledge of women." 

Edward Lorraine. — " I should be more in- 
clined to defer to his knowledge of the science 
than of the sex." 

Lady Mandeville. — "Ah, now — to use an 
expression of his own — ' you men will never 
allow any merit to each other.' " 

Edward Lorraine. — " It was not with a view 
to detract from his powers of feminine analy- 
zation that I spoke ; but because I think that 
either man's or woman's character stand in a 



relative position to each other, like the covered 
statue of Isis, whose veil mortal hand hath 
not raised. We never see each other but 
through the false mediums of passion, or affec- 
tion, or indifference — all three equally bad for 
observation." 

Lady Mandeville. — " I differ from you ; but 
truly, I cannot sacrifice myself to my opinions. 
It is too late in the day to dispute ; for haste 
and perfection no toilette ever yet united." 

Edward Lorraine. — "Unhappy is he who 
relies on female friendship ! You sacrifice my 
argument to a curl. Well might the old poet 
say : 

'O, take, if you would measure forth the wcrth of woman's 

mind, 
A scale made of the spider's web, and weights made of the 
wind.' " 

The party was very small, and the fire very 
large ; therefore the half hour before dinner 
was not so dull as it is generally said to be. 
By-the-by, that half hour has always seemed 
to me to be peculiarly ill-treated. Some evil 
disposed person has called it stupid. An in- 
vidious epithet is always remembered and 
re-applied ; and that one half hour will go to 
its grave with its appellation of stupid ; no 
exceptions made in its favour — no pleasant 
reminiscences, not even a single flirtation, 
brought, like a solitary witness, to give it a 
good character. Alas ! a cruel and striking 
epithet is 

"One fatal remembrance, one shadow that throws, 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes." 

Now, really, the half hour to-day was rather 
agreeable : we should have said " very," of 
any other of the forty-eight. Lord Mandeville 
and Mr. Morland were deciding, to their mu- 
tual satisfaction, that a neighbouring gentle- 
man, on whom they had been calling that 
morning to suggest an improvement in an 
adjacent road, was certainly the most singular 
mixture of silliness and stolidity they had 
ever encountered. Now these qualities do not 
often go together — the frivolity of the one in- 
terfering with the heaviness of the other: stu- 
pidity is the masculine of silliness. But the 
Rev. Dr. Clarke had at once vague and stub- 
born ideas respecting his own dignity and his 
own interests ; the one he supported by dis- 
dain, the other by selfishness ; and in his own 
mind identified both with church and state. 
The little boy, w r ho, in the hurry of a game 
of marbles, forgot to take off his ragged cap 
to him, he foresaw would come to f he gallows; 
and the farmer, whom hard necessity forced to 
delay the payment of his tithes, he denounced 
as committing sacrilege, and as nothing bettei 
than an atheist. Surely the time passed in 
expatiating on the reverend doctor's faults was 
rather profitably passed than otherwise. 

Edward Lorraine and Emily were a little 
out of the circle, carrying on one of those con- 
versations, "low-voiced and sweet," whose 
nothings have often a charm which defies the 
writer, but which the reader's memory may 
perchance supply. Lady Mandeville and Mr 
Lara Trevyllian were seated together on a sofa 
i 2 



102 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



He had just arrived from London, and was 
detailing its novelties with a novelty essen- 
tially his own. 

The days of description (personal and pa- 
negyrical) are passing rapidly away. No one 
now ushers in a new character by dwelling on 
"his large blue eyes, beaming with benevo- 
lence," or with " raven curls on a brow of 
marble whiteness." All that is necessary is 
to state that Mr. Trevyllian had Pair bien dis- 
tingue; which means that he was slight, pale, 
well-dressed, and that his manners united 
much grace with more nonchalance. 

The essence of Mr. Trevyllian's existence 
belonged to a highly polished state of society. 
His habits, tastes, opinions, feelings, were all 
artificial, and in this consisted his most striking 
peculiarity ; for it was singular how a charac- 
ter, which was so much an acquired one, 
could yet be so original. He possessed great 
knowledge, both that acquired from books — 
for he had read largely, — and that acquired 
from observation — for he had seen much of 
society. His reasoning, rather than his ima- 
ginative faculties were developed. He soon 
exhausted pleasure, and then reasoned upon 
it: he soon exhausted it, because he wanted 
that colouring enthusiasm which creates more 
than half of what it enjoys; and he reasoned 
upon it, because his activity of mind, not having 
been employed on fancies, remained entire for 
realities. 

His perception of the ridiculous was as keen 
as it was investigating. He-set forth absurd- 
ity, cause and effect ; and the absurdity grew 
doubly absurd from having its motive placed 
by its side. He possessed self-appreciation 
rather than vanity ; he was too suspicious to 
be vain. Vanity seeks for, and believes in 
praise ; he would certainly have doubted the 
motive or the sincerity of the praise he was 
offered — and disbelief takes refuge in disdain. 
It may be questioned whether he was 
generally popular. There were two reasons 
against it : first, he was not always understood 
— and whatever people in general do not un- 
derstand, they are always prepared to dislike ; 
the incomprehensible is always the obnoxious. 
Secondly, he often and openly expressed his 
contempt of the selfishness, meanness, and 
littleness that enter so largely into the compo- 
sition of the present; now, a general compli- 
ment is utterly thrown away, but a general 
affront every one individualizes. Yet no per- 
son could be more delightful in conversation : 
it was amusement, to whose service various 
powers paid tribute; there was observation, 
thought, mirth, and invention. Mr. Trevyl- 
lian was witty, though certainly not what is so 
often called wit: he made no puns — he gave 
no nicknames — and was not particularly ill- 
natured. 

One sweeping censure, in passing, on our 
now-a-days style of conversation. Its Scylla 
of sarcasm, its Charybdis of insincerity, which, 
one or other, bid fair to ingulf its all of origi- 
nality or interest. Ridicule is suspended, like 
the sword of Damocles, in every drawing- 
room — bu'-, unlike that sword, is over every 



head : hence, every one goes into society witn 
the armour of indifference, or the mantle of 
deceit. None say either what they think or 
what they feel. We are the Chinese of con- 
versation ; and, day by day, the circle grows 
less and less. A flippant, vapid discourse, 
personal in all its bearings, in which " who 
peppers the highest is surest to please," and 
from which all intellectual subjects are care- 
fully excluded — who shall deny, that if dia- 
logues of the living were now to be written 
such would be the chief materiel ? 

Books, works of art, the noble statue, the 
glorious picture, how rarely are any of these 
the subjects of conversation ] Few venture to 
speak on any topic that really interests them, 
for fear they should be led away by the warmth 
of speaking, and, by saying more than they 
intended, lay themselves open to the sarcasm 
which lies, like an Indian in ambush, ready to 
spring forth the moment the victim is off his 
guard. Take one instance among many. Be- 
yond the general coarse and false compliment 
which it is held necessary to address with a 
popular author, and which is repaid by an 
affected and absurd indifference, what vein of 
conversation is afterwards started 1 Assuredly 
something which interest^ neither : the mind 
of the one receives no impressions — that of 
the other puts forth no powers. The natural 
face may be a thousand times more attractive, 
still a mask must be worn-. No one has courage 
to be himself. We look upon others, and our 
eyes reflect back their images. It is the same 
with the mind. Even thus in society do we 
mirror the likeness of others. All originality 
being destroyed, our natural craving for variety 
asks some stimulant, and we are obliged to 
relieve the insipidity by bitters and acids 
Who would dare to be eloquent in the face of 
a sneer 1 ? or who express a sentiment which 
would instantly be turned to shame and laugh- 
ter] Ridicule is the d^-rot of society. 

But to return to Mr. Trevyllian. Though 
more original, it is not to be supposed he was 
more natural than people in general. On the 
contrary, his character was essentially artifi- 
cial — the work of man's hand — one that be- 
longed to society and education. His manners 
and opinions were equally polished. His read- 
ing had been extensive — so had his observa- 
tion ; but both his reading and his observation 
had a worldly cast. As to feeling, he had as 
much as most have, perhaps more — though 
generally people have more than the}'' get 
credit for; but he had no sentiment. Senti- 
ment, by-the-by, is one of those ill-used words, 
which, from being often misemployed, require 
a definition when properly applied. Sentiment 
is the poetry of feeling. Feeling weeps over 
the grave of the beloved — sentiment weeps 
and plants the early flower and the green tree, 
to weep too. The truth is, Mr. Trevyllian was 
deficient in one faculty, that of the imagination. 

"A primrose by the river's brim 
A yellow primrose was to him, 
But it was nothing more." 

He would have said, u Why what should it 
be but a simple and pretty flower]" Now, 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



103 



'm imaginative individual finds out likenesses 
to human thoughts, connects its soon perish- 
ing- with the speedy decay of hopes that open 
when the heart has a spring like the year; or 
some loved face has left on it the memory of 
its smile, and hence its green birth is " a 
divinely haunted place." 

The same light and shadows which imagi- 
nation flings over the primrose, it flings also 
over every other reality in life; and it may be 
doubted whether these were not " hidden mys- 
teries" to Mr. Trevyllian. He was luxurious 
in his habits, and fastidious in his tastes, upon 
principle. He held that enjoyment was a duty 
owed to yourself. It may be questioned 
whether making pleasure a duty will add 
either to its flavour or its longevity. How- 
ever, he was an alchymist of happiness, and 
considered a delight an experiment. 

Mr. Trevyllian affected la gastronomie .• he 
studied it as a science; thus vanity assisted 
luxury — for what professor of any science but 
has the pride of art ? Nothing could be more 
eloquent than his disdain — unless it were his 
pity for the uncultivated palates that rejoiced 
in tender beefsteaks — mouths that champed at 
raw celery like horses at a bit — people who 
"simply boiled their pease, and ate apples and 
pears, or, as he sweepingly phrased it, "other 
crude vegetables." 

Dinner arrived, and with it soup, salmon, 
and silence. A person who talks at the com- 
mencement of the course must either have no 
feelings of his own, or no regard for those of 
others. At length light observations leaped 
up on the sunny tides of the French wines, 
and the more solid remark might be supposed 
to come with the sherry, bringing with it 
something of the gravity of its native Spain ; 
while the wisdom floated in with the Madeira, 
which, having been twice round the world, 
must have acquired some experience by the 
way. Conversation commenced by Lady Man- 
Seville's refusing some lampreys, — a dish, en 
passant, greatly resembling stewed adders. 

Mr. Trevyllian. — " What ! a negative ? Ah, 
you ladies terribly neglect the sources of hap- 
piness ! But you have so many within your- 
selves, that you may well slight some of those 
to which our unfortunate sex is obliged to have 
recourse." 

Lady Mandeville. — "What! still retainino- 
your Utopian visions of female felicity? To 
talk of our happiness ! — ours, the ill-used and 
oppressed ! You .remind me of the ancient 
tyrant, who, seeing his slaves sink under the 
weight of their chains, said, ' Do look at the 
indolent repose of those people !' " 

Mr. Trevyllian. — "You take w r hite sauce, 
Miss Arundel ? I was sure you would. That 
preference of white sauce to brown is a singu- 
.ar proof of female inferiority." 

Lord Mandeville. — " Inferiority ! I thought, 
Mr. Trevyllian, you had been a devout believer 
in the perfection of the fairer world." 

Mr. Trevyllian. — "And so 1 am. I quite 
agree with the eastern sage who said, ' the 
rose was made from what was left of woman 
at the creation.' I do not conceive that their 



excellence is much impaired by this neglect 
of mental cultivation." 

Lady Mandeville. — " Nay, now, you do not 
rank gastronomy among the sciences born 'of 
the immortal mind V " 

Mr. Trevyllian. — " Indeed I do, and as one 
of the highest and most influential. There 
are three things the wise man sedulously cul- 
tivates — his intellect, his affections, and his 
pleasures. Who will deny how much it 
brightens the intellect? When does the mind 
put forth its powers ? when are the stores of 
memory unlocked ? when does wit ' flash from 
fluent lips V — when but after a good dinner? 
Who will deny its influence on the affections ? 
Half our friends are born of turbots and truf 
fles. What is modern attachment but an ex- 
halation from a soup or a salmi ? And as to 
its pleasure, I appeal to each one's experience 
— only that the truth of experience is so diffi- 
cult to attain. It is one of those singular pre- 
judices with which human nature delights to 
contradict itself, that while we readily admit 
the enjoyment given by the fair objects which 
delight our sense of seeing — the fragrant 
odours which delight our sense of smelling — 
we should deny that given by the exquisite 
flavours which delight our sense of tasting." 

Mr. Morland. — " The rights of the mouth 
are as little understood as those of the people. 
There is a great deal of natural incapacity in 
the world." 

Edward Lorraine. — " There still remains in 
us so much of the heavy clay of which we 
were originally compounded. We are our- 
selves the stumbling-blocks in the way of our 
happiness. Place a common individual — by 
common, I mean with the common share of 
stupidity, custom, and discontent — place him 
in the garden of Eden, and he would not find 
it out unless he were told, and when told, he 
would not believe it." 

Lord Mandeville. — " W r e soon live past the 
age of appreciation ; and on common minds 
first impressions are indelible, because they 
are not the result of reflection, but of habit." 

Mr. Morland. — "It is very difficult to per- 
suade people to be happy in any fashion but 
their own. We run after novelty in little 
things — we shrink from it in great. We make 
the yoke of circumstance a thousand times 
heavier, by so unwillingly accommodating our- 
selves to the inevitable." 

Mr. Trevyllian. — " Herein, Lady Mande- 
ville, is the superiority of your sex so mani- 
fest. Women bend to circumstances so easily 
and so gracefully." 

Lady Mandeville. — " Because we are so 
early taught to yield to strong necessity . They 
who are never accustomed to have a will of 
their own, rarely think of opposition : 

' We do content ourselves with discontent.' " 

Mr. Trevyllian. — " Discontent for what?— 
because, however harsh or rough may be the 
ways of life, the fairest and smoothest are re- 
served for you. Ours is the fever of politics, 
the weariness of business, the bitterness of 
contention : while to you is left the quiet of 



104 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



home, where you rule — or the gayety of amuse- 
ment, where you conquer." 

Lady Mandeville. — '< This is truly a man's 
logic, ' making the worse appear the better 
reason.' " 

Mr. Trevyllian. — "Then look at the fund 
of good spirits you possess. Take, for ex- 
ample, a wet day, such as this has been. 
Debarred from the air and exercise, we have 
wandered from room to room in gloomy 
silence, or in sad discourse — our health 
and our vivacity equally impaired ; while 
you were as buoyant in step, as bright in 
eye, and as gay in words as if the sun had 
been shining. Nay, I even heard you laugh — 
laugh during an east wind ! — let no woman 
talk of her evil fate after that." 

Lady Mandeville. — " I may be silenced, but 
am not convinced. Power, wealth, and love, 
are not these the great enjoyments in life, and 
have you not retained these to yourselves ] 
The power you have arrogated — the wealth 
you have engrossed — and of love you have 
only left us its constancy and its sorrow." 

Mr. Trevyllian. — " Too many charges at 
once. I will reply to the last first; indeed, 
that will be an answer to all — for through love 
our power is at your feet, and our wealth is in 
your hands. As for constancy, it is the veriest 
falsehood poet or novelist ever invented, either 
to heighten a sentiment or turn a phrase, when 
he ascribed it as the especial merit of your 
sex. We are a thousand times more constant. 
A woman has so many things that divide her 
heart with her lover. Alas ! the diamonds we 
give aje our rivals — they take up the thoughts 
we want to engross. Then the horror to think 
how soon the affection inspired by oneself is 
merged in that inspired by your children ! 
The husband dies — the wife piously submits 
to the Divine will — Providence supports her 
wonderfully through it — her child dies of the 
measles or hooping-cough — and the mother 
goes to Hastings and dies too." 

Lord Mandeville. — " What is the reason 
that many die of the loss of a beloved object 
before marriage, but never after l The lover 
cannot survive the mistress, nor the mistress 
the lover : but the husband or the wife survive 
each other to a good old age." 

Mr. Trevyllian. — " Curiosity is its own 
suicide ; and what is love but curiosity ] 
Marriage enables us to make proof of the 
happiness wjiich was but an idea before. 
With love, knowledge is destruction ; and as 
for the individuals, who can expect them to 
die of a disease that is extinct ]" 

Edward Lorraine. — " No sin in love is so 
great as inconstancy, because it unidealizes 
it. The crime of sacrilege is not in the mere 
;heft of the golden images from the high 
places — it is in afterward applying them to 
base and common uses. Love and faith both 
require the ideal to make them holy." 

Lady Mandeville, {whispering Edward.) — 
4 We never understand the full heinousness of 

crime unless we commit it." 

Mr. Trevyllian. — "There is something ab- 



surd in vowing constancy in love. I ive de- 
pends on impulses and impressions now, 
over neither of these have we any control. 
The only security is, that we soon exhaust 
our impulses, and grow callous to impres- 
sions ; and the attachment has then become a 
habit, whose chains are, of all others, the 
most difficult to break." 
Edward Lorraine. — 

"And custom lie upon you with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life." 

Mr. Trevyllian. — " Some author or othei 
well defines love to be ' an egotism in two 
persons;' and I recollect three lines which 
contain the whole essence of love-making: 

' moi que j ? adore, 
O toi qui m'adore, 
O nous que nous nous adorons !' " 

Mr. Morland. — "In this exaltation of con 
stancy there is something of that self-decep- 
tion which attends all our imaginings of every 
species of virtue. We make them so beauti- 
fully perfect, to serve as an excuse for not 
attaining thereunto. ' Perfection was not made 
for man.' " 

Mr. Trevyllian. — " Only that truth is like 
the philosopher's stone, a thing not to be dis- 
covered, it were curious to observe how prac- 
tice and theory accord. The omnipotence and 
unity of first love are usually and eloquently 
insisted upon. No person pleads guilty to 
more than a second, and that only under pe- 
culiar circumstances. Now, I hold that love 
affairs in the human heart are like the heads 
of the hydra; cut one off, another springs up 
in its place. First would come passing at- 
tractions — innumerable ; then such as a second 
interview have made matter of memory — 
these would task the calculating boy himself; 
next, such as further, though slight, inter- 
course has deepened into a tinge of sentiment 
— these would require slate and pencil to cast 
up. Again, such as wore the name of friend- 
ship — these might be reckoned for as the 
French actress said, upon being asked if she 
could enumerate her adorers : Aisemeni ; qui 
ne sail compter jusqu'au mille? Encore, at- 
tachments thwarted by circumstance, or such 
as died the natural death of absence — these 
would be not a few ; to say nothing of some 
half-dozen grand passions." 

Lady Mandeville. — " Now, in spite of your 
knowledge of our sex — a knowledge, as I 
once heard you say, founded on much study, 
and more experience — I think you are con- 
founding vanity and love." 

Mr. Trevyllian. — " I own I see little dif- 
ference between them." 

Lady Mandeville. — " On the contrary, I 
hold that vanity is to love what opium is tc 
the constitution, — exciting, but destroying.' 

Edward Lorraine. — " I must own I allow 
to this ' religion of the heart' a more exalted 
creed than you seem inclined to do. Love is 
of all others the principle in our nature which 
calls forth ' its higher and its better part. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



105 



Look at the disinterestedness of love, the 
sacrifices it even delights in making - . Think 
how lightly are all worldly advantages held 
when thrown into the balance with affec- 
tion. " 

Lady Mandeville. — 

" Puigqu'il a peint Didon 
Virgile avait aime." 

Mr. Trebyllian—" Pardon : Mr. Lorraine is 
cinder the influence of hope, not memory : he 
paints the passion he expects to inspire." 

Mr. Morland. — " What an interesting sub- 
ject for conversation are these varieties of la 
belle, passion ! Sentiment meets with a deal of 
sympathy." 

Lady Mandeville. — " As far as words go." 

Mr. Trevyllian. — " Does sympathy often go 
much further ?" 

Mr. Morland. — " Look at the daily papers : 
to what eloquence do they attain when an 
affair of the heart becomes an affair of the 
police!" 

Mr. Trevyllian. — "My way hither lay 
through the county town, where I stopped to 
take ' mine ease at mine inn,' of which I soon 
grew tired enough. One does many rash 
things from idleness. The assizes were be- 
ing held, and I demolished a fragment of our 
great enemy, Time, in court. The case being 
tried was what is called, par distinction, an 
interesting case. A man, in the desperation 
of a refusal, (common people take those things 
strangely to heart,) had stabbed the obdurate 
fair one with his knife. She was herself the 
prosecutrix. The counsel denounced the 
crime : he should have denounced the crimi- 
nal's taste. As the evidence proceeded, one 
thing was in his favour — that, after stabbing 
the woman, he ran and fetched the doctor : 'a 
manifest proof,' as the judge observed, ' of 
his good heart.' Well, the jury could not 
agree, and accordingly were shut up to their 
dinnerless discussion — a method of proceed- 
ing, by-the-by, enough to produce affectionate 
unanimity between the rival queens them- 
selves. When — 



Hark ! there are murmurs in the crowded hall ! 
A sound— a voice— a shriek— a fearful call !' 



The prisoner had hurried verdict and catas- 
trophe — he had stabbed himself. Heavens ! 
the sympathy he excited ! ' Such strong 
feelings' — 'ruin of his happiness' — 'blighted 
affections' — in short, there was not a man in 
the court who would not have asked him to 
dinner, nor a woman who would not have 
married him." 

Edward Lorraine. — 

" An equal sympathy they both confess'd." 

Lady Mandeville. — "An equal sympathy do 
you call it] Come, Emily, we must teach 
them to value us higher — we must leave 
them, that ' distance may lend enchantment to 
ihe view.' " 

Vol. I.— 14 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 



: Alas ! what differs more than man from man ? 
And whence that difference 1— whence but from himseJf; 



" There is a bondage that is worse to bear 
Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall 
Pent in— a tyrant's solitary thrall : 

'Tis his who — 

must bear 

His fetters in his soul." Wordsworth. 

A day when the south wind brought with i 
sunshine and showers — when one half hour 
down came the glistening rain so quickly that 
the sun had not time to hide his face — and the 
next, the blue sky had its azure deepened by 
the relief of the broken white clouds ; while 
the garden was flooded with golden light — at 
the point of every leaf hung a clear, bright 
rain drop — and the turf shone like an emerald 
with the moisture. The air was soft and 
warm, and fraught with that peculiar sweet- 
ness which tells that the serynga (our Eng- 
lish orange flower) has expanded, and that 
the lilacs are in full blossom. 

Edward Lorraine was seated at an open 
window : when the soft, warm rain came 
down, it beat the other way, and the eye fol- 
lowed it driving through the sunshine, like a 
fairy shower of diamond or amber, till it 
seemed to melt on the green and distant hills 
into a mist, silvery but indistinct. 

Mr. Morland was amusing himself with the 
County Chronicle, and Edward was absorbed 
in his book : Lady Mandeville and Emily were 
seated at a small work table. Lady Mande- 
ville, who had not been in the room ten 
minutes, was very industrious ; but it must 
be owned that Emily's eye wandered more 
than once to the opposite window : Edward 
was so very intent on the page before him. 
At length he closed the volume — leant, as if 
meditating on its contents, for a few minutes 
— and then rose and approached the work 
table. 

Edward Lorraine. — " I am so fascinated 
with what I have been reading, that I am 
under the absolute necessity of talking about 
it: 

' Happiness was born a twin.' " 

Lady Mandeville. — "And we are to enjoy 
your happiness without knowing in what it 
consists : disinterested sympathy, at least." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Have you read the 
tale I have just finished, Di Vasari?" 

Lady Mandeville. — " Oh, we can enter into 
your enjoyment. Emily and I read it about a 
week ago, — read it during one half the day, 
and talked of it during the other." 

Edward Lorraine. — " The story itself is one 
of intense interest — one of passion and poetry 
But even this has less attraction for me than 
the strong peculiarities of the man's spirit 
I knew him, and can so well imagine the 
strength and bitterness o*' his mind when 
some of the passages were «mtten. 

Emily. — " You say yoi icnew the authoi 
What was he like 1" 



106 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Edward Lorraine. — "That is to say, was he 
handsome 1 Yes, in a peculiar and un-Eng- 
lish style. He had high, sharp, and some- 
what Jewish features, dark eyes, clear, keen, 
and penetrating, with something almost fero- 
cious in their expression : 

' And in his eye the gladiator spoke ' 

If I believed in transmigration, I should have 
said that in his former stage of existence he 
had been a Bengal tiger; and somewhat of its 
likeness still lingered in his face." 

Emily. — " Did you know much of him V 

Edward Lorraine. — "I never saw Mr. 
Thompson — (I wish, in order to interest you, 
he had had a more characteristic name) — but 
once. I had read in the very Magazine which 
contains Di Vasari, viz. Blackwood's, a tale 
called the Life of Charles Edwards — it struck 
me so much that I grew curious about the 
author. I met him soon afterward at a 
supper." 

Lady Mandeville.—" Could he talk 1" 

Edward Lorraine. — " Wonderfully ! Singu- 
lar opinions singularly maintained ! A flow 
of words, very felicitous, and yet such as no 
one else would have used. Not so much a 
love of, as a positive necessity for, contradic- 
tion, seemed a part of his mind : add to this, 
extensive and out-of-the-way reading, and a 
ready memory — and if your imagination be 
very vivid, you will form some faint notion 
of his discourse." 

Lady Mandeville. — "I should like to judge 
for myself. You must introduce him." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Your command makes 
the impossible easy ; but this is very impossi- 
ble indeed. The subject of our discourse is 
dead. He died, as I have since heard, of a 
harassed mind, and a worn-out constitution. 
His history is one of the many brief and bitter 
pages in human life. A spirit superior to its 
station — talents of that imaginative kind, 
which so constantly exaggerate their influence 
— tastes poetical in their luxury — aspirations 
the most undefined and aspiring; gird all 
these in by narrow circumstances, and a lower 
class in life, — you will then have the. whole 
of his dark and discontented existence." 

Mr. Morland, (laying down the County 
Chronicle.) — "I know few states that more 
excite our sympathy in the theory than this 
contest of ' low want and lofty will.' But 
unless we could pre-arrange existence, how 
are we to alter it ] Nature and fortune have 
long been at variance. A workman uses for 
each task those tools most appropriate to the 
work. Not so with life : in at least seven 
cases out of nine, people are placed by fortune 
to fulfil a destiny for which they are eminent- 
ly unfitted by nature. But go on with your 
detail." 

Edward Lorraine. — " I am not aware of his 
birth, parentage, or education ; but, when 
quite a lad, he left home, after the old fashion 
of adventures, and went to South America. 
There he stayed some twelve or thirteen years. 
I am afraid that his expedition to find E! Do- 
rado was as bootless as Sir Walter Raleigh's. 



Home he returned, and committed hat worst 
imprudence, an imprudent marriage. Impru- 
dence, in this world, is punished even more 
rapidly than crime ; and I believe his folly 
was its own punishment. He became a re- 
porter to a newspaper, published some admira- 
ble tales in Blackwood's Magazine, and wrote 
for divers other periodicals. Night after night 
he attended the gallery of the House of Com- 
mons, recording what any merciless orator 
might choose to declaim. Or else, grinding 
down the last colours of his mind for an ' arti- 
cle in time'— till mind and body both gave 
way, and he died, I have heard, at about five- 
and-thirty, .leaving behind him some of the 
most original tales in our language, scattered 
through different publications. Not a dozen 
persons remember his name; and pages full 
of passion and beauty are slumbering in pro- 
ductions, which, however influential in their 
day, not one person in a thousand binds, nor 
one in ten thousand reads when bound. Ge- 
nius should offer up its morning and evening 
sacrifice to luck." 

Mr. Morland. — " When we consider how 
many authors, and popular oxies, whether 
living or dead, now crowd our shelves and 
memories, we ought rather to rejoice when a 
writer, be his merit what it may, is forgotten. 
We have no patriotism towards posterity; and 
the selfish amusement of the present always 
has, and always will, outweigh the important 
interests of the future, — or else a law would 
long ago have passed, for every century to 
consign the productions of its predecessor to 
the flames. Readers would benefit by the 
originality this would produce ; and writers 
would no longer have to complain that their 
predecessors had taken all their best ideas : 

' Pereant qui ante nos nostra dixerunt..' " 

Edward Lorraine. — "Where shall we find 
a literary Curtius, to leap, volumes and all, a 
voluntary offering into the gulf of oblivion V 

Lady Mandeville. — " This is so like a man's 
scheme, — always expecting others to be more 
disinterested than himself!" 

Edward Lorraine. — "This tale, by-the-by, 
of Di Vasari, is written in a style in which 
our literature is less fertile than in its other 
branches." 

Lady Mandeville.—'- 1 ' One at this moment 
occurs to me, and one quite out of my ordinary 
course. You and Emily, and even Mr. Mor- 
land, are decidedly 'romanticists.' I must 
own I prefer a gayer and lighter species of 
reading. Of pictures I like portraits — of books 
I like novels — novels of modern life, times, 
and manners: even if very bad, they amuse. 
I am not sure if laughing at them be not as 
pleasant as laughing with them." 

Edward Lorraine. — " But what is the 
tale?" 

Lady Mandeville. — " Do not be impatient. 
Cannot you see that this dwelling on my op- 
posite tastes shows how very admirable the 
story must be which could carry me so com- 
pletely out of them'? I insist upon telling you 
how I came to read it. Mandeville hatl dined 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



107 



cut : Emily, most unkindly, had not a pre- 
science of my loneliness, and stayed at the 
Hall. I got tired, very tired of myself. At 
last I saw a little volume lying on the table 
i — took it up in that worst of moods for an au- 
thor — -fau/e de mieux, opened it carelessly — 
read a few pages, and grew so interested, that 
I let the fire quite, the lamp nearly, out ; and 
when Henry came home, I am not sure whether 
I did not take him for one of his ancestors 
stepped from a picture frame. Moreover, I 
could not sleep till I had finished it. There 
is the very book." 

Edward Lorraine. — " My old favourite 
Inesilla. How well I remember reading it ! 
It was in the summer, as I walked to and fro 
in the avenue, over which the elm boughs 
met; and below, large, old, unpruned laurels 
grew almost over the walk. It took a wonder- 
ful hold on me. I believe, for weeks after, 
I looked with suspicious eyes on every plea- 
sant spoken elderly gentleman who addressed 
me." 

Lady MandeviUe. — " Do you remember the 
effect produced by the black hollyhock, hang- 
ing gloomily over the sepulchral white marble 
vase V 

Emily. — " I like Inesilla herself so much." 

Edward Lorraine. — " It is the only beau- 
tiful English tale I know in which the super- 
natural agency is well managed. Our common 
ghosts are essentially vulgar." 

Lady MandeviUe. — " Sent on errands to re- 
veal a murder or a money deposit." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Here the spiritual 
agency is so terrible and so solemn. Every 
day, and every hour, we are trenching upon 
the mighty and mysterious empire of the un- 
known ; the shadows of old sa-perstition flit 
dimmer and more dim before her eyes. We 
Jay ghosts, not with holy word and crucifix, 
but with Abernethy and Dr. Hibbert. But 
let us grow as actual as we will — let us admit 
nothing but facts, and not these till they have 
been first denied — still vague, ay vain, beliefs 
will spring up in our hearts — midnight, de- 
spite all reasoning, will be haunted with ' a 
shadow and a thought.' So long as the soul 
knows this is not her own home, she will have 
visitings from another, and there will be that 
in our thoughts of which we can give no ac- 
count — a fear and hope, which we will some- 
times deny, and which will never be more than 
a dream. It is this fine and mystical sense 
which Inesilla succeeds so well in exciting. 
Then the human interest is admirably kept up. 
Our superstition is awakened through our af- 
fection." 

Emily. — " I think it opens so beautifully : 
the feeling of happiness — sunny, confiding 
happiness — contrasts powerfully with the after 
desolation." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Altogether, I know 
no tale of stranger and wilder beauty." 

The day wore on, and, when evening came, 
the party were arranged to Lady Mandeville's 
satisfaction as regarded her guests : whether 
it was so very delightful to herself, may reason- 
ably be questioned. An elderly neighbour had 



had the cruelty to come out without his wife, 
his constant partner atcards ; and Mr. Morrison 
was one who would as soon have thought of 
going without his dinner as without his rubber. 
This rubber had therefore to be made up by 
the Mandevilles themselves and Mr. Morland. 
Miss Arundel and Lorraine were at the other 
extremity of the room, by the piano, — an oc- 
casional song serving as the excuse for what 
was a tele-d-teie in all but the embarrassment. 
Certainly that evening Edward was a little in 
love — to be sure he had nothing else to do'. 

Now the letters arrived at Norville Abbey 
in the evening : a great misfortune this — for, 
on an average, there is not one pleasant letter 
out of ten, and it is miserable to pass the night 
ruminating on the other nine. One really wants 
the spirits of the morning to support the coming 
in of the post. There was one letter univer- 
sally disagreeable — it came from Mr. Dela- 
warr, and entreated Lorraine's instant return 
to London. Regrets came flattering enough 
to the fortunate or unfortunate receiver of the 
epistle; even Emily ventured to say she was 
"very sorry," but it was in sucha low voice 
that no one heard it. " You must come and 
see us again," said Lord MandeviUe ; " unless 
we are in town before you can escape." 

Early the next morning, the wheels of a 
departing carriage rolled off, unnoticed, as its 
occupier supposed, by all. One ear, however, 
heard every sound ; and either a very gentle 
hand, or a very light wind, slightly stirred a 
curtain. Poor Emily! she only caught sight 
of the postilion. Why, with all our deep and 
unutterable sympathies with love, are we in- 
clined to laugh at half its disappointments] 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 



"Happiness 
Is the gay to-morrow of the mind 
That never comes." 

"I give my most cordial approbation," said 
Lord MandeviUe: "I think Emily Arundel 
is a very sweet creature — a little too vision- 
ary." 

" Nay, it is that," replied his wife, " which 
makes her so interesting : she is just a heroine 
for a romance in five volumes ; and I shall 
never forgive her, if something a little out of 
the common run of, brought out one season 
and married the next, without an interesting 
embarrassment, does not happen to her." 

" My dear Ellen, beware how you encou- 
rage this tendency in your pretty protegee — to 
invent a life rather than live : with all your 
penetration, I think you are hardly aware of 
the strength and intensity of Miss Arundel's 
character. At fifteen, her poetry of feeling 
(you see I do my best to please you with a 
phrase) would just give piquancy and fresh- 
ness to her entry into life; but at twenty, it is 
grown into a decided mental feature— and 
nothing would surprise me less than to see 
her throw herself away on a worthless fortun 



108 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



hunter, under some mistaken fancy of affection 
and disinterestedness." 

" No fear of that ; I have a matcfi for her in 
perspective — one that I am much mistaken if 
both she and j^ou would not highly approve." 

" And I am much mistaken if she has not 
some floating- fancy of her own." 

" But suppose we both agree in our choice 1" 

" Well, suppose what you please, only be 
cautious how you act upon your supposi- 
tions." 

■" In the mean time, I have year consent to 
ask her to accompany us to Italy ?" 

" A very cordial yes to that." 

Emily gladly accepted the offer. But for 
Lady Mandeville's friendship, her position 
was at this moment very awkward : to live 
alone at the Hall would have been too inde- 
pendent — a residence with her aunt was put 
out of the question by marriage — and Lady 
Alicia's death prevented her deriving that ad- 
vantage from Mr. Delawarr being appointed 
her guardian, which, perhaps, her uncle had 
anticipated. To be sure, an heiress is never 
at a loss for friends ; but the very thought of 
strangers made Emily cling more closely to 
Lady Mandeville's protection. Her ladyship 
was very tired of Norville Abbey, and a little 
female diplomacy had been exerted for some 
time, to convince her husband that — whether 
put on those unfailing arguments, health or 
spirits — a little change was indispensable, as 
Hortense says of her drawing room's Sevres 
china, and or-molu, " Cest plus qiCutile e'est 
necessairc." 

After many demurs — turnip fields and 
covjes, the ash coppice and pheasants, put into 
the balance against "Raphaels, Corregios, 
and stuff" — it was finally agreed they should 
travel for the next season, on condition that 
the following one was to see them quietly 
settled in the abbey again, taking care of the 
county interest during that seventh year ;.of such 
importance to our constitution, where, the 
phcenix parliament dissolves into its original 
elements, again to be collected and revivified 
by the process called purity of election. 

Like most fair tactitians, Lady Mandeville, 
contented with present advantages, left the 
future to the care of itself: besides, after a 
year on the continent, Norville Abbey would 
offer contrasts enough to be quite delightful. 

Arrangements were soon commenced and 
soon ended. Emily took leave of Mrs. Clarke, 
who gave her divers small commissions, and 
many ingenious hints how the custom house 
officers might be evaded. The doctor recom- 
mended her to learn to make milk coffee, a 
thing never met with good in England — and, 
as he justly observed, she might marry a man 
who was fond of it. 

•'And I can say, from experience," added 
his wife, " there is nothing like seeing to 
things yourself." 

Her last visit was to Mr. Morton : the old 
had died around him, the young were depart- 
ing, and regret deepened into anxiety as he 
bade her farewell. 

" Come back, my child, as kind, as affec- 



tionate, and with hopes only less visionary 
because realized in their happiness : be hum- 
ble, be thankful, and, my child, may Gcd 
bless and keep you !" 

It was the last evening of all, and that 
Emily gave to her saddest farewell — to her 
home. She retraced the walks of her child- 
hood ; the shrubbery, with its luxuriant growth 
of roses, now in the fall beauty of summer; 
the fruit garden, where every tree and walk 
had a remembrance — those iron links of affec- 
tion. The wind was high, and at every step 
a shower of fragrant and coloured leaves fell 
over her like rain : her fancy asked of her 
feelings, Do they weep to bid me farewell 1 

Nothing exaggerates self-importance like 
solitude; and, perhaps, because we have it 
not, then more than ever do we feel the want 
of sympathy : hopes, thoughts, these link 
themselves with external objects ; and it is 
the expression of that haunting desire of as- 
sociation, those vinelike emotions of the hu- 
man heart, which fasten on whatever is near, 
that give an interest like truth to the poet's fic- 
tion, who says that the mournful waters and 
the drooping trees murmur with his murmurs, 
and sorrow with his sorrows. 

It was now the shadowy softness of twi- 
light — that one English hour whose indistinct 
beauty has a vague charm which may com- 
pensate for all the sunshine that ever made 
glorious the vale of Damascus ; and as she 
emerged from the yew tree walk, the waving 
wind and the dim light gave the figures cut 
in their branches almost the appearance of 
reality, and their shadows flung huge sem- 
blances of humanity far before them : a less 
excited frame of mind than Emily's might 
well have invested them with the idea of 
something actual and ominous. It was a re- 
lief to reach the broad open turf before the 
house. The room into which she meant to go 
fronted full west. The sun had set some time, 
and his purple pageantry, like that of a for- 
gotten monarch, had departed ; but one or two 
rich clouds, like faithful hearts, retaining the 
memory of his gifts to the last, floated still 
on the air. The middle window of the oriel 
before her just caught and reflected back the 
crimson light and colour. The ground below 
looked bright and warm compared with the 
shade around. 

One of those fancies which will, despite of 
reason, link some peculiar object and feeling 
together, now crossed Emily's mind : she 
took a little branch of geranium — it was all 
leaves, for whose lingering fragrance she had 
gathered it — and planted it in the most shel- 
tered spot, by the steps: "If it flourish, I 
shall flourish : if it perish, so shall I." 

The window was open, and she entered the 
room. How dreary it looked ! The carpet 
was taken up, the chairs ranged in formal or- 
der round the wall, the fire irons removed, and 
the grate so bright and so cold ; the curtains 
were down, all the little ornaments put away, 
no flowers in the stands, and the pictures co- 
vered up : from want of sufficient material 
the face of her uncle's portrait was still visi 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



109 



ble : she thought it looked upon her sadly and 
kindly, forgetting- that such was its habitual 
expression. A movement in the passage roused 
her; hastily she sprang down the steps, and 
in an instant was hidden in the thick foliage 
of the path which led to the village, where 
she was to meet Lady Mandeville and the 
children. 

Little did she know the terrors she had 
left behind her. The foot in the passage was 
that of the old gardener, who, now residing 
in the house with his wife and daughter, had 
been sent by the said female authorities to 
close the shutters against damp, thieves, and 
other evening annoyances. He just caught 
sight of Emily ; the white dress was enough; 
and without pausing on the incongruity of a 
ghost in a large straw bonnet, he rushed back 
to the kitchen : those spiritual securities, can- 
dles and company, enabled him to return ; 
there was no trace of any earthly thing; the 
supernatural conclusion was soon drawn, the 
room pronounced to be haunted, and hence- 
forth only to be entered in couples. 

A ghost story is an avalanche, increasing in 
horror as it goes ; and, like an avalanche, one 
often brings on another. It was remembered 
that Emily was the last of a house which had 
for years and years been connected with every 
tradition in the country: the grandfathers of 
the parish could recollect when the old Hall 
had rung with the cheerful song and shout of 
a gallant band of relatives, all bearing the 
name of Arundel, and when the echoes of the 
morning were awakened by baying hounds 
and the ringing of the young hunters: but 
one grave had been filled after another — one 
name after another crowded the funeral tablets 
of the church ; and the once flourishing race 
had dwindled down to one slight girl. 

Omens, predictions, and legends now mul- 
tiplied around every fireside : one, in particu- 
lar, was revived. The lands of the Arundel 
estate Inad belonged to a monastery; but when 
the crosier bowed do^'i- before King Henry's 
anger, these domains were assigned to one of 
his favourite followers, Sir John Arundel. 
But the abbess, descended from an old Nor- 
man family, and inheriting all the spirit of her 
race, resigned not so easily the sway for 
which youth, beauty, and the world had been 
sacrificed. She refused admittance to the 
messengers; defied the authority which at- 
tempted to dispossess her; and pursued her 
usual course of rule and faith, as if neither 
had been gainsayed. 

"As hold a Neville as ever buckled on 
spur or sword ! — She denies my right, and ap- 
peals to the pope," said the haughty monarch, 
throwing down her scroll. " Read ye ever 
such a bead roll of curses ! Come, Sir John 
Arundel, they say you fear neither man nor 
devil ; let's see if you fear woman ! Clear 
me out this convent, and keep its candlesticks 
for your pains." 

The knight needed no second command : he 
ordered a band of his stanchest followers to 
horse — men who had fought by his side in 
Flanders, and there learnt more reverence for 

Vol. I. 



Sir Captain than Sir Priest. They stayed a 
short while in the hotel of the village; foi 
mine host's Canary smacked, as the jesting 
soldiers said, of a monkish neighbourhood. 
When Sir John mounted again, he somewhat 
regretted the delay; for the night was falling 
— and, besides, it gave time for the daring 
prioress to hear of his coming, and, perhaps, 
prepare, however fruitlessly, to oppose it. 

As he rode up the hill, he saw lights gleam- 
ing from the convent, and a sound of music 
floated upon the air. To his great surprise 
the gates were all unbarred. Not a creature 
was visible : all were evidently assembled in 
the chapel, whence issued both the light and 
music. 

The doors of the chapel were unfastened, 
though closed. In they went ; but even Sir 
John and his reckless soldiers paused a mo- 
ment on the threshold, and two or three even 
doffed their steel caps. Chanting — though, 
it must be owned, some of them rather tremu- 
lously — their choral hymn, the nuns, closely 
veiled, knelt on each side, — but for their sweet 
voices, like figures carved, rather than life. 
The prioress alone was unveiled, and standing 
on the steps of the altar, which, added to her 
long, flowing garments, gave her the appear- 
ance of almost preternatural height. In one 
hand, even as her forefathers had grasped the 
sw 7 ord, not less boldly did she hold a torch ; 
in the other, even as they had held their shield, 
she held the cross. For a moment even Sir 
John Arundel quailed before the dark eye that 
met his own so fearlessly. She saw r her ad- 
vantage, and seized it. At a glance, her nuns 
ceased their hymn, and a deep silence suc- 
ceeded the voice of singing, and the clanging 
steps of armed men. 

" Not for pity, nor even for time, cruel and 
grasping man ! do I now speak ;" and her 
clear, distinct voice sounded unnaturally loud, 
from the echoes of the arched roof and hollow 
tombs. "Turn the golden vessels sacred to 
thy God to purposes of vain riot and thank- 
less feasting, even as did the Babylonian 
monarch; — take the fair lands, from whose 
growth the pilgrim has been fed and the poor 
relieved — take them, as the unrighteous king 
of Israel took the vineyard of his neighbour, 
by force; — but take also the curse that clings 
to the ungodly. I curse the father who shall 
possess — the race who are to inherit. Thy 
young men shall be cut off by the sword ; and 
sickness, worse than an armed man, shall take 
thy maidens in the bower. In the name of 
the faith thou hast deserted — the God thou 
hast outraged — the curse shall be on thy race, 
till it be extinguished, even as this light." 

She dashed down the torch she held, de- 
scended from the altar steps, and left the cha- 
pel before any of her opponents were suffi- 
ciently recovered from their dismay to stop or 
molest her passage. All the nuns were either 
not so fortunate or so resolute. Certain it is, 
that one of them, and a namesake too, Bertha 
de Neville, a few weeks after, married this 
very Sir John Arundel. The legend went on 
to state that the nuptial merriment was di 
K 



110 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



turbed by the sudden appearance of a pale 
spectral figure, who entered, as it contrived to 
depart from the banquet hall unobserved, and 
denounced the most awful curses on bride- 
groom and bride. A similar appearance is 
said to have attended the christening of their 
first child. 

Years passed away ; and the story of the 
White Prioress was one of those which be- 
long of right to all ancient families. A ghost 
only pays an old house a proper attention by 
an occasional visit. And now that Arundel 
Hall was, for the time at least, deserted — and 
Emily was the last of her race, just, too, on 
the eve of her departure for foreign parts, to- 
gether with the apparition seen by the garden- 
er — such an opportunity for aught of supersti- 
tious record might never occur again. Tradi- 
tions, omens, appearances, prophecies, came 
thick and 'threefold ; till, what with inven- 
tions and remembrances, not a grandfather or 
grandmother, not an uncle or aunt, of her race, 
had ever, by common report, remained quiet 
in their graves. 

Early as it was next morning, not a cottage 
door but sent forth its inhabitants to take a 
farewell look at Miss Emily. Many a little 
sunburnt face ran beside the carriage, and 
many a little hand, which had since sunrise 
been busily employed in selecting her favour- 
ite flowers, threw nosegays in at the window. 
Emily eagerly caught them, and her eyes 
filled with tears, as, at a turning in the road 
which hid the village, she threw herself back 
on the seat, flow many years of youth and 
happiness — how many ties of those small 
kindnesses — stronger than steel to bind — how 
many memories of early affection, was she 
leaving behind ! 

At that moment the beautiful answer of the 
Shunamite woman seemed to her the very 
morality of happiness tind certainty of content 
— " I dwell among mine own people." How 
many familiar faces, rejoicing in our joy, sor- 
rowing with our sorrow — how many cares, 
pleasant from habit — sickness, whose suffer- 
ing gave a tenderer character to love — mirth, 
the mirth of the cheerful hearth or the daily 
meal — mirth, like homemade bread, sw T eeter 
from its very homeliness — the sleep, sound 
from exercise — the waking buoyant with 
health and the consciousness of necessary toil 
— the friends to whom our childhood was a 
delight, because it recalled their own ! " I 
dwell among mine own people :" a whole life 
of domestic duty, and the happiness which 
springs from that fulfilment which is of affec- 
tion, are in those words. 

Emily might have revolved all this in her 
own exaggerated feelings, till she had con- 
vinced herself that it was her duty to have 
fctayed in her native village and solitary home, 
but for Lady Mandeville, who, though very 
willing to make all due allowance for her 
young companion's depressed spirits during 
the first ten miles, was not prepared to extend 
Nhe said allowance to twenty. 

Our sympathy is never very deep unless 
f ounded on our own fee/'ngs; — we pity, but 



do not enter into the grief we have neve? 
known : and if her ladyship had expressed hex 
thoughts aloud, they would have taKen pretty 
much this form : " 1 really cannot see so much 
to regret in an empty house, a village where 
there is not a creature to speak to, some old 
trees, and dirty children." 

Politeness, however, acts the lady's maid to 
our thoughts; and they are washed, dressed, 
curled, rouged, and perfumed, before they are 
presented to the public ; so that an unexpress- 
ed idea might often say to the spoken one, 
what the African woman said to ,the European 
lady, after surveying the sweep of her huge 
bonnet and the extent of her skirt, " O, tell 
me, white woman, if this is all you !" It is 
amazing how much a thought expands and 
refines by being put into speech : I should 
think it could hardly know itself. 

We have already recorded Lady Mande- 
ville's thoughts ; but she spoke as follows : — 
" When at Rome, Emily, you must get a set 
of cameos. You are among the few persons 
I could permit to wear them. It quite affects 
my feelings to see them strung round some 
short thick throat of an heiress to some alder- 
man who died of apoplexy ; clasped round an 
arm red as if the frost of a whole winter had 
settled in the elbow ; or stuck among bristling 
curls, as if to caricature, by contrast, the short, 
silly, simpering face below. ' The intelligible 
forms of ancient poets' — 'the fair humanities 
of old religion' — the power, the beauty, and 
the majesty, 

' That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain, 
Or forest by slow stream or pebbly spring ;' 

it is enough to bring them back to our un- 
worthy earth in the shape of furies, to see their 
images put to such base use. None but a 
classical countenance should venture on 
cameos." 

" I am," replied Emily — personal adorn- 
ment is the true spell that would almost wake 
the dead — " so very fond of emeralds ; there is 
something so spiritual in their pure green 
light, and one associates with them the ro- 
mantic fiction of mysterious virtue being in 
their 'mystic stone. 1 " — "My sweetest Emi- 
ly," returned Lady Mandeville, a little alarm- 
ed, " never be picturesque or poetical at your 
toilette; — in matters of grave import, never 
allow vain and foolish fancies to interfere; — 
never sit at your looking glass as if you were 
sitting for a picture ; — indulge in no vagrant 
creations of } r our own. What Pope said of 
fate is still truer of fashion — 

' Whatever is, is right.' " 

" But suppose any prevailing fashion is to 
me peculiarly unbecoming'?" 

"It will be less unbecoming than singu- 
larity. A peculiar style, especially if that 
style suit you, will make a whole room your 
enemies : independence is an affront to youi 
acquaintance. Of all deferences, be most im- 
plicit in that you pay to opinion." 

" How little liberty, even in the affair o 
ringlet, does a woman possess !" 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



Ill 



"Liberty and power," said Lord Mande- 
ville, who, after riding the first stage on 
Horseback, now entered the carriage, " are in 
the hands of women, what they are in the 
hands of a mob — always misused. Ah ! the 
Salic law is the true code, whether in morals 
or monarchies." 

"lie cannot forgive," said his wife, "the 
turnip fields and the 'three covies which he 
has left behind. But I will not have your 
murderous propensities interfere with Emily's 
well doing. While we are travelling, the 
mirror of the Graces may remain partially 
covered ; but, on our return, it must be un- 
veiled in its own peculiar temple, Paris. Be 
assiduous in your studies for a few weeks, 
and you may lay in a stock of good principles 
for life." 

" Nothing," said Lord Mandeville, " can be 
more perfect than a Frenchwoman when she 
is finished. From the Cinderella-like slipper 
to the glove delicate as the hand it covers — 
the shawl, whose drapery a sculptor might 
envy — the perfumes — the fan, so gracefully 
carried, the bijouterie, which none employ 
with such effect — all is in such exquisite keep- 
ing. I always admire their management of 
their bonnet. A young Frenchwoman will 
come in, the said bonnet put on as if a morn- 
ing had been devoted to its becoming posi- 
tion : she will take it off, and not a curl will 
be displaced — put it on again with all appa- 
rent carelessness, but as gracefully as ever." 

"Remember," said Lady Mandeville, "the 
previous study. I recollect, when we were 
last in Paris, I expressed to that pretty Mde. 
de St. Elve the very same admiration. Truly 
it was ' the carelessness, yet the most studied 
to kill.' We were at that time quite confi- 
dential — ' You see,' said she, ' the result of 
my morning.' " 

" It is a pity," replied her husband, " but. 
a fair exchange could be effected — that the 
Englishwoman could give her general neat- 
ness, and the Frenchwoman her particular 
taste." 

" Ah," observed Lady Mandeville, " but the 
strength of a feeling lies in its concentration. 
The Englishwoman diffuses over a whole day 
what the French reserves for a few hours. 
Effect, there is the summing up. In great, 
as in little things, the French are a nation of 
actors — life is to them a great melodrame. I 
remember some verses written by one of their 
gens ePesprit el de societe, an hour before his 
death, in which he, calls on the Loves and 
Graces to surround his couch, that he may die 
with the murmur of their kisses in his ears ! 
This is something more than 'adjusting the 
mantle before they fall.' It is also taking care 
that the trimmings are not tumbled." 

Mile after mile flew rapidly ; and soon came 
npon the traveller's ear that deep murmur, like 
the roar of the mighty ocean, which, even at 
such a distance, tells us that we approach 
London. Gradually the hedges and fields give 
way before long rows of houses ; and a few 
single domiciles,, with plats }f turf cut into 
patterns, and bunches of daisies dusty and dry 



as if just dropped from the WTeath figurante, 
are what the orientals call so pleasant and 
rural, so convenient for stages and Sunday. 
Soon one straight line succeeds another ; and 
we know the wilderness of streets is begun, 
which, in half a century, will end. Heaven 
knows where. 

The entrance to London by the great north 
road, is the one by which I would bring a 
stranger. First, the road winding through the 
fertile country, rich in old trees and bright 
green fields, and here and there a substantial 
brick house, well closed in with wall and 
hedge; — a few miles farther, the dislocating 
town of Brentford, driven through at the risk 
of the joints of your frame and the springs of 
your carriage, which George II. pronounced 
so beautiful — it was "so like Yermany." So 
much for taste, and the doctrine of association. 
Those fit gates for a summer palace, the light 
and airy arches which lead to Sion House, 
passed also, the country begins to take an air 
of town — houses and gardens are smaller — 
single blessedness is rarer — turnpikes more 
frequent — and terraces, palaces, and crescents 
are many in number ; then the town of Ken- 
sington, small and mean, looking a century 
behind its neighbourhood. 

The road now becomes a noble and wide 
one. On foot, and by daylight, the brick 
walls on either side are dreary enough; but at 
night they only give depth to the shadow, and 
the eye catches the lighted windows and the 
stately roofs of the houses they enclose. To 
my own individual taste, these are the most 
delightful of dwellings, close upon the park 
for drives, close upon the street for dinners, 
enclosed, large, and to themselves, having as 
much of rural felicity within their walls as I 
at least desire ; that is to say, there are some 
fine old trees, lilacs and laburnums in full 
blossom, sweeps of turf, like green carpet, 
and plenty of delicate roses, &c. A conserva- 
tory is the aristocracy of flowers. 

Just where the road is the widest they meet 
the mails, the gallant horses sweeping along 

•'As if the speed of thought were in their limbs," 

and every step accompanied by a shower of 
fiery sparkles. The lamps that glance and 
are lost — the cheerful ringing of the horn — 
the thought that must rise, of how much of 
human joy and sorrow every one of those 
swift coaches is bearing on to its destination: 
— newspapers that detail and decide on all 
the affairs of Europe — letters in all their infi- 
nite variety, love, confidence, business — the 
demand of the dun, the excuse of the debtor 
— delicate bath and coarse foolscap — the patri- 
cian coat of arms, and the particularly plebeian 
wafer — the sentimental motto and graceful 
symbol, side by side with the red patch 
stamped with a thimble : but any one of these 
thoughts will be more than enough to fill tlu 
briefmoment which the all but animated ma 
chine takes in passing. How different from 
the days when " the coach," one and one only, 
was. eight days coming from York, and its 



112 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



passengers laid in a store of provisions which, 
in oar rapid days, would supply them half- 
way to America ! 

" London, my country, city of the soul !" 
exclaimed Lady Mandeville, as she caught 
sight of the brilliantly lighted arches of Hyde 
Park Corner, and the noble sweep of the il- 
luminated Park in the distance, while Picca- 
dilly spread before them in the darkness like 
an avenue of lamps. "I have heard that a 
thoroughbred cockney is one of the most con- 
tented animals in the world : I, for one, to 
use a favourite modern expression, can quite 
'enter into his feelings.' " 

" Do you remember," replied her husband, 
" Lorraine's quotation to St. James's street '? — 

'For days, for months, devoutly 
I've lingered by thy side, 
The only place 1 coveted 
In all the world so wide.'* 

And though I like the country as an English- 
man and a patriot ought to do, I own I feel the 
fascination of the flagstones." 

" Emily, 1 accuse you of want of sympathy 
with your friends — I declare you are asleep : 
you will make a bad traveller ; however, I 
shall rely upon your amendment." 

Emily was not asleep, but she was oppress- 
ed by that sense of nothingness with which 
the native of a great town is too familiar to be 
able to judge of its effect on a stranger. She 
had been accustomed to live where every face 
was a familiar one — where every one's affairs 
had, at least, the interest of neighbourhood — 
and where a stranger had all the excitement 
of novelty. Here all was new and cold : the 
immensity was too great to fix on a place of 
rest — the hurry, the confusion, of the streets 
bewildered her. She felt not only that she 
was nobody, but that nobody cared for her — a 
very disagreeable conviction at which to ar- 
rive, but one very natural in London. 

That journey is dreary which does not end 
at home; and I do not know whether to de- 
spise for his selfishness, or to pity for his 
situation, the individual who said that he had 
ever found 

" Life's warmest welcome at an inn." 

It was paying himself and his friends a com- 
pliment. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A most delightful person ?- I said "yes:" 
To such a question how could I say less 1 
And yet I thought, half pedant and half fop. 
If this you praise, where will eulogium stop? 

The day after their arrival, the Mandevilles 
being engaged to a family dinner, where they 
could not well take a stranger, Emily accepted 
the invitation of a Mrs. Trefusis, with whom, 
to use the lady's own expression, she was " a 
prodigious favourite." And to Mrs., Trefusis' 
accordingly she went, and was received with 

* Kennedy. 



that kind of manner which says, "You see 1 
mean to make a great deal of you, so be very 
much obliged." At dinner Miss Arundel was 
placed next a gentleman ; her hostess having 
previously whispered, " I think you will have? 
a treat." 

When a person says, " Were 3^ou not de- 
lighted with my friend Mr. A, B, C, or D ?— . 
I placed you next him at dinner, as I was sure 
his wit would not be thrown away upon you." 
— the "you" dwelt on in the most compli- 
mentary tone — is it possible to answer in the 
negative ? Not even in the palace of truth 
itself. You cannot be ungrateful — you will 
not be undeserving — and you reply, " Mr. 
is a most delightful person." Your af- 
firmative is received and registered, and you 
have the comfort, perhaps, of hearing your 
opinion quoted, as thinking him so superior — 
while you really considered the gentleman lit- 
tle better than a personified yawn. 

Emily was not yet impertinent or independ- 
ent enough to have opinions of her own, or sho 
might have differed from her hostess's esti 
mate of Mr. Macneil. Mrs. Trefusis valued 
conversation much as children do sweetmeats 
— not by the quality, but the quantity : a great 
talker was with her a good talker— silence 
and stupidity synonymous terms — and " I hate 
people who don't talk," the ideale and morale 
of her social creed. It was said she accepted 
her husband because he did not ever allow her 
to slip in an affirmative. An open carriage 
and a sudden show r er drove her one day into 
desperation and Lady Alicia's ; unexpected 
pleasures are always most prized; and half 
an hour's lively conversation w T ith Miss Arun- 
del, rescuing her from the double dulness of 
heavy rain and Lady Alicia, excited a degree 
of gratitude which constituted Emily a favour- 
ite for a fortnight at least. She had as yet 
had no opportunity of acknowledgment, and 
she now expressed her. partiality by placing 
her next Mr. Macneil at dinner. 

In every man's nature some one leading 
principle is developed — in Macneil this was 
self-satisfaction. It was not vanity — that 
seeks for golden opinions from all ranks of 
men ; it was not conceit — for that canvasseSj 
though more covertly, for admiration; but 
Macneil was vain en roi — he took homage as 
a right divine — and, whether in love or law> 
learning or literature, classics or cuadrilles, 
there existed for him the happy conviction 
that he was the perfection of each. At col- 
lege he used to drink porter of a morning 
while reading for his degree, to repress, as he 
said, the exuberance of his genius — (query : is 
genius, then, incompatible with examination 
and a university 1) He married for the plea- 
sure of stating how very much his wife was 
in love with him. Great part of his reputa- 
tion rested on always choosing the subject his 
auditor was most likely to know nothing 
about. To young gentlemen he talked of 
love — to young ladies of learning; and we al- 
ways think what w r e do not comprehend must 
be something very fine : for*example, he di- 
lated to Emily on the music of Homer's ver 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



113 



ideation, and the accuracy of Blackstone's 
deductions. 

* As they went up stairs, Mrs. Trefusis whis- 
pered, "Did you ever meet so entertaining- a 
man 1 he never stopped talking once all din- 
ner." He had, certainly, some natural advan- 
tages as a wit: he was thin, bilious looking, 
and really was very ill-natured — and half the 
speeches that have a run in society, only re- 
quire malice to think them, and courage to 
utter them. Still, it is difficult to affix any 
definite character to Mr. Macneil. He had 
neither that sound learning which industry 
may acquire, nor that good sense which is un- 
acquirable; and as for wit, he had only depre- 
ciation : he was just the nil admirari brought 
into action. 

On arriving in the drawing-room, Emily 
gladly sought refuge in a window seat; her 
hearing faculty was literally exhausted : she 
felt, like Clarence, 

"A dreadful noise of waters in her ear." 

Luckily, it was a period when none are ex- 
pected to talk, and few to listen. Is it not 
Pelham who wonders what becomes of ser- 
vants when they are not wanted ; whether like 
the tones of an instrument, they exist but 
when called for 1 About servants we will not 
decide ; but that some such interregnum cer- 
tainly occurs in female existence on rising from 
table, no one can doubt who ever noted the 
sound of the dining and the silence of the 
drawing-room. 

Women must be very intimate to talk to 
each other after dinner. The excitement of 
confidence alone supplies the excitement of 
coquetry ; and, with that peculiar excellence 
which characterizes all our social arrange- 
ments, people who meet at dinner are usually 
strangers to each other. 

Very young people soon get acquainted; 
but then they must be very young. Few ge- 
neral subjects have much feminine attraction: 
women are not easily carried, not exactly out 
of themselves, (for selfishness is no part of the 
characteristic I would describe,) but out of 
their circle of either interests, vanities, or af- 
fections. A woman's individuality is too 
strong to take much part in those abstract 
ideas which enter largely into masculine dis- 
cussion. Ask a woman for an opinion of a 
book — her criticism will refer quite as much 
to the author as to his work. But, while on 
the subject of this " silent hour," what an un- 
answerable answer it is to those who calum- 
niate the sex as possessing the preponderance 
of loquacity] Men do talk much more than 
women. What woman ever stood and talked 
seven hours at or about a schoolmaster, as has 
been done ? What woman ever goes to cha- 
rities, to vestries, &c, for the mere sake, it 
seems to me, of speaking? But " if lions were 
painters" is as true now as in the days of 
jEsop. Goethe said of talking, what Cowper 
said of domestic felicity, that it was 

" The only bliss that had survived the fall." 

Mrs. Trefusis was quite of this opinion. 
Vol. I.— 15 



The present quiet was as dreadful to her as to 
a patriot. She moved from place to place, 
from person to person. To one lady she spoke 
of her children — hinted that the measles were 
very much about— and mentioned an infallible 
remedy for the toothache. The blonde of one 
lady threw her into raptures — the beret ol 
another. She endeavoured to animate one of 
her more juvenile friends by mentioning a con- 
quest she had made the evening before, which 
conquest Mrs. Trefusis made herself for the 
necessities of the moment. All in vain, the 
drawing-room seemed, as some one says of 
the mountain tops, " dedicated to immortal 
Silence." 

An able general is never without a resource, 
and Mrs. Trefusis opened the piano ; and the 
could nots and would nots, and colds and 
hoarsenesses, made for a few moments a very 
respectable dialogue, which ended with Emi- 
ly's sitting down to the instrument ; and Emi- 
ly did sing most exquisitely. She had that 
clear, birdlike voice which is divided between 
sadness and sweetness, whose pathos of mere 
sound fills the heart with that vague melan- 
choly which defies analysis ; and her articula- 
tion was as perfect as her expression. Some 
one said of her singing, that it was the music 
of the nightingale, gifted with human words 
and human feelings. 

A shadow fell on the book from which she 
was singing ; and at the close she turned round 
to receive the painful politeness of Mr. Mac- 
neil. Heaven help me from the soi disant 
flattery of those who compliment as if it were 
a duty, not a pleasure ; who make a speech as 
if they expected you to make a courtesy at the 
conclusion ; and while giving you what they 
politely inform you is your due, yet neverthe- 
less expect you to be grateful for it. Mr. 
Macneil was one of this class — a Columbus 
of compliments, who held that your merits 
were new discoveries of his own, and you 
were to be surprised as well as pleased. 

But individual excellence was too unworthy a 
theme long to engross Mr. Macneil ; and, from 
Miss Arundel's singing, he proceeded to sing- 
ing in general, which, he observed, was a 
very pretty amusement — asked if she had 
heard Lalande — avowed that, for his part, 
Italian music was all he thought worth listen- 
ing to — which, considering Emily had just 
finished an English ballad, was a delicate com- 
pliment indeed ; and walked off, nothing doubt- 
ful of hers, in all the fulness of self-satisfac- 
tion. 

A Miss Martin was now entreated to favour 
the company. She was an heiress, therefore 
a beauty, and in both these qualities consider- 
ed she ought to be simple and timid. The 
first of these was effected by a crop curled in 
the neck a V enfant ; and the second by being 
twice as long as anybody else in crossing a 
room — there were so many little hesitations ; 
by looking down sedulously, (old Mr. Lush- 
ington once said to her, V 1 hope you find the 
carpet entertaining!") by a little nervous 
laugh, and such interesting ignorance. He' 
mother, moreover, was always saying, " Rea 1 
k2 



114 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



ly, my sweet Matilda is so timid, it is quite 
terrible." 

Three armies might have been brought to 
combat with half the encouragement it took 
to bring the timid Matilda to the harp. One 
gentleman was entreated to stand before, an- 
other behind — to say nothing of the said cou- 
ples — as the fair musician could not bear to be 
looked at while she played dear .mamma's 
favourite air. " Dear mamma" was an enor- 
mous edifice of white satin and diamonds, 
which one laments over, as one does over a 
misapplied peerage, that ever some people 
should possess them. 

It is very provoking to have all one's asso- 
ciations, whether from history or fairy land, 
destroyed. A countess ought to be young and 
beautiful — a dutchess stately and splendid — 
your earl gallant and graceful — your baron one 
touch more martial, as if he had five hundred 
belted vassals waiting at his call ; and as for 
diamonds, they ought to be kept as sacred as 
a German's thirty-six quarterings, to which 
nothing ignoble might approach. Happy were 
the beauties of Henry or Richard, when fur, 
jewels, satins, were especial to their order, 
and the harsh, dull, dry laws themselves ar- 
rayed their defence and terrors against the 
meaner herd, who but imitate to destroy, and 
copy to profane. 

Mrs. Martin seemed as if just glittering 
from a diamond shower bath, or rather, as if, 
when interred (we cannot call it dressed) in 
her satin and blonde, her attendant had caught 
up her jewel box, and thrown its contents at 
random over her. In truth, it was just such a 
barley sugar temple look as well suited the 
daughter of a sugar baker. Her father had 
been a millionaire. 

It is the fashion in the present day, from the 
peer to the prince, to affect the private gentle- 
man. Good, if they mean in the end to abo- 
lish all hereditary distinctions; but wrong, if 
they mean still to preserve those " noble me- 
mories of their ancestors." We do now too 
much undervalue the influence of the imagina- 
tion, which so much exalts the outward show 
by which it is caught. We forget there is no 
sense so difficult to awaken as common sense. 
Kings risked their crowns when they left off 
Wearing them ; thrones were lost before, to 
some bold rival who fought his way sword in 
hand; but Charles was the first monarch de- 
throned by opinion. The belief in the right 
divine, or " that divinity which doth hedge a 
king," disappeared with their gold crown and 
sceptre. 

" You are not going yet, Charles V said the 
hostess to her handsome nephew. "It is so 
early. Whither are you going]" 

"To bed. I am sitting for my picture, and 
must sleep for a complexion." 

"And you, Mrs. Lorraine?" 

" 0, I have five other parties to go to." 

" Well," said Mrs. Trefusis — a little vexed 
that hers was breaking up so soon ; and phi- 
losophy, ill-nature, and truth are the three 
black graces, born of disappointment — "I 
always feel inclined to address you inveterate 



party goers with the man's speech at his wife's 
funeral: 'Ah, why, my dearest neighbours, 
make a trouble of a pleasure V " 

She was not far wrong. Perhaps pleasure 
is, like virtue, but a name, still pleasure might 
be a little pleasanter; for surely there can be 
no great enjoyment in stepping from carriage 
to drawing-room, and from drawing-room to 
carriage — turning friends into acquaintances 
from the mere fact of meeting them so seldom, 
and annihilating conversation— for the flowers 
of wit must, indeed, be forced ones that spring 
up in five minutes. However, there is many 
a wise saw to justify these modern instances. 
Sages bid us to look to the future — and we go 
to parties to-day for the sake of to-morrow 
saying we were there. The imaginative gods 
of the Grecians are dethroned — the warlike 
deities of the Scandinavians feared no longer ; 
but we have set up a new set of idols in theii 
place, and we call them Appearances. 



CHAPTER XL. 

" Full many shapes that shadows were." 

Coleridge. 

" These forms of beauty have not been to me 
As is a landscape in a blind man's eye; 
But oft in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of crowds and cities, I have owed to them 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt in the -blood, and felt alonsr the heart, 
And passing even unto my purer mind 
With tranquil restoration." 

Wordsworth. 

It is not of much use making up your mind 
very positively, for it is a thousand chances 
whether you ever do exactly what you intend- 
ed. The Mandevilles had resolved to pass 
through London as quickly as possible ; but 
once there, unavoidable business prolonged 
their stay. This, to Emily, at least, was very 
delightful — for the morning following her 
dining with Mrs. Trefusis, Edward Lorraine 
came to breakfast. One great peculiarity in a 
woman's attachment is, its entire concentration 
in the present. Whatever she was engaged 
in, if Edward was present, was the most de- 
lightful thing in the world. And, moreover, 
it was very satisfactory to hear him reiterate 
his intention of joining them in Italy. Be- 
sides, this wilderness of brick was still all 
novelty and amusement to one who knew so 
little of it. 

Among the many universal propensities in 
human nature, the love of sight-seeing is about 
as universal as any. Now, sight-seeing grati- 
fies us in different ways. First, there is the 
pleasure of novelty; secondly, either that of 
admiration or fault-finding — the latter a very 
animated enjoyment. London against the 
world for spectacles ; and yet it is a curious 
fact, that those who live among sights are 
those who go the least to see them. A genu 
ine Londoner is the most incurious animal in 
nature. Divide your acquaintance into two 
parts ; the one set will never have seen West- 
minster Abbey — the other will be equally ig- 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



115 



norant of St. Paul's. That which is always 
within oar reach, is always the last thing we 
take ; and the chances are, that what we can 
do every da)', we never do at all. 

Emily, who came up with all the curiosity 
of the country, would have liked to have seen 
much mofe than she did ; but young ladies 
are like the pieces of looking-glass let into 
chiffonniers and doorways — only meant to re- 
flect the actions of others. 

" Very well," said Lady Mandeville, in an- 
swer, one day, to a wish she was expressing; 
" when we are at Rome we will study archi- 
tecture — there you may explore the Colos- 
seum ; but to go on a course of ' amusing and 
instructive rambles' through London ! — pray 
leave that to the good little books you read in 
your childhood." 

Emily was silenced. One evening, how- 
ever, Mr. Morland, who was one of the go- 
vernors of the British Institution, proposed 
their going to see the gallery lighted up. 
Lady Mandeville agreed ; and Emily was all 
smiles — a little brightened, perhaps, because 
Lorraine was to join their party. 

The effect on entrance is very striking : a 
crowd, where the majority are females, with 
gay coloured dresses, and their heads un- 
bonneted, always gives the idea of festival; 
figures animated with motion, and faces with 
expression, are in such strong contrast to the 
beautiful but moveless creations on the wall. 
At first all is pleasant confusion — all catches, 
and nothing fixes, the eye — and the exclama- 
tion is as general as the gaze ; but, as in all 
other cases, general admiration soon became 
individual — and Emily was very ready to 
pause in delight before Lorraine's favourite 
pictures. Whether their selection might have 
pleased Mr. Morland, who was a connoisseur, 
admits of a question — for the taste of the 
young is very much matter of feeling. 

" Is not this little picture a proof of the 
truth of my assertion the other morning, that 
a glance out of a window was enough to anni- 
hilate a cavalier's peace of mind for a twelve- 
month?" 

It was " a lovely female face of seventeen" 
— the beauty of a coquette rather than that of 
a heroine — a coquette", though, of nature's 
making. She leant on the casement, some 
gathered flowers in her hand, speaking well 
for the simple and natural taste' that loved 
them ; the face downcast and pensive ; the 
long lash resting almost on the cheek, with 
the inward look of its dreaming mood. 

"There is something very suspicious in its 
present seriousness. It is to be doubted 
whether the lover (there is a lover unques- 
tionably in the case) will not have the softened 
affection of to-day visited on his head in the 
double caprice of to-morrow." 

" 'A Dutch Girl, by Newton.'* Calum- 

* T have here taken what, I trust, will not exceed an au- 
thor's allowed poetical license. The British Gallery is 
only lighted up during the exhibition of the old masters. 
My excuse is, that I could think of something to say about 
the moderns ■ while I had nothing t? remark^touching the 



niated people!" exclaimed Lorraine; "and 
yet calumniated they deserve to be : instead 
of quarrelling among themselves, what pa- 
triotic phraseology is best suited to a newspa- 
per, they ought to be voting the ' Golden 
Fleece' to Mr. Newton, for thus redeeming 
their share of female fascination." 

The next was a " Florentine Girl, by How- 
ard ;" — a dark and passionate beauty of the 
south — large black eyes, that turned all they 
touched into poetry — flowing, luxuriant ring- 
lets, that were confined but with jewels, and 
knew no ruder air than that of palaces — with 
a lute, whose gentle science answered the 
chivalric songs of the brave and high born. 

" These two portraits seem to me," observed 
Lorraine, "to realize two sweet' extremes of 
womanhood. Under the first I would write 
Wordsworth's lines — 

'A countenance in which did meet 
Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food — 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.' 

" Under the fair Florentine I would inscribe 
Byron's lines ; hers being 

' The high Dama's brow, mc-3 melancholy — 
Soft as her climate, sunny as ber skies, 
Heart on her lips, and soul wahin her eyes.' " 

" O, do look at this picture !" exclaimed 
Emily. 

The pretty moral of one of M. Bouilly's 
pretty tales — that " Ce qu'on possede double h 
prix quand on a Ie bonheur de le pariager*'' -— 
is especially true of delight. Both drew neai 
to admire. It was a small, antique-lookino 
room, such as is to be found in many an old 
English mansion — its Gothic architecture 
lightened by modern luxury. In a richly 
carved arm-chair, and as richly wrought in its 
brocade covering, sat a beautiful and evidently 
English girl : her aristocratic loveliness was 
of the most pure and lofty kind — her dress 

" Such as bespoke a lady in the land," 

and one also of show and ceremony, — the soft 
white satin robe, in its fashion about a century 
back, was looped with jewels; and the hair, 
lovely in itself, spared not the adornment of 
gems, — flowers stood beside, in an alabaster 
vase — exotics, that say, " our growth has been 
precious." A lute leant against the ebon 
stand ; but the face of the lady wore the ex- 
pression of deep and touching sorrow. 

"The Bridemaid, by Parris ;" — she who 
has that day lost the companion of her child- 
hood — who looks on her lute to remember tho 
songs they sang together — who turns from the 
flowers which were the last they gathered— 
and who sits alone in her solitary apartment, 
to think that that morning has broken one of 
affection's nearest and dearest ties — the love 
between two sisters — which can never again 
be what it has been, in unreserved confidence 
and entire companionship. The beholdei 
turned away, as if it were unkind to " leav 
her to her sorrow." Portraits seem singularl 



116 



MISS LANDO N'S WORKS. 



beautiful by lamplight — the softness gives 
them an air of so much reality. Landscapes 
are hetter by day — they require sunshine to 
bring out their own sunny greens. 

Mr. Morland now took them across the 
room, to look at some works of a favourite 
artist. 

" If there be any thing 1 ," said Mr. Morland, 
"in doctrine of sympathies, Mr. Webster 
must have been the very worst child that ever 
figured in those stories of wilful urchins, 
whose bad ways are held up as a warning in 
the story books that delighted our youth. 
He is the Sir Thomas Lawrence of naughty 
children. Look at this ' Shooting a Prisoner.' 
Can any thing exceed the mirthful, mischiev- 
ous, or, — let me use a nurse's common phrase, 
— audacious expression of the boys' faces, 
unless it be the half inclined to laugh, the 
half resolved to cry, face of the girl, who sees 
the little cannon pointed at poor doll 1 Here 
is another picture which ought to be engraved 
for *the benefit of the national schools. A 
young culprit has been caught in the act of 
robbing an orchard, and brought back to his 
master, who stands over him with an iron face 
of angry authority ; — the very apples, as if 
anxious to bear witness against him, are 
tumbling from his satchel. But — the mo- 
ral of example, the efficiency of fear! — only 
observe the utter dismay, the excess of dread, 
on the face of a younger boy, who is seated 
on a form, with a fool's cap on. He looks 
the very epitome of fright: I do not think he 
could eat one of those apples, if it were given 
him." 

" I should think," said Lorraine, " the juve- 
nile models, required to sit equally picturesque 
and patient, must be very troublesome '* 

" A curious dilemma," replied Mr. Morland, 
" has just occurred to me. I called one morn- 
ing at Collins's, then painting his exquisite 
picture of the 'Young Crabcatchers.' Every 
one must recollect the round-faced sturdy child 
in the fiont. I need not say it was taken from 
life. For the first sitting or two the little 
urchin behaved with most exemplary patience. 
At length, his awe of strangers having vanish- 
ed, and the dignity which he evidently at- 
tached to his position having lost its attraction 
with its novelty, he became weary and rest- 
less. Still, the good-natured artist contrived 
to keep him in tolerable content; and with a 
view of exciting his interest, endeavoured to 
make him understand that the boy on the can- 
vass was himself, and asked him, ' Now 
sha'n't you like to be put in this pretty pic- 
ture 1 ?' To the painter's no small dismay, the 
child, on this question, set up one of those 
hursts of crying, the extremity of whose sor- 
row is only to be equalled by its vociferation, 
and at length sobbed out, ' If you put me in 
the picture, how shall I get out, to go home 
to my mother 1 ?' " 

" What a pity,!" exclaimed Edward, " that 
one forgets one's childish thoughts ; their ori- 
ginality would produce such an effect, pro- 
perly managed ! It is curious to observe that 
by far the most useful part of our knowledge 



is acquired unconsciously. We remember 
learning to read and write ; but we do not re- 
member how we learned to talk, to distinguish 
colours, &c. The first thought that a child 
wilfully conceals is an epoch — one of life'. 3 
most important — and yet who can recall it?" 

" Of all false assertions," answered Mr. 
Morland, " that ever went into the world under 
the banner of a great name and the mail ar- 
mour of a well-turned phrase, Locke's c ,1x1- 
parison of the mind to a blank sheet of paper 
appears to me among the most untrue." 

"Memory is a much stranger faculty," 
added Edward, " than hope. Hope I can un- 
derstand ; I can divide its mixture of desire 
and fear ; I know when I wish for any thing — 
and hope is the expectation of wishing. But 
memory is unfathomable and indefinite. Why 
do we so often forget what we the most de- 
sire to remember'? and why, without any vo- 
lition of our own, do we suddenly recall things, 
people, places, we know not why or where- 
fore ] Sometimes that very remembrance will 
haunt us like a ghost, and quite as causeless- 
ly, which at another time is blank. Alas for 
love ! whose very existence depends on a fa 
culty over which we have so little control." 

" It is a curious fact," replied Mr. Morland, 
" that those events which are of the greatest 
consequence are not the best remembered ; the 
stirring and important acts of our manhood do 
not rise on the mind half so vividly as the 
simple and comparatively uninteresting occur- 
rences of childhood. And another observation 
is, that we never remember any thing accu- 
rately, I should rather say exactly, as it hap- 
pened." 

"For my part," exclaimed Edward, "I am 
often tempted to liken our mental world to a 
shadow flung on water from some other world 
— broken, wavering, and of uncertain bright- 
ness." 

" Well, well, as they said to the lover of 
the beautiful Indian queen, when he was turn- 
ed into a dog, ' your misfortune is irreparable, 
so have patience.' In this world we must live 
for the present at least; but I own I think it 
is made up of odds and ends." 

" ' Quand on n'a pas ce qu'oi aime, 
If faut aimer ce qu'on a,' •"' 

said Edward ; " a doctrine of practical philo- 
sophy which I hope Miss Arundel has been 
practising. I doubt the polite disclaimer of 
weariness which she has smiled, and is about 
to say." 

He was quite wrong; Emily would have 
listened to him with delight, even if he had 
spoken Sanscrit. When have the words of a 
loved one dropped other than honey 1 

"That woman's heart is not mine," said a 
modern philosopher ; " she yawned while I 
demonstrated to her the 48th problem in Eu- 
clid." This, we own, was expecting a great 
deal; but not more than love has aright to do. 
You do not love if there is not some nameless 
fascination in the lightest act. What would 
be absurd, ridiculous, nay disagreeable, in 
another, has in the beloved a fairy spell. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



117 



move's is the true alchymy, turning what it 
touches to gold. The most remarkable in- 
stance of its devotion I remember was in a 
village clerk. During the life of his first wife 
he regularly dined every Sunday at the 
'squire's : she died, and he married again. 
After that he always, on the Sunday, in spite 
of the united attractions of beef, ale, and pud- 
ding, dined at home — " His wife," he said, 
" was so lonely." 

Now I do call the giving up a good dinner, 
week after week, an act of very romantic af- 
fection. This, however, is digressing ; and 
we return to our party. Mr. Morland was 
pointing Emily's attention to two portraits — 
one of his nephew, a Mr. Cecil Spencer, the 
other of his daughter. 

" I expect you, Miss Arundel," said he, " to 
take a great interest in my family penates. 
You have my full consent to fall in love with 
my nephew, if you will admire my daughter." 

" To tell you the truth, I like her most," re- 
plied Emily ; " I do so much prefer portraits 
of my own sex. We really look best in pic- 
tures." 

" That is because an artificial state is natural 
to you ; but do you like them 1 ? Young M'Clise 
is such a favourite artist of mine." 

" I never saw," said Lorraine, " any thing 
so like' as this is to Cecil Spencer: it has 
caught him just as he used to sit in the club 
window, as if it had been the Castle of Indo- 
lence. We called him le beau faineant.'''' 

" Cecil's indolence is the result of circum- 
stance, not nature ; so I have hopes of him. 
All he wants is motive. I wish, on the con- 
tinent, where he now is, he may have an un- 
happy attachment, or be taken prisoner by the 
Algerines. It would do him all the good in 
the world." 

Helen Morland's picture was placed in the 
best light. The young painter had done his 
loveliest. It was that of a child ; her eyes, 
full of poetry and of light, gazing upwards on 
a star, which seemed mirrored in their depths, 
with that earnest and melancholy expression 
so touching in childhood — perhaps because 
our heart gives a tone of prophecy to its sad- 
ness. The hair hung in dark, clustering 
ringlets, parted on a forehead, 

u So like the moonlight, fair and melancholy." 

" Do you not observe in this picture a like- 
ness to Miss Arundel V said Lorraine. 

" Nay," replied Emily, " do not at once put 
a stop to the admiration I was going to ex- 
press. What I was about to say of the por- 
trait, I must now say of the painting, with 
which I am enchanted." 

" And you think very rightly," returned 
Mr. Morland : M'Clise is an exquisite painter: 
he has a fine perception of the beautiful, and 
a natural delicacy of feeling, which always 
communicates itself to the taste. I could wish 
him to illustrate the poetry of actual life— the 
grace, the beauty, which is seen so often — 
and with just one touch of the imaginative 



given it, from passing through the colouring 
of his own mind." 

" I was very much struck," said Edward, 
" when Spencer was sitting to him, to mark 
his devotion to his art. Enthusiasm is the 
royal road to success. Now, call it fame, 
vanity — what you will — how strange and how 
strong is the feeling which urges on the 
painter or the author ! We, who are neither, 
ought to marvel less at the works produced 
than at the efforts made. Their youth given 
to hopes, or rather fears — now brighten- 
ing and now darkening, on equally slight 
grounds — 

'A breath can mar them, as a breath has made :' 

hours of ceaseless exertion in solitude, of 
feverish solicitude in society; doomed to cen- 
sure, which is always in earnest, and to 
praise, which is not. Alas ! we talk of their 
vanity ; we forget that, in doling forth the 
careless commendation, or a careless sneer, 
we are bestowing but the passing thought of 
a moment to that which has been the work of 
an existence. Truly genius, like virtue, 
ought to be its own reward ; but it cannot. 
Bitter though the toil, and. vain the hope, hu- 
man exertion must still look to human appro- 
bation." 

"Artists," observed Mr. Morland, "are ge- 
nerally an enthusiastic, unworldly race ; jea- 
lous of praise, as the enthusiastic almost al- 
ways are ; and exaggerating trifles, as the 
unworldly always do. But society is no 
school for the artist: the colours of his mind, 
like those of his pictures, lose their brilliancy 
by being exposed to the open air. Sir Joshua 
Reynolds said ' a painter should sow up his 
mouth' — a rather inconvenient proof of devo- 
tion to his art. But it is with painting as 
with every thing else — first-rate excellence is 
always a solitary one." 

"It is curious," replied Lorraine, "to re- 
mark the incitement of obstacles. Under 
what difficulties almost all our great painters 
and poets have laboured !" 

" I have," returned Mr. Morland, " a fa- 
vourite theory of my own, that early encou- 
ragement is bad for any of the imaginative 
pursuits. No — place difficulties before them : 
let the impediments be many in number. If 
the true spirit be in the possessor, he will 
overcome them all. Genius is the Hannibal 
of the mind. The Alps, which to the com- 
mon observer seemed insurmountable, served 
only to immortalize his passage. The imagi- 
nation is to work with its own resources ; the 
more it is thrown on them, the better. Making, 
as it were, a mental Simplon, is only opening 
a road to inferior artists and commonplace 
poets." 

" West is a great instance in your favour 
Do you recall a most remarkable incident in 
his early life 1 He was, as you know, a mem- 
ber of the Society of Friends — their doctrines 
forbid any cultivation of the fine arts. When 
his extraordinary talent developed itself, a 
meeting of their society was held to debate or 



118 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



the propriety of its exercise — and their judg- 
ment was, that so evident a gift of Heaven 
ought not to be neglected. Young West left 
the assembly with their blessing and sanc- 
tion." 

" What a beautiful story !" exclaimed 
Emily. 

" It has only one fault," answered Mr. Mor- 
land, "that, like many other beautiful stories, 
it is not true. I questioned one of his nearest 
relatives about this very circumstance, which 
he declared not to b a fact." 

It was now getting late, and Mr. Morland 
summoned them to depart; for he was a con- 
stitutionalist in the best sense of the word. It 
was his own constitution to which he attended. 



CHAPTER XLI. 

O, so vulgar!— such a set of horrors ! 

Very Common Expression, 

"But passing rich."— Goldsmith. 

It was just the end of July, and one of 
those tremendously hot weeks, which, once in 
a summer, remind our island that heat is as 
good for grumbling as cold. It passed as 
weeks do when all is hurry, confusion, and 
packing — when there are a thousand things to 
do, and another thousand left undone. It is 
amazing how long such a week seems — events 
lengthen the time they number : it is the daily 
and quiet round of usual occupation that 
passes away so quickly; it is the ordinary 
week which exclaims, " Good gracious ! it is 
Saturday again." 

The human heart is something like a watch ; 
and Emily's advanced not a little in its usual 
pace, when, one morning, Lady Mandeville, 
on her return from a drive, said, " I have been 
accepting an invitation in spite of all our good 
resolutions against that unnecessary waste of 
time— visiting.' I often think one makes reso- 
lutions to have the pleasure of breaking them : 
but this is really an urgent case : if we do not 
see the new Countess of Etheringhame this 
season, it admits, I think, of a question 
whether we shall next. I met her this morn- 
ing, and she asked us in the name of charity. 
London is so empty, she is fearful of taking 
cold." 

" I have heard that Lord Etheringhame was 
a man of the most recluse habits — what magic 
has turned him into the most dissipated 1 ?" 

" ' The power of grace, the magic of a name.' 

His beautiful wife knows no rule but her own 
will, and no will but her own. Lord Ethering- 
hame is the very man to be governed : his 
temper is discontented — he calls it sensitive ; 
his habits self-indulged — he calls them re- 
fined ; he has literary tastes — he calls them 
talents ; he is indolent to an excess — he calls 
it, delicacy of feeling, which unfits him for the 
world. He married with some romantic no- 
don of domestic bliss, congenial tastes, moon- 
-Tght walks, &c. Lady Etheringhame's read- 



ing of connubial felicity was different : first, 
the old Castle was abandoned to Park Lane — ■ 
the moonlight walk for a midnight ball— and 
for congenial tastes, universal admiration. All 
this was very disagreeable to allow, but still 
more disagreeable to resist ; and Lord Ethe- 
ringhame is a cipher in his own house: the 
cipher gives value to the other figures, still if 
is a cipher after all." 

" Well, Lord Etheringhame has all the milk 
of human kindness — to say nothing of the 
water," remarked Lord Mandeville, " but I do 
wish he was just master of some honeysuckle 
villa, and his brother in his place ; though 
Lorraine's carreer will not be the less dis- 
tinguished because he has to make it for him- 
self." 

Evening came, and with it the assemblage 
of Lady Etheringhame's few friends : few as 
they were, there were quite enow to draw from 
every one the exclamation of, "I could not 
have believed there were so many people in 
town." The countess came forward to meet 
them, looking more beautiful than ever. But 
it was not now that Emily envied her beauty, 
— no philosopher like a girl in love, to feel, 
for the time being, utter indifference to all 
possible pomp and garniture. 

Emily looked round the rooms, though, with 
sufficient anxiety : often did a sudden flush on 
the cheek involuntarily avow the deception of 
the eye; and more than once did the ear be- 
come quick, as it does when hope lends its 
charm to the listener : but it was in vain — and 
her spirits took a tone of despondency she 
would fain have entirely ascribed to fatigue, 
when Adelaide approached. Now, the fair 
countess had a little feminine pique to vent, 
and a woman's unkindly feelings are very un- 
kind indeed; and that spirit of universal ap- 
propriation which belongs to insatiable vanity 
broke out in the following speech, aimed at 
Miss Arundel, though addressed to Lady Man- 
deville : " I dare say you expected to meet an 
old favourite of )rours — by-the-by, he is al- 
most always here — Lorraine ; but, though 1 
used the strong persuasion of your ladyship, 
and his old friend, Miss Arundel, being ex- . 
pected, some rural whim seized him, and go 
he would, for a few days, from town." The 
countess cast one look, and in the deeper pale- 
ness of Emily's cheek, saw that her shaft had 
entered, and passed smilingly on. Another 
moment, and she was receiving as much plea- 
sure as could be put into words from the flat- 
teries unsparingly offered by the young Count 
Alfred de Merivale. 

Once Emily was again startled into the be- 
lief of Lorraine's presence; a second, and 
nearer glance showed her mistake — it was his 
brother, whose likeness was as strong in fea- 
ture as it was opposite in expression. The go- 
vernment of the mind is absolute, but nothing 
in its whole dominion does it modify as it 
does the face. 

They left early, yet the evening had seemed 
interminable ; and considering that Emily was 
niched between an inlaid table, on which stood 
a shepherd in a yellow jacket offering a China 






ROMANCE AND REALIT\, 



119 



—Chinese I mean — rose to a shepherdess in 
green and pink — and a tea-pot, all exquisite 
Dresden specimens — and an old lady, of whose 
shawl and shoulders Emily had the full bene- 
fit, while her neighbour discussed with an 
elderly gentleman the vices and follies of the 
rising generation; and considering, also, that 
such conversation was more edifying than 
amusing, it is not so very wonderful that Emi- 
ly found the evening somewhat dull. On 
their return home, however, she was greatly 
consoled by Lady Mandeville's reading aloud 
a billet from Edward Lorraine, regretting that 
unexpected business, which he had to trans- 
act for his brother, obliged him to go down to 
Etheringhame Castle ; and expressing his 
hope and expectation that in a few months he 
should meet them on the continent. 

The next morning she had to see Mr. Dela- 
warr as her guardian ; some forms were neces- 
sary to go through ; and accordingly to his resi- 
dence she and Lady Mandeville drove — rather 
before their appointment. They had to wait 
a short period in the drawing-room. What a 
cold, uninhabited look, now reigned through 
the magnificent apartments ! There were no 
flowers— none of those ornamental trifles scat- 
tered round, which speak so much of pretty 
and feminine tastes — no graceful disorder — 
chairs, sofas, tables, all stood i,n their exact 
places. "I should never have thought,'' ob- 
served Lady Mandeville, " of missing Lady 
Alicia, unless I had come here." 

The hurried track of the multitude soon ef- 
faces all trace of death ; but here the past 
seemed preserved in the present. All was 
splendid, but all was silent; and a thou- 
sand monuments had not so forcibly brought 
oack the dead, as did the loneliness of her 
once crowded rooms. . Neither sat down, and 
aeither spoke, but walked about the apartment 
K'iih soft and subdued steps, as if in the very 
presence of the dead, before whom the com- 
mon acts of life seem mockery. It was a re- 
lief to both to be told Mr. Deiawarr waited in 
the libiary: they afterwards learnt he had 
never entered the drawing-room since his 
wife's death. 

Nothing could be kinder or more affectionate 
than he was to Emily ; still there was an ob- 
vious change in himself. His general manner 
was colder, and more abrupt; he hurried the 
interview — he entered on no light topics of 
common conversation — and at once avowed his 
time to be precious, and, almost before the 
door closed on his visiters, had earnestly re- 
sumed the business in which he was engaged 
on their entrance. " A statesman should have 
no feelings, no interests, no pleasures, but in 
the service of his country. Such," said Lady 
Mandeville, " is the definition I once heard of 
a patriot. Mr. Deiawarr bids fair to be that 
most inestimable but unattractive personage." 

Every preparation was now made : one day 
more and they were at Dover, and the next 
they embarked on board the steam packet. 
Water has long owned man's power, and now 
"bodiless ah* works as his servant," — a do- 



minion frail, perilous, subject to chance and 
change, as all human power must be, but still 
a mighty and glorious influence to exercise 
over what would seem to be least subservient 
to man's authority — the elements. Yet a 
steamboat is the last place in the world for 
these reflections : the ridiculous is the reality 
of the sublime, and its deck is a farce without 
spectators. 

Lady Mandeville always lay down the 
moment she got on board ship; but Emily, 
who did not suffer at all, sat in the open tra- 
velling carriage, and indulged whatever of 
sentiment she or Lord Mandeville might feel 
at parting with the white cliffs of Albion. 
Their attention was, however, too much taken 
up with their fellow passengers: a whisker- 
ed, cloaked, and cigared youth, with every 
thing military about him but the air ; — a fe- 
male in a dark silk, and plaid cloak, her face 
eloquent of bandboxes and business — an Eng- 
lish milliner going over for patterns, which, 
with a little additional trimming, would be the 
glory of her future show room. 

But their chief attention was attracted by a 
family group. The father, a little fat mau 
with that air of small importance which says, 
''I'm well to do in the world — I've made my 
money myself — I don't care if I do spend 
some — it's a poor heart what never rejoices." 
The mother was crimson in countenance and 
pelisse, and her ample dimensions spoke years 
of peace and plenteousness. Every thing about 
her was, as she would have said, of the best; 
and careful attention was she giving to the 
safety of a huge hamper that had been depo- 
sited on deck. Two daughters followed, who 
looked as if they had just stepped out of the 
Royal Lady's Magazine — that is, the prevail- 
ing fashion exaggerated into caricature. Their 
bonnets were like Dominie Samson's ejacula- 
tion, " prodigious '."-—their sleeves enormous 
— their waists had evidently undergone the 
torture of the thumb screw — indeed they were 
even smaller — and their skirts had 4i ample 
verge and space enough" to admit of a doubt 
whether the latitude of their figure did not 
considerably exceed the longitude. Two small 
mean-looking young men followed, whose ap- 
pearance quite set the question at rest, that 
nature never intended the whole human race 
to be gentlemen. Blue-coated, brass-button- 
ed, there was nothing to remark in the appear- 
ance of either, excepting that, though the face 
of the one bore every indication of robust 
health, his head had been recently shaved, as 
if for a fever, which unlucky disclosure was 
made by a rope coming in awkward contact 
with his hat. 

The wind was fair; and Lord Mandeville 
having gone to the head of the vessel, where 
he was engaged in conversation, Emily was 
left to watch the shore of France, to which 
they were rapidly approaching, when her me- 
ditations were interrupted by a coarse but good 
humoured voice saying, " I wish, miss, you 
would find me a corner on them there nice soft 
cushions — my old bones aches with them 



120 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



benches." Emily, with that best politeness 
of youth which shows attention to age, imme- 
diately made room in the carriage- for the pe- 
titioner, who turned out to be her of the crim- 
son pelisse. " Monstrous pleasant seat," said 
the visiter, expanding across one side of the 
carriage. Emily bowed in silence; but the 
vulgar are always the communicative, and her 
companion was soon deep in all their family 
history. " That's my husband, Mr. H.: our 
name is Higgs, but I calls him Mr. H., for 
shortness. Waste makes want, you know — 
we should not be here pleasuring if we had 
ever wasted. And those are my sons : the 
eldest is a great traveller — I dare say you have 
heard of him — Lord bless you ! there isn't a 
hill in Europe, to say nothing of that at Green- 
wich, that he hasn't been up : you see he's a 
stout little fellow. Look, miss, at this box — 
it is made of the lather of Vesuvius, which he 
brought from Mont Blanc : he has been up to 
the very top of it, miss. I keep it for bones 
bones." 

So saying, she offered Emily some of the 
peppermint drops it contained : these were 
civilly declined, and the box good-naturedly 
admired, which encouraged — though, Heaven 
knows, there was not much need — the old 
lady to proceed. " We always travel in the 
summer for improvement — both Mr. H. and I 
think a deal of laming : the boys have both 
been to grammar schools, and their two bro- 
thers are at the London University — only 
think, miss, of our city having a university — 
Lord, Lord, but we do live in clever times." 

Mrs. H. paused for a moment, as if over- 
whelmed with the glories of the London Uni- 
versity ; and conversation was renewed by 
Emily's inquiring " what part of the continent 
they intended visiting." 

" 0, we are going to Italy — I want to see 
what's at the end of it ; besides, the girls mean 
to buy such a quantity of pearls at Rome. We 
intend giving a fancy ball this winter — we 
have got a good house of our own in Fitzroy 
Square — we can afford to let the young ones 
see a little pleasure." 

" May I ask," said E&ily " what is Mr. 
Higg's profession V 

"Indeed !" exclaimed his offended spouse, 
" he's not one of your professing sort — he 
never says what he doesn't mean — his word's 
as good as his bond through St. Mary Within, 
any day — profession, indeed! what has he 
ever professed to you]" Emily took her most 
conciliating tone, and, as unwilling duellists 
say, the explanation was quite satisfactory. 
" Bless your silly soul ! his business you 
mean. You are just like my girls — I often 
tells them to run for the dictionary : to see the 
blessings of edication ! Our childer are a deal 
more knowing than ourselves. — But Mr. H.'s 
business — though I say it that shouldn't, 
there isn't a more thriving soap boiler in the 
ward. Mr. H. wanted to go to Moscow for 
our summer tower, (Moscow's the seaport 
which sends us our tallow) — but I said, ' Lord, 
Mr. H.,' says I, ' what signifies making a toil 
af a pleasure V " 



" You are," said Emily, " quite a family 
party." 

" I never lets Mr. H. leave me and the girls 
behind — no, share and share alike, says I — 
your wife has as good a right to go as yourself. 
I often tells him a bit of my mind in the old 
song — you know what it says for we women 
— that, when Adam was created, 

'We wasn't took out of his feet, sir, 
That we might be trampled upon ; 

But we was took out of the side, sir, 
His equals and partners to be : 

So you never need go for to think, sir, 
That you are the top of the tree.' " 

" Well," replied Emily, " I wish you much 
pleasure in Italy." 

" Ah, miss, it was my son there that put it 
into our noddles to go to Italy first. Do you 
see that his head's shaved ? — it's all along of 
his taste for the fine arts. WVve got his bust 
at home, and his hair was cut off to have his 
head and his "bumps taken : they covered it all 
over with paste, just like a pudding. Lord ! 
his white face does look so queer in the front 
drawing-room — it's put on a marble pillar, 
just in the middle window — but, dear, 1 
thought the people outside would like to see 
the great traveller." 

But all conversation was put an end to by 
the Calais pier, and all was now the bustle 
and confusion of landing ; but, even while in 
the very act of seeing with her own eyes to 
the safety of the portmanteau which contained 
her husband's flannel waistcoats, Mrs. Higgs 
turned round to Emily to say, "We shall be 
monstrous glad to see you in Fitzroy Square." 
What is the popularity of a patriot compared 
to that of a listener ] 

At Calais they landed and spent the night 
— Emily, at least, passed it half awake; she 
was too young, and had led too unvaried a life 
not to feel in its utmost extent the excitement 
of arrival in a foreign country, a strange lan- 
guage, another clime, a complete change of 
daily habits — it was opening a new leaf in the 
book of life. 



CHAPTER XLII. 

" I am a great friend to travelling : it enlarges the mind, 
suggests new idea^, removes prejudices, and sharpens the 
appetite."— Narrative of a Journey from Hamstead to 
Hendon. 

We travel for many acquirements — health, 
information, amusement, notoriety, &c. &c. 
The advantages of each of these acquisitions 
have been eloquently set forth from the days 
of Ulysses, who travelled to seek his native 
land, to those of the members of the club who 
travel to seek any thing else. But one of its 
enjoyments has never received its full share 
of credit — albeit the staple of them all — we 
mean the good appetite it invariably produces. 
What are the periods on which the traveller 
dwells with the most satisfaction — the events 
he recalls with most dramatic effect — the inci- 
dents which at once arrest the attention of his 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



121 



/learers 1 ? Why — "That delicious breakfast 
in the Swiss valley. We had travelled some 
miles before eight o'clock, when we stopped 
at one of the chalets; we had coffee of our 
own; the peasant girl put the whitest of 
cloths on a little table in the open window, 
from the vine of which we picked the finest 
bunches of grapes ever seen — the dew was 
yet on the fruit. They gave us some such 
eggs, cream like- a custard, and a Neufchatel 
cheese; some brown, but such sweetbread. 
We never enjoyed a meal so much." Or else 
it is — " Do you remember that night when we 
stopped at the little village at the foot of the 
Apennines — cold, wet, hungry, and quarrel- 
some. In less than ten minutes our dark-eyed 
hostess had such a blazing wood fire on the 
hearth — by-the-by, what a delicious odour the 
young green pine branches give in burning! 
Half an hour saw us seated at a round table 
drawn close to the fire, with the very best of 
♦empers and appetites. We had prevailed on 
the pretty Ninetta to forget in our favour the 
national predilection for oil and garlic. Our 
turkey was broiled, as our chestnuts were 
roasted, by the wood ashes; and a flask of 
such fine wine — the vineyard whence it came 
must have been Summer's especial favourite." 

I know a traveller who carried these plea- 
sures of memory to the utmost. Instead of a 
journal, or a diary, he kept a regular entry of 
the bills of fare at the different inns. Our 
travellers passed hastily through France, talk- 
ed about Rousseau, and read Childe Harold 
on the banks of the Lake of Geneva. Emily 
was enchanted with the costume of the pea- 
santry ; and Lady Mandeville admitted it 
would be pretty in a fancy ball, but cautioned 
her against acquiring a taste for the pictu- 
resque in dress. 

For the Swiss girls to produce a good effect, 
they must be seen at a distance. The small 
waist, the slender ankle, and diminutive feet, 
are missed sadly in the proportions, some- 
what ponderous for our ideas of grace, which 
these mountain nymphs possess. Your pic- 
tures of costume are rather corrected than cor- 
rect. People and places are usually flattered 
in their portraits. One great reason why we 
believe so devoutly in the beauty of Italy, is 
that we chiefly know it from plates. I re- 
lrfember seeing an architectural view — on one 
side stood a noble old house, the spire and 
roof of a church, a mass of fine-looking build- 
ings, a distant view of a colonnade, and a 
broad open space with an equestrian statue. 
I did not at first believe that it could be Char- 
ing Cross whose effect was so imposing; and 
it was not till Northumberland House and St. 
Martin's Church were identified, that my con- 
fession was fairly extorted, of how little jus- 
tice one does to the beauty of London. 

The Simplon, Napoleon's magnificent mo- 
nument, was next passed. They stopped at 
the most memorable places, and at last arrived 
at Rome, w T here a princess vacated her palace 

Vol. I.—16 



for their accommodation and so many louis 
d'or a month. Rome, once the mistress, is 
now the caravansary, of the world. Two 
Italian counts made Emily an offer; and so 
would a Russian prince, only he employed a 
French marquess to translate his sentiments, 
who translated so well that he made them his 
own; a negative, therefore, served a double 
purpose. 

Their principal visiter was a young English- 
man, a cousin of Lady Mandeville's, who, 
having nothing else to do with his time, 
kindly bestowed much of it on them. With 
her ladyship he was not very popular when 
any one more interesting was by ; she said he 
was indolent, and wanted sentiment. With 
Lord Mandeville he was a great favourite ; 
and, though his lordship did not pique him 
self upon it, he was no bad judge of character. 

Cecil Spenser had the usual qualities of 
most young men, and one or two which they 
have not: he had every advantage in life, ex- 
cept the advantage of something to want. But 
experience was just beginning to be useful. 
The small exertions into which the chances 
of travelling had forced him had been good, 
because they interrupted his habits, and show- 
ed him that such interruptions could be plea- 
sant. The comparison of other countries with 
his own startled him into reflection; and re- 
flection to a mind like his was never yet with- 
out its results. He began, for the first time 
in his life, to think of a future career, and to 
feel how selfish and unworthy a part was that 
of mere indolent indulgence. 

In his present frame of temper Lord Mande- 
ville was an invaluable friend. The younger 
brother of a good family, he had commenced 
life with a pair of colours, while, his own 
tastes were literary and secluded. But a 
strong mind shapes itself to its necessity ; 
and the young Henry had earned for himself 
independence and distinction, when, by a suc- 
cession of deaths, he became heir to the Man- 
deville estates and peerage. The theories of 
his youth had been mellowed by observation 
before he had an opportunity of putting them 
to the test of experiment. He knew what ac- 
tion was, because he had acted himself; he 
had read much, and seen more ; and the feel- 
ings which in earlier days had warmed to en- 
thusiasm, now become moderate and consoli- 
dated, were in subjection to the principles 
which stimulated by showing the benefits of 
his exertions. He saw in Cecil Spensei a 
warm and generous temper congealed by in- 
dulgence into selfishness; and a mind of great 
natural powers, which had lain utterly waste, 
because nothing required from it a harvest. 
To awaken in his young countryman a desire 
of information, to direct his attention to many 
paths of honourable toil, for which his station 
and talents were eminently fitted, was a task 
whose utility was only equalled by its interest 
How duly do we appreciate the merit we our- 
selves discover and direct 



122 



MiSS LANDON'S WORKS. 



CHAPTER XLIII. 



- The serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain : 
* * * * 

There be bright faces in the busy hall, 
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 
Far checkering o'er the pictured windows plays 
The wonted fagots' hospitable blaze : 
And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth." 

Byron. 

"I am an Englishman, and I hate the 
French," is the common expression of our 
Dosmopolite feelings — the French being a ge- 
neric term for all foreigners. Fashion may 
court the aiiachees to an embassy for the sake 
of their presence and perfumes at a party ; re- 
volutions may occasion an interchange of de- 
putations from the Rotunda to Mesdames les 
Poissardes — those political nereids who pre- 
side over the fish market, and assist any " glo- 
rious cause" that may be in hand : — but these 
moments of fashion and favour are few and far 
between, and not very sincere at the best of 
times. The hatred which is so very cordial 
among near neighbours still subsists; — the 
voice of the first gun that peals in defiance 
over the deep waters at once awakens it; and 
we return to our old conviction, that one Eng- 
lishman can beat three Frenchmen any day !* 

Now, believe we can do a thing, and it is 
three parts done. For my own simple self, I 
confess to being very much behind my age. 
From Cressy to Waterloo, our island watch- 
words have been Enmity and Victory ; and I 
see no reason why one century should be so 
much wiser than its predecessors. This na- 
tional feeling is never more evinced than on 
the Continent ; they herd together after their 
kind, and Englishman meets Englishman as 
if they encountered in the deserts round Tim- 
buctoo. 

Though Lady Mandeville's influence had 
been sufficient to induce her husband to go 
abroad, it was more than it could manage to 
make him enjoy it. Cecil Spenser's society — 
who soon showed he could understand and 
enter into his views — became a source of 
great gratification, and his young countryman 
was almost domesticated at the palazzo. Lord 
Mandeville, however, was not long in disco- 
vering that his friendship was not the only 
attraction : he was content to share it with 
Emily Arundel. Aware that a strong and 
serious attachment is one of the great influ- 
ences in man's destiny, he was glad that the 
lot was cast,, as he thought, so fortunately. 

Emily was a great favourite with hirn ; and 
lie had always viewed the attachment, at 
whose denouement between her and Lorraine, 
Lady Mandeville meant to preside, as a some- 
what foolish romance. He saw more clearly 
lhan his wife — who would only see what she 
liked — the entire indifference of the gentle- 
man: and felt glad, for Emily's own sake, 
tnat a present lover should put an absent one 
out of her head, which seemed to him a natu- 
ral consequence. 

* " One Frenchman can beat two Portugee, 
And on c . Englishman can beat all three." 



Here he, too, was wrong: he judged of ona 
by the man}^. Emily's generally quiet man- 
ner and extreme gentleness gave the idea of a 
soft and yielding temper. There was no out- 
ward sign of a feeling which had been height- 
ened by imagination and nurtured by solitude, 
till it had become the reigning thought of the 
present, and the sole hope of the future. The 
heart entirely engrossed by one, is the last to 
suspect it can be the object of preference to 
another. Vanity, the great enlightener on 
such subjects, is here lost in a more powerful 
feeling. She never thought of Mr. Spenser 
in any other character than as a pleasant ac- 
quaintance. Mereover, he was the nephew 
of Mr. Morland, with whom Lorraine was a 
favourite. 

Love is most ingenious in its associations. 
Events are like the child's play, "here we go 
round by the rule of contrary ;" — and Miss 
Arundel's indifference was the great charm 
with her over flattered countrymen. Rich 
and highly connected, Cecil had been so much 
accustomed to have love made to him, that it 
was an agreeable novelty to have to make it. 

Lady Mandeville, who had as much pene- 
tration as her husband had judgment, saw at 
once how matters stood. Clearly perceiving 
Emily's indifference, she contented herself 
with a sort of armed neutrality, general care- 
lessness, and occasional sarcasm. _ 

There are many gentlemen who never drink 
any but sample wines, and never go beyond 
their first order to a wine merchant. This 
would be a very excellent plan to pursue in 
love affairs ; for the beginning is their best 
part — its only fault is, that it is impossible. 
In the pleasant little comedy of Charles the 
Second, the page complains to Rochester of 
the many miseries his passion entails on him. 
" Your own fault," says the lively earl ; " I 
told you to skim over the surface like a swal- 
low — you have gone bounce in like a goose." 
Authors now-a-days are held responsible for 
all the sentiments of their various characters, 
no matter how much they differ. I therefore 
give Mr. Howard Paine great credit for the 
above philosophical remark. 

Winter was now setting in, and the bright 
charcoal burnt on the hearths of the larger 
rooms was as comfortable as it was cheerful — ■ 
even " the glad sun of Italy" is not the worse 
for a little occasional aid. 

Lord Mandeville and Cecil were, one morn- 
ing pacing the large saloon, whose walls, in 
laid with a many-coloured mosaic of marble, 
and floor of white stone, were sufficiently 
chilly to make the fire very acceptable. To 
this end Cecil's attention was frequently at- 
tracted. In a larp;e, black, oak arm-chair, 
whose back and sides were heavy with rich 
and quaint carving, her small feet supported 
on a scarlet cushion, which brought out in 
strong contrast the little black satin slippers, 
sat Emily Arundel. On one side, a hand 
which looked modelled in ivory, with one 
tinge of the rose, was nearly hidden in th« 
profusion of long auburn ringlets — that rich 
auburn brown — li orhted with sunshine fron* 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



123 



the head it sustained. From the other side 
the clustering hair had fallen back, and left 
distinctly to view the delicate outline of the 
face— the cheek, with that earliest pink of the 
almond blossom, too fair to be so frail — and 
the long-, dark lash, which, though it hid, yet 
gave eloquent sign of the eye beneath, for it 
wore the diamond glisten of tears ; — and the 
studio of no artist, even in that city of paint- 
ers, could have shown a more graceful, yet 
more simple attitude than the one with which 
she now bent in absorbed attention over the 
book on her knee. She reached the last page, 
but still quite lost in the interest of the story, 
she never moved till, the book falling to the 
ground, Cecil took the opportunity of picking 
it up ; and addressing her, remarked, " Your 
book has been very fortunate in riveting your 
attention." 

" It is such a beautiful story." 

" Why, Emily," said Lord Mandeville, 
" you have been crying over it." 

He opened the volume ; — it was Margaret 
Lindsay. 

" You need not blush so deeply about it ; 
for I own I think it one of the most touching 
stories I ever read. I wonder very much that 
in these days, when literature circulates as 
generally as money, an edition of Margaret 
Lindsay has not been printed for circulation 
among the lower classes. An appetite for 
reading is eagerly cultivated ; but the neces- 
sity of proper and wholesome food has not 
been even yet sufficiently considered. Know- 
ledge is the sine qua non ; but it is forgotten 
that moral is, to say the least, as useful as 
'historical or scientific knowledge." 

"May I," replied Spenser, "hazard an 
opinion, or rather an impression — that I doubt 
the great advantage of the biographies of emi- 
nent men, who have arisen by their own ef- 
forts, being sedulously held up as examples 
to the lower classes. If great talents really 
exist, these very instances prove that example 
was not necessary to call them into action ; 
and if they do not, the apparent ease and the 
high success which attended those objects of 
their emulation, are calculated rather to cause 
lelusive hopes than a beneficial effect. Our 
self-estimate is always a false one, and our 
hopes ever prophesy our wishes. It seems 
to me a dangerous thing to dwell so much on 
those who have ' achieved greatness.' We 
see how they scaled the mountain, and imme- 
diately give ourselves credit for being able to 
go and do likewise. We forget that a great 
man does not leave behind him his genius, 
but its traces. Now, there is no disappoint- 
ment so bitter as that whose cause is in our- 
selves." 

" I entirely agree with you. In our march 
of mind we have been somewhat hasty; — we 
have borne too little in remembrance the 
Scripture truth, which all experience has 
confirmed, that the tree of knowledge 'was 
the knowledge of good and evil.' The beau- 
tiful order of the physical can never be ex- 
tended to the moral world. In diffusing 
knowledge there are two dano-ers against 



which we should endeavour to guard — that i J 
be not turned to a wrong use, or made sub 
servient to mere display. The last is the 
worst; discontent is the shadow of display, 
and display is the characteristic of our age 
Take one of its humblest instances. Our 
young people go to their divers amusements, 
not for the purpose of enjoyment, but of dis- 
play^ they require not entertainment, but 
compliment." 

" Do let me tell you an instance, jus to il- 
lustrate your theory. A little girl was asked 
'why her fine new doll was quite thrown 
aside — always kept in some dark corner : 
did not she like it?' 'My doll r said the 
little creature, ' 1 hate my doll; she is better 
dressed than myself.' " 

" A case in point. We all hate our dolls, 
because they are better dressed than ourselves. 
The worst of display is, that, like other mis- 
fortunes, it never comes single. Satiety and 
mortification are the extremes of vanity, and 
both are equally attended by envy, hatred, 
malice, and all uncharitableness. If the hu- 
man mind were like a pond, and could be filled 
at once, knowledge, like the water, would be 
its own balance ; but as it must be done gra- 
dually, it ought to be done carefully — not one 
part filled to overflowing, while a second is 
left dry, or a third to stagnate." 

" But surely you would not confine know- 
ledge to the higher classes ?" 

" Certainly not. Knowledge, when only 
the possession of a few, has almost always 
been turned to iniquitous purposes. Take, for 
example, many of those chymical discoveries 
which now add so much to our amusement 
and comfort; it is not to be doubted that di- 
vers of these were known of old, and used as 
engines of fraud and deceptive power. The 
pursuer of science was formerly as eager to 
conceal, as he is now desirous of blazoning 
his discoveries. No : I would circulate in- 
formation as widely as possible ; but it should 
be rather practical than theoretical. There 
are many books which we do not wish child- 
ren to read till their judgment is matured. 
The ignorant are as children. I would with 
them use similar caution." 

"Does it not appear to you that this fashion 
of universal education arises out of the falla- 
cious system of universal equality 1 We give 
rather out of our abundance than our discre- 
tion, too little remembering that, if knowledge 
is power,, it is what all cannot tell how to 
manage. Apollo would have been wise if, 
before he trusted his son with the reins of his 
chariot, he had given him a few lessons in 
driving." 

" True," replied Lord Mandeville. " Now, 
the steps I would take in giving the lower 
classes education, would be, first to furnish 
them with religious, and secondly with prac- 
tical, information. From religion, and that 
only, can they learn "the inherent nature of 
good and evil. In the sorrows that have af 
flicted, in the judgments that have befallen, 
the highest and mightiest, they will learn the 
only true lesson of equality — the conviction 



124 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



that our destinies are not in our own hands ; 
they will see that no situation in life is with- 
out its share of suffering; — and this perpetual 
reference to a higher power ought equally to 
teach the rich humility, and the poor devotion. 
Secondly, I lean rather to giving practical than 
scientific knowledge. I would distribute books 
on farming, gardening, and a cheap, simple 
cookery would be a valuable present: for 
works of mere amusement, travels plainly 
written, especially such as, in the wants and 
miseries of other countries, teach us to value 
the comforts and advantages of our own; — 
tales, of which Margaret Lindsay is the very 
model — piety, submission, and active exertion, 
placed in the most beautiful and affecting 
light." 

" Since I have thought at all on the subject, 
it has seemed to me that aught of amusement for 
the poor is most selfishly neglected: ' merrie 
England ' is certainly a misnomer. We have 
fetes, balls, plays, &c, for the middle and 
higher classes, bat nothing of the kind for the 
lower : even fairs — the last remains of ancient 
festivals — are being rapidly put down. Plea- 
sure is, in one class, a satiety — in another, a 
want." 

" Your expression of selfish neglect is a 
true one. Much may be said against the ex- 
cesses of fairs ; still, I think they might have 
been restrained, instead of suppressed. One 
great source of amusement — one peculiarly 
adapted to those who must be attracted by the 
eye — is too much forgotten : I mean dramatic 
representations, adapted to the lower classes, 
and supported by the higher. They might, 
in the country especially, be made a means 
of equal entertainment and improvement." 

"It is now the custom with many writers 
to represent the former state of the people of 
England as one of unmitigated oppression. 
'The land groaning beneath the tyranny of 
its feudal lords,' is a favourite figure of speech ; 
and I doubt not, in many instances, justified. 
Great power is almost always a great evil. 
Now, the advantage of experience is, that it 
teaches to separate the bad from the good ; and 
we have too much lost sight of the latter ; for 
kindly feeling and strong attachment must 
have been generated in the simple fact of 
amusement being in common. The vassals 
or tenants collected in the hall for Christmas 
masking and mumming — the peasant gathering 
that May day called out upon the green, drew 
together ranks whose distance, in our day, oc- 
casions forgetfulness on one side, and discon- 
tent on the other. The presence of superiors 
is at once a check and an encouragement. 
Look to the French for a proof that festivity 
and inebriety are not inseparable." 

"Alas ! my dear Spenser, how much easier 
it is to plan than to perform ! Here are we 
framing schemes of national improvement, at 
some hundred miles distant from our country. 
However, I lay ' the flattering unction to my 
soul' that my present will be my last absence 
from home." 

Lady Mandeville now entered the room from 
a drive ; and flinging down h?r furred mantle, 



and drawing an arm-chair to the hearth, pre- 
pared to narrate the news of the morning. 
" As usual, Mde. de Cayleure is the gazette 
extraordinary of her acquaintance : she is a 
living instance of the doctrine of attraction — . 
all species of news seem to go naturally to her 
as to their centre." 

" I do wonder, Ellen, what pleasure you can 
take in that woman's company. A conversa- 
tion such as hers, always ' seasoned with per- 
sonal talk,' must necessarily be ill-natured. 
A discourse that turns entirely on persons, not 
things, will only admit praise as a novelty 01 
a discovery. General praise is an insipidity ; 
and faults, foibles, and ridicules are brought 
forward, if it were only for the sake of va- 
riety." 

" Nay, now, I am sure Mde. de Cayleure is 
very good-natured. 

" Lively when she is amused, and obliging 
when not put out of her way ; but good-natured 
I utterly deny. Good-nature is one of our ca- 
lumniated phrases — calumniated because mis- 
applied." 

" You know I never contradict one of your 
definitions. I am too well aware that I have 
no chance in an argument, Mandeville, with 
you." 

This was a satisfactory termination to the 
dialogue. 

Cecil Spenser left the room for his morning 
ride, his reflections divided between Lord 
Mandeville's words and Miss Arundel's looks. 
The first person he met was Mr. Trevor — a 
young man who, having a great stock of idle- 
ness on hand, was always most happy to be- 
stow some of it on his friends. 

"Ah, Spenser," said he, "I have been the 
whole day looking for you ; you have left all 
the trouble of our excursion on my hands. 
However, I have prepared every thing ; so, 
to-morrow we start for Naples." 

To own the truth, Cecil had utterly forgotten 
all about his engagement ; and never was me- 
mory more disagreeably refreshed. His first 
thought was the pleasantness of breaking his 
promise — his second was the necessity of ful- 
filling it. The pleasant and the necessary are 
two distinct things. He knew that to Mr. 
Trevor a companion was an absolute want; 
and he also knew that companion he had of- 
fered to be. As to excuse for now refusing, 
he had not even the shadow of one ; so, with 
not a little discontent, he went that evening to 
the Mandevilles, where it somewhat recon- 
ciled him to hear that they also intended visit- 
ing Naples almost immediately. 

Emily looked very pretty, and bade him 
good b'ye in a sweet low voice ; and Cecil 
devoted part of that night to wondering what 
effect his absence would have on her. But I 
very much doubt whether the knowledge of 
her perfect indifference would have been any 
consolation ; — and entirely indifferent she was. 
Her memory reverted — her imagination re- 
ferred, only to Edward Lorraine. 

A woman's love is essentially lonely and 
spiritual in its nature — feeding on fancy, rathei 
than hope — or like that fairy flower of the 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



125 



East, which floats in and lives upon the air. 
Her attachment is the heathenism of the heart : 
she has herself created the glory and beauty 
with which the idol of her altar stands in- 
vested. Had Emily known Cecil Spenser 
before she knew Edward Lorraine, in all pro- 
bability she would have fallen in love with 
him. However, our affections are the last 
things we can give away ; for this best reason — 
they are gone before we are aware. First im- 
pressions are very ineffaceable things. 



CHAPTER XLIV. 

" Sa femme ne manquera pas d'adresse pour le faire reve- 
nir de sa premiere resolution, et l'obliger a faire sa volont^ 
avant qu'il s'en doute. Un tel trkunphe esl le chef d'ceuvre 
d'une femme."— Les Sympathies ; on, VArt de juger par 
les Trails du Visage des Convenances en Amour et en 
Amitie. 

The room was panelled with Italian land- 
scape — the vineyard hung its treliised wreath 
as it does in pictures and plays — a river, 

Like a fairy thin?, 
Which the eye watches in its wandering, 

wound through one department ; a temple, 
whose graceful arch, and one or two columns 
yet entire, told how beautiful the shrine must 
have been ere its pillars were broken and its 
divinity departed, occupied a second; while 
a fair city, its spires sunny in the distance, 
gave variety to another; a scroll of oak leaves, 
in gold, marked the divisions — and another 
oaken wreath fastened back the blue satin folds 
of the windows, which opened upon a con- 
servatory filled with the rarest exotics — and a 
small marble fountain in the midst showered 
its musical and diamond rain over the rich 
cactuses around — those gems of the world of 
flowers, as if their native soil had dyed their 
leaves with the glorious colours whieh wait im- 
patiently for daylight in its mines; one, more 
than all, seemed the very flower of a fairy tale 
— a huge green snake, with a head of flame — 
a serpent king, with its crown of rubies — its 
red hues coloured like fire the water below. 

Around the room was scattered all that 
makes luxury forgotten in taste ; the little 
French clock, where a golden Cupid sat swing- 
ing, and the lapse of time is only told by 
music — the beautiful Annuals, those Assyrians 
of literature, "gleaming in purple and gold," 
and opened at some lively scene or lovelier 
face — the cut crystal glass, with one rose 
bending over the side — the alabaster vases 
carved as in snow — glittering toys, and china 
coloured with the rainbow, and diminutive 
enough to be Oberon's offering to his fairy 
queen — a fan, whose soft pink feathers cast 
their own delicate shade on the face reflected 
in the miniature mirror set in their centre — a 
large cashmere shawl, with its borderof roses, 
thrown carelessly on a chair — a crimson 
cushion, where lay sleeping a Blenheim dog, 
almost small enough to have passed through 
the royal ring in that most fairy tale of the 
White Cat : — all bespoke a lady's room. Look- 
ing the very being for the atmosphere of pa- 



laces, sat its beautiful mistress by the small 
breakfast table, and with a smile that did not 
always of a morning grace her exquisite face 
— and yet she was only Icte-u-tele with her 
husband — which smile, however, would have 
been easily understood by any one who had 
heard the conversation between Lady Lau- 
riston and her daughter the night before. It 
ended with, "As if Algernon could refuse me 
any thing. His brother's influence greatei 
than mine ! You shall see, mamma. He 
wants so much to go back to that stupid old 
castle, that one word of our leaving town, and 
I may make my own conditions." 

" Be cautious, my dear love ! Men do not 
like to be interfered with, even by a wife, in 
politics!" 

"Politics! as if it were to me other than 
matter of affection. It is all for the sake of 
our dear Alfred." 

"Ah, Adelaide, what talents 3 r ou have !" 

Our principal actions are the result of out 
smallest motives. Now Lady Etheringhame 
had divers minute influences of dislike towards 
Lorraine. First, he had not been sufficiently 
miserable at her marriage with another; 
secondly, he had not courted her since ; and 
third, last, and worst, she saw that Edward 
thoroughly appreciated the motives and ma- 
noeuvres of her marriage ; in short, no food 
could possibly be extracted from him for her 
insatiable vanity. 

The death of Mr. Eskville had left the seat 
of the borough of A. at Lord Elheriughame's 
disposal ; and it had been long understood 
that the said seat was, immediately on its be- 
coming vacant, to be filled by Lorraine ; but 
Lady Lauriston thought it a pity her son 
should miss such an opportunity of getting 
into parliament. The plan was suggested to 
Adelaide, and, as we have seen, met with her 
ready concurrence; with her first cup of cof- 
fee, therefore, she commenced operations. 

"I must show you, Algernon, a new pur- 
chase of mine" — so saying she drew towards 
them a small table, in the middle of which 
was set a China plate, or rather picture — " I 
bought it for that drooping tree in the midst: 
it is so like one in the park." 

" Ah, Adelaide, I duly admire the painting ; 
but how much more beautiful the reality!" 

" Now, don't you grow quite angry in your 
defence of rural innocence. It is my misfor- 
tune, not my fault, that, the felicity of the 
country is, to my mind, like the merriment of 
Christmas, more heard of than seen." 

"But, Adelaide, the death of Mr. Eskville 
makes it absolutely necessary that I, at least, 
should go to the castle." 

"Nay, that is presuming on my good na- 
ture. Trust you at Etheringhame without 
me ! No, no, that old chestnut avenue is tc-3 
dangerous a rival !" 

"If you would but go with me !" 

"If you would but stay with me!" 

" But everybody has left town. Why, ail 
tumn will be here soon." 

" We can spend a delightful one at Brigh 
ton " 

l2 



126 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" But, Adelaide, I must see about this 
vacant borough. I must keep up my in- 
terest." 

" that tiresome borough ! There, mamma 
kept me up last night talking about its divers 
advantages. It is well you named it, for I had 
utterly forgotten that I had faithfully promised 
her to ask you to give it to Alfred. I need 
not tell you that I assured her you would." 

" My dearest Adelaide, you promised what 
is utterly out of my power." 

" O, you wish to make a favour of it, do 
you 1 Well, I will beg so prettily" — and 
joining her beautiful hands, and laying them 
on his arm — ' ; Pray do ; I have quite set my 
heart upon it." 

" But the borough is as good as Edward's; 
it has always been considered his." 

" Yes — I do not doubt it — he will rule you 
in that as in every thing else. If I had 
known my wishes were in opposition to Mr. 
Lorraine's, I should have known it was in vain 
to express them." 

" My dearest Adelaide, how can you say 
so]" 

"You know it is the truth — that everybody 
laughs at the absurd authority your brother 
has over you. Much as it has .mortified me, 
I should never have mentioned the subject; 
but to find myself so completely a cipher when 
opposed to him, I must own I do feel it." 

"But, Adelaide, this is my brother's great 
step in public life : a borough — " 

" Excuse my interruption ; but it must make 
much difference to him, when you know Mr. 
Delawarr could and would bring him into 
parliament any day." 

"I believe you are right in that: still, 
:ie would prefer coming in on the family in- 
terest." 

" So, for a mere preference, you will disap- 
point poor Merton of his only chance, and re- 
fuse my earnest petition ?" 

" W^ell, my love, I will ask Edward about 
it." 

" So, you will not venture to act till you 
have first asked leave! Now, for shame, do 
be yourself! I will not have you so idle ! Do 
show Mr. Lorraine you are not quite the pas- 
sive tool in his hands he takes you to be." 

" But my dear Adelaide" — 

"Ah, there is Lorraine's phaeton at the 
door ! I wonder is it to this tiresome borough 
you owe such an early visit 1 ? Well, love, we 
shall tell him you intend nominating Mer- 
ton." 

Edward was in the room before an answer 
could be made : the little Blenheim waked at 
his step, and jumped up to caress him. I 
would sooner take a dog or a child's judg- 
ment of a person's nature than that of a grand 
jury. Lord Etheringhame cast a deprecating 
look at his wife, as their visiter stooped down 
to caress the dog; but Adelaide was too di- 
plomatic to lose that only irreparable loss — 
present opportunity. 

" We are arranging our return to the castle : 
may we hope to number you among our vi- 
siters]" 



Algernon — the pleasantness of self-de- 
ception ! — immediately hoping that this was 
a tacit renunciation of her project, added his 
entreaties — Lorraine accepted. Alas ! he took 
the borough so much for granted, that he 
never even thought about it; and the conver- 
sation for the next half hour turned on indiffer- 
ent topics. Just as he was departing, Lady 
Etheringhame said : 

" We are not quite disinterested in hoping 
you will come to Etheringhame : we want 
you to help us to canvass. Algernon has pro- 
mised to do all he can to bring in my brothei 
for Avondale." 

Edward turned to Lord Etheringhame, and 
read in his overpowering confusion confirma- 
tion. To hold our surprises in perfect subjec- 
tion is one of the first lessons of society; and 
he now, with those helpful auxiliaries, pride 
and anger, controlled his to perfection. 

" So Lord Merton is to be our. family repre- 
sentative !" (though society controls the ex- 
pression of surprise, it gives full license to 
that of contempt.) " I really must call o& 
Lady Lauriston to congratulate her on the at- 
tainment of her object. Many failures only 
increase the satisfaction of final -success." 

Lady Etheringhame glanced at Lorraine, 
half in anger, half in defiance, as she re- 
plied : 

" Nay, Merton must thank me. It would 
have been hard if Algernon had denied my 
first request," turning to her husband with 
such a very sweet smile. 

Edward now rose from his seat, but paused 
for a moment, so that he completely fronted 
his brother. Perhaps never face was more 
completely made to express energetic disdain 
than his own : the finely moulded brow, 
slightly but sternly knit — the mouth, so scorn- 
ful in its curve — the dark eyes filled with 
flashing and overpowering light which is from 
the kindled thought and feeling within — the 
pale cheek, which we so unconsciously asso- 
ciate with the idea of intellect, — all gave full 
force to his parting words. 

" While congratulating, I must not forget 
to congratulate you, Algernon, on thus carry- 
ing your principles into action. I know how 
deeply you are impressed with the responsi- 
bility of him who possesses the power of 
sending the representatives of his country to 
parliament. Lord Merton is equally calculated 
to understand and support its interests, whether 
we consider his habits or his talents. I con- 
gratulate you on your clever and high-princi- 
pled representative;" — and Lorraine left the 
room, in the comfortable conviction of having 
crowded as much annoyance as could be well 
comprised in a parting speech • and consider- 
ing that, only the day before, Lord Ethering- 
hame had expressed his wonder to Edward, 
whether Merton was most fool or brute, and 
intimated no little disgust at his dissipation, 
so unredeemed by aught of refinement — his 
selfishness, so undisguised by even the thin 
veil of common courtesy — his utter want of 
information — his stupidity — and also that, is 
the course of conversation, with that flattery 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



127 



by which i. weak mind seeks to ingratiate 
itself, he had been most theoretically eloquent 
upon the principles and talents requisite in a 
member of the House, to which is intrusted 
the destinies of the country ; and all which, 
at the time, he meant his brother should apply 
to himself. Considering all this, it may be 
imagined that Lord Etheringhame's reflec- 
tions were more true than agreeable. He 
was roused from his revery by Adelaide 
exclaiming : 

" I am sure you have had no trouble about 
the matter. Coukl any thing have been more 
satisfactorily arranged I" 

Algernon did not agree with her in his own 
mind : nevertheless, he said nothing. It was 
less troublesome to think than to speak ; and 
his indolent indulgence was now more than a 
habit. 

Ordering his horses in an hvur to be at Mr. 
Delawarr's door, Edward walk^vl thither, too 
excited for solitude, and impatient for a list- 
ener to whom he could express his indigna- 
tion, and who would join in his contempt. He 
knew Merton's ignorance, but he also knew 
his vanity ; he would be sure to speak ; he 
asked no better revenge than a reply — and 
arrayed in his own mind a whole battalion of 
arguments, and a light armed troop of sneers. 
"Nothing is more imaginative than anger," 
thought he, as, arriving at Mr. Delawarr's 
house, he laughed to himself at the ideal elo- 
quence in which he had been indulging. A 
carriage was at the door; and as he crossed 
the hall, he saw — and, though they say see- 
ing is believing, it was an evidence he felt in- 
clined to doubt — Mr. Rainscourt coming from 
the library, and also bowed out in the most 
cordial manner by Mr. Delawarr himself. 

Mr. Rainscourt, the head of the party most 
decidedly opposed to his, with whom on Catho- 
lic questions, corn bills, free trade, reform — 
those divers points in the debatable land of 
our British constitution — he had not an opi- 
nion in common; political enemies (and no 
enmity is so bitter as a political one) from 
their youth upwards, between w r hom there had 
been war "even to the knife," — who had 
fought a duel, (and even that had failed to re- 
concile them;) what was there in common to 
them now ] 

Surprises are like misfortunes or herrings — 
they rarely come single. Edward entered the 
library ; and even Mr. Rainscourt's appear- 
ance was forgotten in the relief of an attentive 
listener to an angry detail of his disappoint- 
ment. The interest Mr. Delawarr took in his 
words was evident enough to have satisfied 
the most fastidious: still, though the dark 
brow was sedulously knit, and the pale lip 
compressed, Lorraine thought he read a pass- 
ing gleam of exultation — an expression which, 
though instantly subdued, betrayed that Mr. 
Delawarr was pleased, not vexed, by the oc- 
currence. The narrative ended by Edward's 
saying, "My vexation for my brother is a 
thousand times greater than my vexation for 
iiayself. If he had acted on the belief, that 
' Sparta has many a worthier son than me,' 



I should myself have been the first to approve 
his conduct. But to see Merton, whom he 
both dislikes and despises, in my place — and 
that from irresolute indolence — makes the loss 
of my seat in the House nothing, when com- 
pared with the loss of my confidence in my 
brother." 

"A very small loss indeed, it leing only 
what you ought never to have had. Ethenng- 
hame has the misfortune to be a beautiful 
talker; he dreams of glorious impossibilities, 
and sets them forth in elegant language ; but, 
weak and self-indulged, he has neither the 
energy which resolves, nor the industry which 
acts. He is about as useful as one of the hand- 
some pictures of his ancestors, among whom 
I most devoutly wish he were at this moment 
Luckily, his very indolence is, at this crisis 
almost equivalent to his active support. I cat 
insure you a seat ; and as for Merton he maj 
be easily gained over. He is a fool, therefon 
obstinate ; but vain, and therefore manage 
able." 

" Give me but the luxury of answering tr- 
one of his prolix, contradictory speeches, an<i 

' If there's a hole in a' your coats, 
I rede you, tent it,'— 

I only ask the revenge of a reply." 

" For all that, he must be on one side : en- 
mities are like friendships — useless encum- 
brances; individual feelings have nothing to 
do with general proceedings. I do not know 
what private life was given us for, except to 
get in the way of our public one. But I for- 
get you are yet in ignorance of the step I have 
decided on taking this morning." 

Mr. Delawarr drew his chair nearer, and 
began his narration. It had been a fine study 
for either actor or painter to have watched 
those two faces during the progress of that de- 
tail. The outline of Mr. Delawarr's counte- 
nance was handsome, though now thin even to 
harshness ; the forehead was high, but nar- 
row ; lip and cheek were equally pale ; and it 
is in the varieties of colour that lies the ex- 
pression of the feelings, in which species of 
expression it was entirely w'anting: its cha- 
racter was cold, severe, and possessing an 
energy that was of the mind alone. The large 
clear gray eyes seemed rather to penetrate into 
you, than to have any decided meaning them- 
selves ; they caught your thought, but express- 
ed not their own. It was a schooled, world- 
ly, set countenance ; one from which, without 
being at all aged, youth had utterly departed. 
Early years seemed not to have left a single 
trace. Truly of such a one might it be said— . 

" The mother that him bare, 
If she had been in presence there, 
Wonld not have known her child." 

The face, on the contrary, opposite to him, 
was bright wuth all the colours and emotions 
of youth. The fair wide forehead was a throne 
spread by the imagination for intellect; the 
clear dark eyes flashed with every passing 
idea — the thoughts and the feelings spoko 
together. v The sweetness of the smile soft 



128 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



ened, but relaxed net, the decision of the 
mouth. 

At first the countenance of his young com- 
panion was eloquent of the workings of the 
mind within. Surprise, incredulity, indigna- 
tion, disdain, rapidly succeeded each other. 
Suddenly, by a strong effort, the listener 
seemed to repress his feelings, and force his 
thoughts within ; and it must have been a 
close observer who saw any thing beyond an 
air of quiet attention. Something might have 
been traced of scorn touched with sorrow, but 
even that carefully subdued. 

Mr. Delawarr finished his narrative by say- 
ing, "And now, Edward, is your time for 
action : you will dine with me to-day, to be 
introduced to Mr. Rainscourt as the future 
member for H ." 

Lorraine rose from his seat, and with that 
studiously calm manner which strong emotion 
so often assumes, where the cool word masks 
the warm feeling, and simply and quietly 
declined the invitation. Nothing makes a 
person so irritable as the consciousness of 
wrong. 

"Just as vacillating as your brother," ex- 
claimed Mr. Delawarr, pettishly. " What am 
I to understand by this silly refusal ] — what 
political romance may it please Mr. Lorraine 
to be now enacting'?" 

" One he learned from yourself, and one 
grounded on all your own previous life." 

" My dear Edward, a minister is but Jove, 
and Fate is mightier than he. I did not create 
circumstances, therefore cannot control them ; 
and to what I cannot alter I must yield. lean 
excuse the impetuosity of youth, which ima- 
gines to will is to do : so a truce to fine senti- 
ments — keep them for the hustings — look to 
realities, and dine to-day with me. Every 
thing changes about us, and we must not be 
behindhand with the age." 

Here he was interrupted by Edward : 

" If I had not looked up to you, honoured 
you, held you as the proof how all that is 
noble in theory could be made admirable in 
action, I could listen more patiently ; but can 
it be Mr. Delawarr whom I hear say that con- 
sistency is a prejudice, and conduct to be 
ruled by convenience'? Opinions may change 
with the circumstances on which they were 
founded, but principles never. Either your 
whole past life has been a lie, or else your 
present conduct. The high and warm feel- 
ings of your youth, matured by the convic- 
tions of manhood — all that a whole life has 
held to be right — cannot, surely, in the expe- 
rience of a few aays, be utterly wrong. By 
your present change you declare during so- 
many years I have been either a fool or a 
hypocrite. By this abandonment of your old 
opinions, what security is there for the stabi- 
lity of your new? False to your party — still 
falser to yourself — on what does your future 
rely] Convenience is the only bond between 
you and your new friends — convenience, that 
most mutable of rules, varying with all the 
changes of passion or of interest;. Apostate 
to your creed, deserter from your party, traitor 



to yourself — again I say, look to y r our future 
Principle cannot support you — that you have 
pronounced to be but prejudice; your talents— 
you have admitted their inadequacy to meet 
the times ; your character — you have turned 
upon yourself. Delawarr, shall the history 
of that country, whose past has instructed, 
and whose future has inspired — shall it have 
no higher name for you than the slave and 
victim of expediency ?" 

The colour that for a moment had stained 
the sallow cheek of the hearer passed in an 
instant : brow and lip had been carefully 
moulded to a sneer — and a short, bitter laugh 
prefaced Mr. Delawarr's answer. " Truly, 
my dear Edward, this display of eloquence is 
quite needless ; we are aware of your capabi- 
lities. Do not be too exorbitant, but tell me, 
at once, what do you want besides the bo- 
rough'?" 

Lorraine had left the room. His feelings 
were infinitely bitter. Mr. Delawarr had 
been his political idol; and of all excellencies 
we hate to lose those foundea on the imagina- 
tion. " A glory had vanished from the earth," 
as glories can vanish only in youth. The 
good faith of Mr. Delawarr had made respect- 
able in his eyes even the very points on which 
they differed. And now all human nature 
was lowered in the conduct of one individual. 
None are so disinterested as the thoughtless 
and absorbed. Edward lost all consideration 
of himself, while dwelling on his brother's 
weakness and Mr. Delawarr's recantation. 
But — and we note this as a proof of a well- 
constituted mind — though he almost doubted 
the existence of truth in this world, he never 
doubted its excellence. 

Mr. Delawarr, it must be confessed, took 
the matter much more coolly. Habits are the 
petrifactions of the feelings, and his habits 
were those of business. A resolution is 
never shaken by a conviction. He had wil- 
fully blinded himself to the subtle spirit of 
self-aggrandizement which urged his conduct. 
He saw the need of instant action, and took 
refuge in that common resource of the desti- 
tute, a well-sounding phrase. At such an 
important crisis, he had no time to weigh nice 
scruples or fantastical definitions of honour 
Conscience always acts on the conciliatory 
system. Mr. Delawarr was vexed at losing 
a young man of his talents ; but, when vexa- 
tion softens not to sentiment, it hardens into 
anger. Besides, it was one of those cases in 
which it is a personal satisfaction to be angry. 
Muttering something to himself of "highflown 
notions and ingratitude," he sat down to an- 
swer a letter. 

Edward's horses were at the door: he 
hastily ordered his servant home, threw him- 
self on his horse, and never drew bridle till 
he found himself on the wild but beautiful 
common of Barnes, which, at five, seems to 
have left London fifty miles behind. Nothing 
like a gallop on a beautiful Arabian in all des- 
perate cases. If you have been refused by an 
heiress, when a Jew has advanced ten thou 
sand pounds on the speculation — if you hava 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



129 



been jilted by a beauty, after dancing with 

her for a week — if you have been thrown out 
by a petition to the House, after your election 
has cost your last acre — and then delibe- 
rate between a pistol and a gallop, I advise 
the latter. 

Lorraine had ridden off a large portion of 
his irritation, but not all his regret. He threw 
the reins on the neck of the beautiful and pant- 
ing creature, that had sped on as if by some 
instinct of his will, and rode slowly over the 
solitary heath. He was in that mood of all 
others when the mind fastens most readily on 
some chance object for its train of thoughts, 
when strong internal excitement gladly vents 
itself on any outward impulse. He had un- 
consciously paused on a slight ascent, on 
whose side stood the remains of a small but 
ancient well : its square walls were in ruins, 
and a few large but broken stones, some jag- 
ged and bare, others with little tufts of grass 
or a single yellow wild flower springing from 
them, — all spoke neglect and decay. The 
clear spring itself dripped over one fragment 
with a low murmur, whose monotony had all 
the sweetness of custom. The ear heard it, 
till it listened for the sound like a familiar 
thing. The well was filled with weeds, and 
the water wandered away, wasting its little 
current over too large a space, but still marked 
by a growth of brighter and fresher green. 
"And thus it is," thought Edward, "with 
all the works of men : whether for beauty or 
usefulness, how soon they perish ! One ge- 
neration builds, that another may neglect, or 
destroy. We talk of the future — we look to 
it — we act for it. The future comes — our- 
selves are forgotten — our works are ruins." 

The soued of the bubbling water grew 
more distinct, as the ear became accustomed 
to its music : it reminded him of one very 
like it in Etheringhame Park. Both might 
have made the delight of either antiquary or 
poet. It wanted nothing to complete the like- 
ness but the large old beach, under whose 
shadow he and his brother had passed so 
many mornings. 

But it was a bad time for the recollections 
of boyhood.. Lorraine's life had hitherto been 
one of enjoyment: it was as if Fate had, in 
one day's disappointments, avenged the se- 
renity of years. His brother, whom he had 
loved with the excusing, relying affection of 
a woman, had sacrificed his interest and be- 
trayed his confidence, in the indolent irreso- 
lution of selfishness : the attachment of a life 
had been given up to avoid trouble. Then, 
the friend to whom he looked up — the model 
in whose steps he proposed to follow — whom 
he had admired with all the enthusiastic ad- 
miration of youth — this friend had degraded 
himself in his eyes forever, denied his opi- 
nions, falsified his principles, and in a few 
hours placed the future in direct opposition to 
ali that the past had held high or honourable. 
It is hard, very hard, for the heart to part with, 
at one struggle, those it has most loved and 
reverenced. A mist rose to Lorraine's eyes, 
anly to be dissipated by another o-allop. 
Vol. I.— 17 



Some twenty years after, it might be ques- 
tioned whether he would have felt much. 
With regard to Lord Etheringhame, Edward 
made no allowance for domestic necessities. 
I remember once reading a somewhat unne- 
cessary volume, in which a gentleman (single, 
I am sure) remonstrated on the exclusion of 
females from power. He might have spared 
himself the trouble ! Few women but have 
some lover, husband, brother, or son, over 
whom they contrive to exert a very fair por- 
tion of authority. 

As to Mr. Delawarr, another twenty years 
would have taught his youthful opponent that 
political opinions are, like most others, sub- 
ject to change. A century or two ago, the 
best blood in the kingdom was spent in de- 
fence of the right divine of kings — and it was 
called heroic conduct ; now it is to be shed in 
defence of the rights of the people — and that 
is very heroic conduct too. I wonder what 
will be heroic conduct a century hence. 
Again : the Swiss guards of Louis XVI. were 
cut to pieces fighting under orders — every one 
talked of their bravery and their devotion; 
the Swiss guards of Charles X. have done 
precisely the same thing, and their own coun- 
try talks of hanging the survivors. Ireland, 
last year, was to be a Paradise, if that peri, 
emancipation, was but sent there ; now it is 
a wretched, degraded, oppressed country, un- 
less the union be dissolved ! What ever will 
it be in the year after 1 So much for any cer- 
tainty of right in this world ! 



CHAPTER XLV. 



"As our life is short, so it is very miserable. * * 

" How few men in the world are prosperous ! What 
an infinite number of slaves and beggars, of persecuted 
and oppressed people, fill all corners of the earth with 
groans, and Heaven itself with weeping prayers and sad 
remembrances! * * * * * 

"Our days are full of sorrow and anguish, dishonoured 
and made unhappy with many sins, amazed with fears, 
full of cares, divided with curiosities and contradictory in- 
terests, made airy and impertinent with varieties, abused 
by ignorance and prodigious errors, made ridiculous with a 
thousand weaknesses, worn away with labours, laden with 
diseases, daily vexed with dangers and temptations, and 
in love with misery."— Jeremy Taylor. 



Justice has never been done to the merits 
of a wet day in summer — one of those days 
of wind and rain which fills the air with fra- 
grance, for every full-blown flower has its 
sweet life fairly crushed out ; when there is 
a good excuse for a fire — a fire being one of 
those luxuries for which, in England, we al- 
ways expect a reason ; when it is cold enough 
to make warmth pleasant, yet without freezing 
one side while the other is burning. It was 
just such a day as this when Lorraine went 
to take a farewell dinner with Mr. Morland. 
Alternate showers of rain-drops or rose-leaves 
had been blown in gusts against the windows 
all the morning; but now the curtains were 
drawn, a warm red blaze came from the bright 
fire, and a softer and clearer light from the 
lamp, whose pure pale transparency is so 



130 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



prettily and fancifully compared by an Ame- 
rican writer,* to a gig-antic pearl illuminated. 
A mahogany table, like a dark mirror, was 
drawn close to the fire — Mr. Morland had an 
old-fashioned predilection for its polished sur- 
face ; on it stood three or four rich cut glass 
decanters, " breathing of the sweet south," 
and a dark slender bottle, common enough in 
shape, but round which lingered the fragrance 
of Burgundy. Two large arm-chairs were 
drawn on each side the fire-place, in which 
sat Mr. Morland and his guest. 

Mr. Morland. — " After all, I do not so much 
regret the delay this occasions in your entrance 
into public life — you are still too young." 

Edward Lorraine. — "Are you not now 
speaking rather after the fashion of common 



Prej 



udi 



I am young, it is true; but I have 



outlived the pleasures of youth. I — ' 

Mr. Morland. — " But not its feelings. You 
are still credulous of good — still enthusiastic 
of impossibilities; you believe that the world 
may be set right — nay, that you are one of 
those predestined to assist in so doing." 

Edward Lorraine. — " I will not deny that I 
do think there is great room for improvement, 
and that very likely I am deceived in my own 
self-estimate — a common mistake, even with 
the most experienced ; still, I am not prepared 
to admit that a cause can be injured by the 
devofton and industry given to it by even the 
humblest individual." 

Mr. Morland. — "I was thinking more of 
yourself. Have you not felt Mr. Delawarr's 
conduct very severely." 

Edward Lorraine. — "I have: I put my 
own personal interests quite out of the ques- 
tion; but 1 cannot forgive a man that I so re- 
spected and admired, for being the one to show 
me that my respect and my admiration were 
given to an acted part — not the real charac- 
ter." 

Mr. Morland. — "Your own are my best ar- 
guments. Truly, you seem well prepared for 
disappointment, the falsehood, which will 
meet you at every turn of your future career. 
Mr. Delawarr has taken a step imperative to 
his own interests, and for which most convinc- 
ing reasons may be assigned. I never knew 
any debatable point not maintained on both 
sides by unanswerable arguments ; and yet 
you are angry that he has not thrown every 
advantage aside to enact your beau ideal of 
patriotic excellence." 

Edward Lorraine. — "At this rate, then, 
your own interests only are to describe your 
circle of action." 

Mr. Morland. — "Not exactly; they must 
be a little rounded at the extremities, where 
they come in contact with those of others." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Then you would have 
had me act in direct opposition to all I have 
been accustomed to rpgard as good and admi- 
rable, and accepted Mr. Delawarr's offers?" 

Mr. Morland. — " Not exactly ; the young 
man who acts in early life contrary to his feel- 
lags, will, in after years, act contrary to his 

* Neale. 



principles of right. I only wish j T ou f.o draw 
from it a moral instability — to see the neces- 
sity, if you mean to carry your theories into 
action, of arming yourself with indifference 
of experience." 

Edward Lorraine. — " We should, then, ne- 
ver act if we were so indifferent to the result." 

Mr. Morland. — " And all the better for your- 
self if you never enter the gladiatorial arena 
of public life: you will sacrifice time, health, 
and talents; you will be paragraphed — proba- 
bly pelted; you will die of an inflammation, 
or a consumption ; and leave it a debatable 
point to historians, what was the extent of the 
injury you did your country." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Nothing is so fortu- 
nate for mankind as its diversity of opinion : 
if we all thought alike — with you, for an ex- 
ample — there would at once be an end to all 
mutual assistance and improvement." 

Mr. Morland. — " Do not be alarmed ; there 
are plenty of restless spirits who will always 
be happy to take upon them all the affairs ot 
the world. Atlas was only an ingenious alle- 
gory." 

Edward Lorraine. — " This infinite variety 
in men's minds — the innate superiority ot 
some, the equally innate inferiority of others 
— has always seemed to me the -great argu- 
ment against the system of universal equality. 
There is no natural Agrarian law. Distinc- 
tions, from that universally admitted claim oi 
a child to the acquisitions of a parent, become 
hereditary ; they must first have been per- 
sonal." 

Mr. Morland. — " Of all the vain theories 
that philosophers ever set afloat is that of 
equality — especially mental. One man spends 
years in thoughtful study, and Columbus sets 
forth and discovers America; another man 
passes the same period, and then the learned 
doctor sends an elaborate essay to a society, 
stating that the last ten j^ears of his life have 
been devoted to a laborious comparison of 
geese and turkeys, which has produced in his 
mind the conviction that the goose is a calum- 
niated bird, the turkey being infinitely more 
stupid."* 

Edward Lorraine. — " A complete caricature 
on ornithological research ; but do you know, 
I have often thought the pursuits of science 
the most satisfactory of all to the pursuer. 
The scientific man is better able to measure 
his progress than the literary man, and is less 
liable to the fluctuations of opinion." 

Mr. Morland. — "Generally speaking, though 
they are even a more irritable race. The sub- 
ject on which we centre our whole attention 
acquires an undue importance. Devotion to 
one single object necessarily narrows the 
mind. The indifference of others is matter of 
angry surprise ; and the benefactor of man- 
kind would often fain become its tyrant. We 
are violent in proportion to our self-exaggera- 
tion." 

Edward Lorraine. — " After all, philosophy 
consists in making allowances, and they, by 

Foreign Literary Gazette. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



131 



i.he-by, are made from affection and feeling - , 
never from reason." 

Mr. Morland. — "As if we exercised our 
reason on our own account." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Oh, yes, a little some- 
times when too late." 

Mr. Morland. — "The phrases 'literary se- 
clusion' — ' the charms of books and solitude' 
— what poetical licenses they are! The fine 
arts, like Mother Carey's chickens, appear in 
stormy weather. Look, for example, at the 
artists of Italy's most gifted epoch — they 
kept a sword by their pallet, painted in light 
armour, and dressed their own dinners lest 
they should be poisoned." 

Edward Lorraine. — " At present we avoid 
warfare — 'the good swords rust;' but we are 
not more peaceably disposed than our ances- 
tors — look at the gauntlet to be run by a suc- 
cessful author. Ingenuity is racked for abuse, 
and language for its expression: everybody 
takes his success as personal affront. I think 
the late invention of steel pens quite charac- 
teristic of the age." 

Mr. Morland. — " I am most entertained at 
the egotism of our modern school, of periodi- 
cal literature especially. Now, egotism may 
be divided into two classes ; that of our feel- 
ings, which may* come home to some one or 
other of its readers, as ail feelings are gene- 
ral ; and that of action, which cannot interest, 
as actions are not general, but individual. 
One editor politely informs his readers how 
much he eats, another how much he drinks, 
a third is eloquent on the merits of his coffee; 
and here is a little penny publication, whose 
conductor occupies two pages out of four, in 
stating that he dips a pearl pen into a silver 
inkstand, and writes in a satin dressing 
gown." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Blackwood laid the 
first foundations of the eating and drinking 
school. The novelty of the plan could only 
be equalled by the humour of the execution. 
But in literature people ought not to be al- 
lowed to follow a fashion. A new idea is no 
sooner started, now-a-days, than it is run even 
to death. I think the good old Elizabethan 
plan of monopolies should be revived in favour 
of literature. An eminent author, in our time, 
is a species of mental Alexander; be erects a 
vast empire, out of which fifty small powers 
parcel little kingdoms and minor principali- 
ties." 

Mr. Morland. — " Your notion of an author's 
property in his own works is Lsimilar in spirit 
to the old French marqtzbc in Marmontel, 
who prefers a husband to a lovm, because ' I 
could then go with my eoutrasi in hand, and 
give un bon sonffiet to any one who endeavour- 
ed to take him from me.' " 

Edward Lorraine. - — " How full of wit, 
point, and, what is best expressed by a phrase 
of their own, such exquisite tournure, some of 
the short French stories possess! Hook is, I 
think, the only English author who possesses 
their analysis of action — that bird's-eye view 
of motive, and the neat keen style whose every 
second sentence is an epigram ■ he is Roche- 



foucault illustrated ; and he unites, too, with 
his vein of satire, the more creative powers, 
the deeper tones of feeling, that mark our 
English writers." 

Mr. Morland. — " I give him credit for one 
very original merit. Do you remembel 
Charles Summerford's letter in Maxwell 1 — it 
is the only love-letter I ever read without 
thinking it absurd. It is equally passionate 
and natural." 

Edward Lorraine. — " What is the reason 
that in repeating the expressions of lovers 
they always seem exaggerated, though, per- 
haps, we have used the same expressions our- 
selves? — surely memory ought to recall their 
truth." 

Mr. Morland. — "And so it would, if those 
expressions were still used to or by ourselves. 
They only appear to.be exaggerated from be- 
ing put in the third person. It is curious how 
much people take for granted in these affairs 
of the heart." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Nothing, in matters 
of sentiment, seems too difficult for credit." 

Mr. Morland. — " We easily believe in the 
feelings ourselves inspire; but, instead of a 
reason, I will tell you a story. I had a house- 
keeper who had two lovers — one she favoured, 
to whom she was engaged. After a while 
she learnt he had a wife and two children at 
Paisley; this led to a dismissal. She went 
into hysterics, and spoiled my soup for a week, 
at the end of which she consoled herself with 
the other. Just as she was on the point of 
marriage, it came out that the wife and two 
children was an invention of the intended, to 
drive his more successful rival from the field. 
She made excellent gravies, and, as I took an 
interest in her fate, I remonstrated on the folly 
of marrying a man who had acted so basely — 
' But you see, sir — if you please— it was all 
for love of me,' — and she actually did marry 
him." 

Edward Lorraine. — " I am thoroughly con- 
vinced a little extravagance rather recommends 
a lover to his mistress. All women are natu- 
rally romantic. Perhaps the even tenor of 
their lives makes them peculiarly enjoy ex- 
citement. One unaccountable action would do 
more for you than all the flattery that the court 
of Louis the Fourteenth ever embodied in a 
phrase. " 

Mr. Morland. — "You are theoretic, my 
young friend ; rely upon it that no general 
rule ever held good in love. " 

Edward Lorraine. — "No general rule ever 
held good in any thing. Imagination is to 
love what gas is to the balloon — that which 
raises it from earth." 

Mr. Morland. — " And w T e know the usual 
fate of such aerial adventures — a fall to earth, 
which, if it does not unfit us, at least disin- 
clines us from any more such ' skiey enter- 
prises. ' And what, after all, are our greatest 
efforts in life but ascents in a balloon ] — and 
then descents, which either leave us in the 
dust — a ludicrous spectacle to the bystander; 
or else, by good luck, we have broken a limb, 
and the accident becomes terrible, so that we 



132 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



are pitied, instead of laughed at. Not much 
difference between the two." 

Edward Lorraine. — " Is there nothing in 
being loved — nothing in being admired — 
nothing in those benefits which one individual 
may confer on his whole race?" 

Mr. Morland. — " Love is followed by dis- 
appointment, admiration by mortification, and 
obligation by ingratitude." 

Edward Lorraine. — "What, then, are those 
watchwords of the heart — patriotism and phi- 
lanthropy — mere sounds signifying nothing?" 

Mr. Morland. — " Just so when reduced to 
practice. 1 do not say, with Sir Robert Wal- 
pole, that every man has his price ; but I do 
say that every man has his motive. One man 
wants money, the next power, the third title : 
a fourth desires place for its distinction, a fifth 
for its influence ; a sixth desires popular ap- 
plause ; a seventh piques himself upon his 
eloquence, and will display it; an eighth upon 
his judgment, to which he will have you defer ; 
a ninth is governed by his wife ; a tenth adopts 
the opinions of his club ; the eleventh those 
of a favourite author ; the twelfth acts upon 
some old prejudice which he calls a principle. 
There are a round dozen of motives for you. 
Now, you do not call any of these patriotism ?" 

Edward Lorraine. — " One would think you 
were a believer in the. old classical fable of 
the golden, the silver, the brazen, and the iron 
ages ; and that we were living in the harsh 
and heavy days of the last." 

Mr. Morland. — " I believe one half, which 
is quite enough to believe of any thing. I 
deny that the silver and golden ages ever ex- 
isted ; but allow the actual existence of the 
brass and the iron." 

Edward Lorraine. — "I desire to be loved — 
passionately, entirely, and lastingly loved. I 
desire active, high, and honourable distinction. 
If I thought as you think, I should at once 
enter La Trappe ; or, like the Caliph Vathek, 
build a palace for the five senses." 

Mr. Morland. — " And find discontent and 
weariness in either. I see you, Edward, young, 
ardent, and heroic, full of genius and ambi- 
tion ; and I see in you just another sacrifice 
to that terrible necessity which men call des- 
tiny. One by one your generous beliefs will 
sharpen into incredulity — your warm feelings 
turn to poison, or to a void ; their empire di- 
vided between bitterness and exhaustion. — 
Where is the good you exalted ? — a scoff even 
toyourself ; where is the love that you trusted ? 
— like the reed on which you leant, it has 
entered into your side, and even if the wound 
cease to bleed, it is only because it has 
hardened into a scar ; where is the praise you 
desired 1 — gone to another, or if still yours, 
you know its emptiness and its falsehood. 
You loathe others ; but you look within your- 
self, and see their counterpart. All do not 
think this, because many do not think at all; 
but all feel it, though they do not analyze their 
feelings." 

It was now late: slowly, and somewhat 
Badly, Edward rose, and bade his friend good 
night — he said it somewhat more affectionately 



than usual. He knew him to be an old and d 
disappointed man, and he deemed rightly, that 
to argue with such a mood was to pain, not to 
convince. Yet, as he rode home, more than 
once the reins dropped, on his horse's neck, 
and he thought mournfully, " Are such things 
sooth?" I know not. I own I think they 
are. I have this very moment laid down the 
most eloquent, the most beautiful avowal of 
belief in a happier and better doctrine. Let 
me quote the very words. 

" No : man must either believe in the per- 
fectibility of his species, or virtue and the 
love of others are but a heated and objectless 
enthusiasm. * * * To the man who finds it 
possible to entertain this hope, how different 
an aspect the world wears! Casting his glance 
forward, how wondrous a light rests upon the 
future ! the farther he extends his vision, the 
brighter the light. Animated by a hope more 
sublime than wishes bounded to earth ever 
before inspired, he feels armed with the cou- 
rage to oppose surrounding prejudice, and the 
! warfare of hostile customs. No sectarian ad- 
1 vantage, no petty benefit, is before him ; he 
sees but the regeneration of mankind. It is 
with this object that he links his ambition — 
that he unites his efforts and his name! From 
the disease and the famine, and the toil around, 
his spirit bursts into prophecy, and dwells 
among future ages ; even if in error he luxu- 
riates through life in the largest benevolence T 
and dies — if a visionary — the visionary of the 
grandest dream."* 

Alas ! I do not — I cannot think with the 
writer. My own experience — my whole ob- 
servation forbid it. The worst sufferings of 
human nature are those which no law can 
reach — no form of government control. What 
code can soothe the burning pain of disease, 
or rouse its languor? What code can allevi- 
ate the bitterness of death, dry the tears of 
the mourner, and force the grave to give up 
the loved and the lost ? What form of laws 
can control the affections, thosebusy ministers 
of sorrow? Can they console them when un- 
requited — alter them when misplaced — or re- 
call them when departed forever? Alas ! they 
are of no avail. Can the law blunt the cut- 
tingedge of ridicule, or soften the bitter words 
of unkindness? Can the law give us grace, 
wit, beauty, or prevent our feeling their want, 
or envying their more fortunate possessors? 
All the law can do is to give us hard bread, 
which we must earn with our toil, and then 
steep with our tears. Yet more, the law can 
guard our life — life! that possession which, 
of all others, man values the least ; but it can 
give nothing that endears or exalts it — nothing 
that confers on it either a value or charm. The 
first records of our young world were those 
of tears and blood ; its last records will be 
these of tears and blood also. I hear of the 
progress of civilization, and I marvel how it 
can be called happiness. We discovered 
America, and that word is now synonymous 



* Conversations with an Ambitious Student in ill health 
New Monthly Magaaine. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



133 



with a brave, enlightened, and free nation ; but 
to make way for that, prosperity, a whole peo- 
ple have perished from the face of the earth. 
Our ships have gone through the silent seas, 
and a new continent rose before their prows in 
fertility and beauty. We have emptied on it 
our prisons — and the untrodden wood echoes 
to the oath and the axe of the convict. 

Or, to come home again. The wealth of the 
world, its power, its intelligence, pours into 
London. We have the enjoyments of riches 
and of mind — our sciences and fine arts take 
ever} 7 " day some step to perfection ; but none 
of these are happiness. Wealth, that mighty 
source of heart-burnings, who shall distribute 
it] To take from industry is to give a pre- 
mium to idleness. And yet how hard, that 
one man should possess millions, while to 
another a penny is a welcome gift ! How are 
we to help this 1 " Is it my fault," the rich 
man may sa} r , "that I, or my father, or my 
grandfather, have been more prudent or more 
fortunate than you or yours ] If you take 
that which is mine to-day, where is your se- 
curity but that another may take it from you 
again to-morrow V And yet poverty — how 
bitter it is ! first its disgrace, and then its 
want. I never, even in an advertisement 
praying- for that charity which is too often de- 
nied, read the words "who have known better 
days," without a s)nmpathy even to pain. And 
yet what statute can guard against extrava- 
gance, improvidence, or idleness 1 And even 
this property — the hinge on which all our so- 
cial institutions turn ; for whose sake we both 
make and break laws — dors that give happi- 
ness 1 Ask the sick, the sad, or "the dying, 
though their home be the palace, and their 
clothing the purple. 

Then we have intellectual enjoyments, the 
works of genius, those of the fine arts. There 
was Mr. Canning, the eloquent and the pa- 
triotic, died, not three years ago, of a fevered 
mind and a worn-out body — worn out by the 
scoff, the obstacle, the vain excitement, the 
exhausting exertion. Genius — was Byron, 
whose life was divided between disappoint- 
ment and resentment, was he happy 1 What 
is genius but an altar richly wrought in fine 
gold, and placed in the most sacred and glo- 
rious part of the marble temple] but there 
the living victim is offered in sacrifice, and 
the wreath of flowers left to wither. The fine 
arts, they which add so much to the adorn- 
ment of their time — it is a sad page in life in 
which their annals are written. How few 
among the statutes which stand in grace and 
power, till they seem the incarnation of the 
diviner part of our nature — how few among 
the pictures which shed their dreamlike 
beauty on our walls — how few of these but are 
the fruit of lives passed in toil, in want, in 
the heart-burning of hope, whose fulfilment 
comes not, and of cares that eat away the very 
soul! Look at the many diseases to which 
skill is of no avail — look at the many crimes, 
and crimes committed, too, by the educated, 
who have been trained from their youth up- 
wards in good. Or look only within your 

Vol. I. 



own heart, and see there the germ of every 
sin and every sorrow; — and then tell me of 
the perfectibility or thehappiness of humanity. 
In another world " the wicked may cease from 
troubling, and the weary be at rest;" but not 
in a world like ours — the weak, the erring, 
and the fallen. We forget we are living under 
a curse ; and who can recall that curse save 
the God who pronounced hi 



CHAPTER XLVI. 

"Ah, whence you glare, 
That fires the arch of heaven'!— that dark red smoke 
Blotting the silver moon V 

***** 
" And what were earth and stars, 
If to the human mind's imaginings 
Silence and solitude were vacancy '?"— Shelley. 

There is something sublime in being out 
of humour with the whole world. Discontent 
against an individual is called anger; that 
against the many, misanthropy. There is a 
great deal of poetry in an epithet. Lorraine 
indulged in the latter mood of mind for a 
week. His brother called — he was denied : 
a first conciliating note from Mr. Delawarr 
was unanswered — the second met a cold but 
bitter reply. Both grew angry, and public 
dispute ended in private dissension. 

It is a curious fact, how violent people get 
upon political questions, particularly if they 
are such as do not concern them. A sedate- 
looking gentleman, who lives fri Finsbury 
Square, perhaps, and whose money is in the 
funds, raves about the corn laws : another in 
a black coat, forgets to make his Sunday ser 
mon, in the composition of a speech at a meet 
ing for the abolition of W T est India slavery. 
But from the affairs of our next-door neigh 
bour, to those of church and state, we take an 

intense interest in those of others. S , 

when he came from Brussels, at the time of 
the revolution, was asked what it was liU. 
" Like!" said he, "why, like a vestry melt- 
ing." We talk of vanity, discontent, patriot- 
ism ; but the real first cause of the passion 
for politics is the love of talking, inherent in 
masculine nature. 

In the mean time, Edward found that love 
and politics had been adverse influences on 
his destiny. His brother's most unlooked 
for marriage altered all his prospects as re- 
garded his succession to the Etheringhame 
title and estates : his difference with Mr. De- 
lawarr closed the principal avenue of his poli- 
tical career. His future path in life must be 
cleared by himself. 

The energy with which he set about the 
task showed he was equal to it. He had in- 
herited a handsome property from his mother. 
True, he had been extravagant, but not irre- 
trievably so. He looked into his affairs. Two 
years of resolute economy, and his property 
was free. In two years there would be a 
general election. Two years of travel and 
study would equally benefit his fortune and 
M 



134 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



his mind ; both would be strengthened to me^t 
the demands of public life. 

There are epochs of change in every one's 
career; and it is in meeting these changes 
that a man shows his energies. Lorraine's 
plan was promptly laid down, and its execu- 
tion was as prompt as its design. His affairs 
were investigated with that resolute industry 
which so soon finishes the business it begins. 
The sale of part of his property cleared 
the rest. A large portion of his income was 
put aside to accumulate. Horses, pictures, 
wines, bijouterie, German meerschaum, and 
Turkish hookahs were alike brought to the 
hammer. His solicitor remonstrated on the 
loss in such a sale. 

" Don't you see," replied his client, laugh- 
ing, "I am selling my habits with them]" 

Satisfied with the present, full of anticipa- 
tion for the future, Edward took his seat on 
the mail — the best conveyance in the world 
for good spirits. It was a bright clear night, 
with a fresh and buoyant wind. Alas ! for 
the safety of two respectable linen drapers, 
and the partner of a great tea house, inside — 
for Lorraine drove the first forty miles. 

" What a pity he should be a gentleman — 
such a waste !" observed the coachman, when 
he resigned the reins. 

Spain was the country he had decided upon 
visiting — Spain, as a poet regularly begins, 

" Land of the vine and the olive." 

It is curious how much of its romantic cha- 
racter a country owes to strangers ; perhaps 
because they know least about it. Edward's 
motive for visiting it was, simply, that he had 
never been there before. Leaving vines, olives, 
the white walls of Cadiz, and the dark eyes 
of its ladies, to be recorded in his diary, if he 
kept one, he travelled perfectly alone — some- 
times on foot, sometimes on horseback — 
through a considerable part of the country 
bordering on the sea-coast; when, finding the 
residence of a Spanish nobleman, to whom 
he had letters of introduction, marked on his 
route, he paused at a little village to make 
inquiry of his way. 

The village was pretty enough for a scene 
in a play. It was literally hidden in a grove, 
or thicket rather, of orange trees, at that most 
beautiful season of their year, when one branch 
is bowed dow r n with its weight of golden fruit 
— on another the orange is still of a brio-ht 
green ; while the more shaded boughs are yet 
in the first luxuriance of their peculiarly odori- 
ferous and delicate flowers — perhaps one of 
the softest and most beautiful whites in na- 
ture. There were but a few cottages, each of 
them covered with a luxuriant vine, whose 
glossy verdure reflected back every ray of the 
setting sun. 

It was a saint's day, and the peasants were 
all out of doors. There were two or three 
groups of dancers, and the rest were gathered 
in a ring round them, or scattered on the grass 
beneath a few large old chestnut trees, that 
must have seen many such generations. The 
peasants themselves were, as a painter would 



have said, excellent accessories to the scene - 
the women were, many of them, pretty ; and 
their profuse black hair bound up with that 
simplicity which is the perfection of good taste. 

Uniformity in costume is very picturesque. 
To name a familiar instance : — how well a 
family of sisters dressed alike always looks ! 
Each separate individual may be bad ; still as 
a whole, the effect is creditable. We do no 
seem sufficiently aware of the beauty of uni- 
formity, or else it is interfered with by our 
personal vanity. The truth is, that general 
taste is always good ; because, before it be- 
comes general, it has been compared and cor- 
rected : but as for individual taste, the less we 
have of it the better. 

The arrival of a stranger produced the ef- 
fect it always does where such an occurrence 
is rare. Novelty is pleasure, and pleasure 
puts people into a good humour. All were 
ready to crowd round with some little offer of 
assistance; and when it w T as discovered that he 
spoke Spanish, their delight knew no bounds. 

People take a traveller's understanding their 
language as a personal compliment. Edward, 
besides, was very handsome — a letter of re- 
commendation all the world over ; and he pos- 
sessed that fascination of manner, the secret 
of whose fairy gift is ready adaptation of it- 
self to others. 

Both himself and horse fared exceedingly 
well. One gave him green figs, another 
oranges : the grapes were yet scarcely ripe ; 
but a little boy, who seemed just to have 
stepped out of a picture by Murillo, climbed 
the roof of his father's cottage, and brought 
from the southern side a sunny-looking bunch, 
which would not have disgraced Aladdin's 
garden of rubies. 

Hospitality is the virtue o-f an uncivilized 
state, because it is then a useful one. It is a 
wise moral dispensation, that those virtues are 
most prevalent which are most wanted. A 
man asks another to dine with him in London, 
and spends on the said dinner just twice as 
much as he can afford ; while the odds are, 
that his visiter will be discontented with the 
reception, envious of his host, and console 
himself next day by abusing entertainer and 
entertainment. A man wanders through a 
desert — is half starved — falls in with an Arab 
tent, whose owner gives him some goat's milk 
and dates — he comes home, and raves about 
the hospitality of the desert. The difference 
is this : in the one case the dinner was needed, 
and in the other it was not. We must want a 
thing before we can value it. Hospitality is, 
therefore, the virtue of uncivilized, as benevo- 
lence should be that of civilized, life. 

The crowd which had surrounded the tra- 
veller gradually dispersed, and Lorraine was 
left almost alone with a very fine-looking old 
man, whose free gait bespoke a life of active 
exertion; and a deep scar on one cheek, evi- 
dently a sabre wound, indicated that it had 
been of a military nature. 

Edward's attention was at first riveted on 
two dancers engaged in their graceful national 
dance, the bolero. What a btessing to a peo- 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



135 



pie is a climate that encourages out-of-door 
amusement ! The man was dressed in a brown 
jacket, without a collar, and a crimson sash ; 
a small cloak, managed with the grace of cus- 
tom, hung on one shoulder, and on his feet 
he wore the hempen sandals; and, perhaps, 
from its classic association, a sandal is good, 
as far as pictorial effect is concerned. With 
a profusion of coal black hair, a very dark 
skin, and a bold but fine outline of feature, 
the youth was a good specimen of the Spa- 
nish peasant. 

But his companion was beautiful. A rich, 
flush colour — large black eyes — teeth that 
shone from their brilliant whiteness — a slen- 
der shape — and most minute feet, in such little 
shoes of Cordova leather — a silver chain round 
her neck, to which hung a medal of the Ma- 
donna — a dark brown bodice and short skirt, 
relieved by a lacing of scarlet riband — long 
black hair, bound in one large plait round the 
head, and fastened by a silver bodkin. Such 
were the picturesque couple who were now 
performing the evolutions of their dramatic 
dance, with that exquisite ear for time which 
makes the gracefulness of dancing. 

At the conclusion, Edward turned to his 
companion, with some remark on the beauty 
and air of happiness that pervaded the scene. 
" Your lovely little valley looks as if even 
a rough wind had never disturbed its tran- 
quillity." 

" And yet I remember when for every cot- 
tage there stood a smoking heap of ashes ; 
and that little stream" — pointing to a bright 
brook that ran, touched with the lingering- 
daylight, like a line of amber — "that little 
stream ran red as the blood which coloured it. 
Look at the trees, senhor — they'll witness to 
the truth of what I am saying." 

Lorraine looked, and saw, in spite of the 
luxuriant foliage, indelible marks of the ra- 
vages of fire. The trunks were scorched, and 
the bark destroyed, in many places ; and here 
and there stood leafless branches, black and 
charred; — one immense but lifeless bough 
was directly over their heads. 

" Quiet as our valley seems now," said the 
once fierce Guerilla, "I can remember being- 
lighted home by the blaze of our whole vil- 
lage. It was midnight when I came down 
the hill ; yet, by the firelight, I could see every 
tree fur miles round. I could even distinguish 
the faces of the officers, who, at the head of 
the French troopers, were across the plain 
yonder. It had been well for them if the light 
had not been quite so strong." 

"Your friends — your relatives — had you 
any ?" asked his hearer, hesitatingly. 

"Two orphan children; Minora — she that 
has just been dancing — and her brother. She 
was then but a little creature, yet so thought- 
ful, it was as if her dead mother watched and 
helped her. I never feared to leave Pedro, then 
a baby, with her. I came home, and saw my 
cottage, perhaps from being fired the last, 
burning the brightest of ajl. Well, the virgin 
does work miracles for her servants. I ran 
down the steep, shouting my children's names 



from sheer misery — when I heard a low, little 
sweet voice whisper, ' Father.' I saw my 
pretty Minora, and her brother holding her 
hand, both frightened out of their senses, but 
safe and well. At the first alarm they had 
run out, and found safety in an old hollow 
oak tree, which they had, in play, called their 
house. They little thought what a home it 
would be to them. From that hour I took my 
knife and my musket. Six months afterwards 
there was not a Frenchman in the province." 

" What did you do with the children V 

"Ah, senhor, there's a secret. Why, in the 
wood you will have to pass to-night there's a 
cave — muleteers will sometimes bring across 
the line more than custom-house officers think 
of — and that cave was a safe hiding-place. 
Well, the good turn it did in concealing those 
children may balance its other accounts. I 
took them there — stole to them with provi- 
sions whenever I could : they never lived half 
so well before. You see my Minora's eye^ 
are pretty bright; but for half a year they 
never saw sunshine." 

It was much later than Edward had sup- 
posed ; but still the extreme beauty of the 
evening induced him to pursue his journey. 
He mounted again, and departed, with a thou- 
sand good wishes and directions as to the 
right path. He offered no reward for the 
kindly treatment he had received ; but the two 
children, whose hearts he had won by a little 
notice, and who now, with all the earnest 
gratitude of childhood, insisted on showing 
the best path through the grove — the children 
came back, radiant with surprise and pleasure 
at. the parting gift of the English traveller. 

It is worth while to travel, if it be only to 
enjoy the excitement of some entirely new 
species of natural beauty. Late as it was, 
Edward reined up his horse to gaze around 
him. The plain where he was riding was one 
immense thicket of the gum cistus, whose 
frail white leaves, just veined with the faintest 
pink, fell in showers at the least movement of 
the passer-by. What a prodigality of blos- 
som ! — for the gum cistus, born and withered 
in an hour, is the most ephemeral of flowers. 
Behind was a range of mountains, composed 
mostly of huge masses of granite; and the 
small sparkles on its surface glittered in the 
moon, which shone directly against them. Be- 
fore him was a dense shade — the wood through 
which he had to pass ; and over all was a sky 
so clear, as to be rather light than colour. 

The thickets gradually gave way to an open 
space, where the soft grass seemed unusually 
fragrant, perhaps from the quantity of thyme 
that grew among it. Soon a few gigantic 
trees, of the fir and cork kind, stood forth, like 
the advanced guard of an army ; and Edward 
was presently in the lone and shadowy depths 
of the woods : the dark recesses, only visible 
when a withered tree let the moonlight through 
its leafless branches, or the white stem of a 
cork tree, from which the bark had been 
stripped, contrasted the sombre trunks around 
A young man with much less of poetry in his 
temperament than Lorraine possessed would 



136 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



have felt all the romance -of his nature rise in 
such a solitude. 

But whatever romantic fantasies the travel- 
ler might have felt disposed to indulge, his 
visions were all disturbed by realities. A cry, 
as if of sudden terror, rose upon the air. Ed- 
ward listened attentively, and fancied he dis- 
cerned the plunging of horses. Without 
hesitation he rode to the spot, and distinctly 
heard a voice, apparently in tones of entreaty 
and lament. . 

A sudden turn in the road brought him to 
the objects of his search. Two mules stood 
by a tree, at whose foot lay a man, either dead 
or insensible : and kneeling beside was a 
young cavalier, muffled in a large riding 
cloak. To dismount and offer his assistance 
was the work of a moment. Fear seemed 
almost to have deprived the kneeling youth of 
articulation : he muttered, rather than spoke, 
"that his servant was dying," and seemed to 
abandon himself to all the helplessness of 
despair. 

Edward saw at once that the man had only 
fainted : he raised his head, loosed his collar, 
and from his spirit flask bathed his temples, 
and succeeded in pouring a few drops down 
his throat. The patient revived, opened his 
eyes, but evidently knew no one, and again 
sank back, if not quite insensible, quite help- 
less. 

] " My God ! what shall I do ?" exclaimed 
his young comrade, wringing his hands. 

Bestowing a true English ejaculation on 
what he denominated a want of presence of 
mind in foreigners, — " Do ! why, lead the 
mules to the nearest place of habitation, and 
I will endeavour to support your servant on 
my horse — he is both strong and quiet." 

Silently but eagerly the stranger went to 
the horse's head, while Edward raised his 
companion to the saddle. 

"I will lead the mules," said the cavalier : 
" but where shall we gol Have you travel- 
led any distance'?" 

" No. They told me at yonder village that 
Don Henriquez de los Zeridos' was the only 
habitation near. I am an English traveller, 
and am going there with a letter of introduc- 
tion. Will you accompany me V 

" I live there," said the stranger, hastily 
turning the mules in that direction. 

Saving one or two inquiries, or a confused 
expression of thanks, the young guide pursued 
his way in silence, till they came to a gate- 
way, which he opened, and, approaching a 
large but desolate-looking house, sought to 
attract the attention of its inmates by throwing 
up pebbles at a window where a* dim light 
was to be seen. 

After a few moments' pause, a head was 
put out of the lattice, and the querulous tones 
of an old woman inquired the meaning of such 
an intrusion. 

" It is me, Xarifa. Pedro has been taken ill. 
Do not disturb Donna Margaretta. A stranger 
waits with me in the yard." 

Another short c 1 ^lay followed. At last the 
door was opened. Edward carried the unfor- 



tunate Pedro into a large hall, where stood an 
elderly female servant, and a negro evidently 
only half awake. His companion turned to 
him, and for the first time, the lamplight 
showed a face of the most perfect beauty. 
For a moment she stood irresolute, and then 
said, coldly and calmly, "This is Don Henri- 
quez's house, and I am his daughter." 



CHAPTER XLVII. 



" Her silent face is saintly pale, 
And sadness shades it like a veil ; 
A consecrated nun she seems, 
Whose waking thoughts are deep ; 



dreams." 
Wilson. 



" But the delicate chain 
Of thought once tangled, nevsr clear'd 



Moore. 



Courtesy and curiosity are very often at 
variance. With a hurried apology, Lorraine 
had been shown into a large, gloomy-looking 
apartment, where he was left to his own 
thoughts and a small lamp. The moon, now 
at its full, shone directly into the room, shed- 
ding a sad and softened light, which some- 
what concealed the ravages of time, or what 
seemed the work of that even worse spoiler — 
man. The floor had been paved with alter- 
nate squares of different coloured marbles ; it 
had been dilapidated in many places, and the 
vacancies rilled with common stone. The 
panels of the wall were of various and beau- 
tiful woods inlaid in fanciful patterns, while 
the cornices and divisions were of marble 
carved exquisitely, and the ceiling had been 
painted to resemble a summer sky. There 
was now scarcely a space uninjured : the cor- 
nices were broken away ; the panels had ini- 
tial letters and uncouth faces rudely cut upon 
them ; and on one side there was a number of 
small round holes, such as would be produced 
by a shower of shot, and a few larger ones 
that indicated bullets. The roof was smoked 
and scorched ; and two pictures hung at one 
end, or rather their frames — for a black and 
smouldered canvass showed that the fire had 
destroyed the work of the painter. 

Still, there were signs of human habitation, 
and some of female ingenuity. At the upper 
window, a fine old vine had been carefully 
trained both inside and out, till it served the 
purpose of a curtain. Near it was a high- 
backed chair, covered with embroidered silk, 
whose rich bright colours showed it had but 
lately left the skilful hand of its worker. The 
floor beneath was spread with matting of the 
fragrant grass of the country : beside stood a 
small table of inlaid w:ood, and a cushion was 
at the feet, also worked with embroidered 
flowers. Against the wall were hung two or 
three crayon drawings : the moonlight showed 
the upper one to be a Madonna and child — 
the others were hidden by the shadow of the 
vine leaves which fell directly upon them. A 
crucifix, made of black oak — a few shelves, 
which seemed crowded with books — a case, 
which appeared from its shape to contain a 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



137 



late or guitar — and two or three small chairs, 
of the same dark wood, stood near; but the 
rest, of the room was utterly unfurnished. 

The destiuction wrought by time never 
oppresses the spirits as does that wrought by 
man. The fallen temple — the mouldering 
tower, gray with moss, and stained with rain, 
— seem but to have submitted to the inevitable 
doom of all ; and the ruin time has made, time 
also hallows. But the devastated home and 
perished household — man's sorrow following 
fast upon man's guilt — tells too near a tale of 
suffering. The destruction in the one case is 
gradual and far removed from us — in the other, 
it may be sudden and fall even on our own 
home. War, even in the distant battle of a 
foreign land, is terrible and sorrowful enough; 
but what is the agony of blood shed in the far 
warfare to that poured at our own doors, and 
quenching the fire of our own hearth ! 

Edward paced the room mournfully : he 
gazed on the slight remains of taste which had 
turned wealth to beauty. But the most touch- 
ing part of all, was to mark the. effort that had 
been made to restore something of comfort and 
appearance. He thought of the beautiful face 
he had seen for a moment — it looked very 
young to have known much of suffering. The 
door of the room opened, and the negro appear- 
ed, bringing in supper; and the little table 
was soon spread. There was a flask of light 
wine, a melon, some bread, and fried fish. 
And with all the volubility of his race, Caesar 
explained, that the ladies sent their excuses, 
and that to-morrow they hoped to make him 
personally welcome. 

A solitary supper is soon despatched. The 
negro then showed Lorraine to his sleeping- 
room, almost deafening him with apologies. 
It is a good sign when servants take the credit 
of their master's house so much to heart. An 
immense room, and a gigantic bed, with dark 
green hangings, were gloomy enough for 
either ghosts or banditti, to whichever terror 
the traveller might most incline. But a bright 
wood fire drew at least round itself a cheerful 
circle, within which Lorraine found he was to 
sleep. The floor had been laid with heath and 
goatskins, and on them more comfortable bed- 
ding than a traveller ought ever to consider 
necessary. The huge green bed was evident- 
ly too old and mouldy for use. 

Considering that it was near one, and that 
he had ridden some thirty miles, Edward might 
be excused for sleeping soundly, even, as the 
newspapers say, " under circumstances of the 
greatest excitement." He was awakened by 
the glad light of the morning sun pouring full 
into his chamber, and showing the pastluxury 
and the present desolation by which he was 
surrounded. The floor, the wainscoting, were 
Df mahogany — the walls were hung with the 
finest tapestry — and there Avere occasional 
spaces in which large mirrors had been set : 
but the mahogany was rough and discoloured, 
the tapestry rent and faded, and the mirrors 
either wholly gone, and their places filled by 
matting, or by fragments smashed and shiver- 
ed in every direction. The floor near the 

Vol. I.— 18 



window w T as stained as if by heavy and long' 
continued rain ; and the casement w 7 as now 
repaired by different kinds of coarse glass, 
and the one or two larger openings by slips 
of wood. 

The view from the window was splendid. 
On one side, a dense wood of oak and cork 
trees spread its impenetrable but beautiful 
barrier; on the other, an undulating country 
showed every variety of vineyard, heath, and 
grove : the vines emerald in their green — the 
orange groves, whose flowers, mingled with 
the wild thyme on the heath, scented the dew, 
which rose like a cloud of incense, silvery and 
fragrant. Gradually the mist cleared away, 
the distant mountains came out in full and 
bold relief, and the winding river grew golden 
in the sunshine. 

Edward was leaning from the casement, 
when Ceesar made his appearance with infor- 
mation that Donna Margaretta waited break- 
fast. He followed the old man into the room 
where he had been the night before, and seat- 
ed in the arm-chair was the lady whom his 
young companion addressed as her mother. 
With the first word she spoke, her guest re- 
cognised that peculiar insular accent which 
none but a native of England ever acquires. 
We rarely pay much attention to what neither 
concerns nor interests us ; and Edward had 
forgotten that Don Juan had married an Eng- 
lish woman. She was a slight girlish-looking 
creature, with fair hair nearly concealed by the 
veil which was drawn round her head like a 
hood, but which in its simplicity rather added 
to her very youthful face — there was some- 
thing of the grace of childhood with which 
she bade a countryman welcome " under any 
circumstances," slightly glancing at the dila- 
pidated room : — " Circumstances of which a 
native of your fortunate land cannot, and there- 
fore will not, I hope, judge," said a low sweet 
voice, in good but foreign English. 

Lorraine turned to the speaker, and recog- 
nised his last night's companion. Their eyes 
met for a moment: in hers there was a singu- 
lar mixture of timidity and decision, of appeal 
and yet dignity. She blushed deeply, but 
momentarily, and her features instantly settled 
into an expression, calm, almost cold ; as if 
any betrayal of emotion were utterly at vari- 
ance with long habits of self-control. 

Edward had seen beauty often, and seen it 
with every possible aid; but never had he 
seen beauty so perfect, yet so utterly devoid 
of extraneous assistance. She wore a loose 
black stuff dress, up to the throat, and the 
folds gathered by a girdle round the waist; 
yet a more symmetrical figure never gave 
grace to a silken robe. The swanlike neck 
nobly supported the finely shaped head, round 
which the hair was bound in the simplest 
manner. The features were of the first order, 
the high forehead, the oval of the face, the 
short, curved lip, gave the idea of a Grecian 
gem ; and the clear pale olive, unbroken by- 
colour — a melancholy, almost severe expres- 
sion of thought, produced also the effect of 
the more spiritual and intellectual beauty of a 
m 2 



13S 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Btatue rather than a picture. The eyes were 
peculiarly large, beautiful in form and colour; 
of that rare deep, soft black ; thoughtful ra- 
ther than animated ; quiet, downcast, more 
than expressive ; but it was not difficult to 
imagine that, when their midnight depths 
were kindled, it would be the flashing of the 
lightning. There was something sad in see- 
ing youth such a contrast to itself — a face 
whose beauty only was young. 

With a bright changeful colour, a mouth 
whose smiles were in unison with the bright 
clear blue eyes, the mother almost seemed 
younger than the daughter. Donna Marga- 
retta's dress, though it was black, showed 
more of personal adornment. The material 
was a rich silk. The ends of the veil, drawn 
over her head, were embroidered with silver; 
she had long gold ear-rings ; to a rich and 
large gold chain was suspended a cross set 
with precious stones ; and over the arm of her 
chair hung a rosary of agate beads. Another 
contrast was, that, though Beatrice's little 
hands were as exquisitely shaped as her mo- 
ther's, they had not the same delicate white 
which shows the hand has known no ruder 
contact than a silken thread, a lute string, or 
a flower. Moreover, the contrast between 
her throat and face showed that Beatrice was 
somewhat sunburnt ; while her mother's cheek 
was fair as one 

"No wind has swept— no sun has kiss'd." 

They drew round the breakfast-table, which 
was as neat as if it had been prepared in 
England. There was chocolate, new milk, 
honeycomb, with its liquid amber droppings 
fragrant of a thousand flowers, a small loaf, 
and a little basket of green figs. Lorraine 
observed that, while the rest of "the meal was 
served on the common earthenware of the 
country, Donna Margaretta's cup was exqui- 
sitely painted china, and placed on a small 
silver stand wrought in filagree. 

The meal passed cheerfully, even gayly. If 
Beatrice was silent, and seemingly anxious, 
her mother appeared to be even in high spi- 
rits. Delighted to see a countryman of her 
own, she asked a thousand questions. The 
sound of an English voice and English words 
carried her back to her childhood ; and the 
birds and flowers she had then loved now rose 
uppermost in her recollections. She often 
alluded to her husband— said he would soon 
be home — and repeatedly dwelt on the plea- 
sure it would give him to see an English- 
man. 

Breakfast was scarcely finished. before she 

rose, and asked Edward to accompany her to 

her garden. " It is just like an English one." 

" It is very hot, dear mother — had you not 

better stay in the house V 

" There now — when my garden is so cool. 
You will go, will you not]" said she, with 
an air of pretty childish entreaty, to Edward. 
»' We won't take you, Beatrice." 

Beatrice rose, and, calling the old black 
servant, spoke to him in a low voice in Spa- 
nish, "Caesar will direct you — and you will 



take care of my mother," she said to Lorraine, 
with rather more earnestness of manner than 
seemed necessary. 

The old negro led the way, and, with a most 
ostentatious care, cleared the path, which 
wound very like a labyrinth, till it opened on 
a small space no one could have found with- 
out a guide. Entirely surrounded by ilex and 
oak trees, it was like an island of sunshine; 
the soft thick grass only broken by plots of 
many coloured flowers. In the midst of each 
was a wooden stand, on which was a straw 
beehive — every one of those Cortez of the 
insect world were out upon their golden search, 
and the murmur of their wings was like an 
echo to the falling fountain in the midst. The 
basin had once been carved like a lotus leaf; 
the edges were now rough and broken, but 
the water fell clear and sweet as ever. 

His companion delightedly pointed out the 
flowers and the bees : and, whether it was the 
contagion of her gladness, the open air, or the 
sunshine, his spirits awoke from the depres- 
sion of his morning melancholy. Her pecu- 
liarly sweet laugh rose like music; and he 
gradually began to draw a parallel between 
the mother and the daughter. In spite of the 
interest excited by Beatrice, the conclusion 
was in favour of the parent. "The one," 
thought he to himself, " is gloomy and de- 
sponding — rash, too — think of last night's 
adventure. Donna Margaretta, on the con- 
trary, reconciles herself to the alteration of 
her fortunes, by a gentle content edness, en- 
gaging her mind and centering her wishes on 
healthful employment and innocent amuse- 
ments, in the best spirit of feminine philo- 
sophy." 

He walked round the garden with her, till 
they came to an immense ilex tree at one 
end. It had its lower branches fashioned 
into a sort of bower, and a rude lattice-work 
supported the growth of several luxuriant 
creeping plants. There were two or three 
seats covered with matting; and on one of 
these, at the foot of the ilex, Donna Marga- 
retta took her place. " It is not so pretty as 
our English gardens — have you a garden at 
homeT' Edward w T as obliged to confess his 
inattention hitherto to horticultural pursuits. 
"I was much happier in England — now, 
don't you tell Beatrice, for she takes his part 
— but Don Henriquez is very unkind to leave 
me as he does. I have not seen him such a 
long while." 

Confidential Communications are usually 
embarrassing ; and Edward began to think, 
"What shall I say?" His companion did 
not give him much time to consider, before 
she continued — "I have very little to remind 
me of England ; but I have some of its flowers 
— I like them better than all the others :" and, 
putting a drooping bough aside, she showed 
some daisies, of which she gathered a few. 
At first she seemed as if about to give them 
to him, when suddenly her eyes filled with 
tears, and she passionately exclaimed, "Not 
these — I cannot give a;vay these. They are 
English flowers — you will get plenty in youi 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



139 



own country ; you will go back there — I shall 
see England no more." 

Edward, both surprised and touched, en- 
deavoured to soothe her; she did not appear 
even to hear what he said. She let the flowers 
drop, and clasping 1 her knees with joined 
hands, rocked backwards and forwards, half 
singing, half repeating the words, "no more," 
while the tears fell like a child's down her 
face, without an effort on her part to stop 
them. Gradually the sounds became inarti- 
culate, the heavy glittering lash rested on the 
cheek, her head made a natural pillow of the 
ilex' trunk, and Lorraine saw evidently that 
she was sleeping. To withdraw as quietly 
as possible seemed his best plan ; when the 
entrance of Beatrice induced him to hesitate. 
Signing to him for silence, she bent over 
her mother for a moment, drew a branch 
closer to exclude the sun from her face ; and, 
with step so light that even to Lorraine's ear 
it was inaudible, she left the arbour, beckon- 
ing him to follow. " I feared this," said she, 
her dark eyes filling with tears, whose soft- 
ness was but momentary, so instantly were 
they checked. "My poor mother! — God 
forbid you should ever know what she has 
suffered ! — Think what must have been the 
wretchedness that has left her a child fa 
mind." 

The truth flashed on Edward. Desolate 
then, indeed, was the situation of the young 
creature before him. It is very difficult to 
express sympathy to one who evidently shrinks 
from such expression. They walked on in 
silence till they came to where the negro was 
at work. 

"I cannot leave my mother; when she 
wakes, she would be so alarmed to find her- 
self alone, and her sleep is as transient as it 
is uncertain; but the country round is well 
worth a stranger's attention, Caasar is an ex- 
cellent guide as to roads. The picturesque I 
must leave to yourself. I shall hope at dinner 
to hear you say that our valley is as beautiful 
as we ourselves think it." 

Edward asked a few topographical ques- 
tions, and set forth without the old man, who 
seemed infinitely to prefer finishing his at- 
tendance on his carnations. 

The finest prospect would have been thrown 
away on our young traveller : all he wished 
was solitude and his own thoughts. A nook 
was soon found ; he threw himself on the soft 
grass beneath a large myrtle tree, and pon- 
dered over the events of the last four-and- 
twenty hours; at the same time, after an ap- 
proved English fashion, picking off the leaves 
from every bough within his reach. One re- 
flection made him strip a poor branch very 
quickly — it was the thought that, under all 
circumstances, he ought not to remain at Don 
Henriquez's house. Still, his family were 
Evidently so situated that a friend might be of 
use. What could have induced Beatrice to 
assume a disguise so foreign to what seemed 
her feelingrs and manners f If he could find 
out the difficulty, might he not offer assist- 
ance 1 Desolate and deserted as both she and 



her unfortunate mother appeared to be, every 
kind and good sentiment prompted an effort to 
serve them. The result of his deliberations 
was to stay, a little while, at all events. He 
might convince them of his sincere wish to 
render any aid in his power. Advice alone, 
to one so friendless as Beatrice, might be in- 
valuable. So, picking the last leaf of myrtle 
he could reach, he determined to remain. In- 
clination never wants an excuse — and, if one 
won't do, there are a dozen others soon found. 



CHAPTER XL VIII 

"Elle etoit belle, et de plus la seule heritiere ! 
Ce fut sur cela que je formai le projet de mon 6tablis5«5- 
nienl." Histoire de Fieur cVEpine. 

Like the cards which form a child's play- 
thing palace, our pleasures are nicely balanced 
one upon the other. The pleasure of change 
is opposed by that of habit; and if we love 
best that to which we are accustomed, we 
like best that which is new. Enjoyment 
is measured by the character of the indi- 
vidual. Lord Mandeville was sorry to leave 
Rome, because he had grown used to it. Lady 
Mandeville was delighted to leave it, because 
she had grown tired of it. Emily, actuated by 
that restlessness of hope which peculiarly be- 
longs to hope that is solely imaginative, was 
rather relieved by, than pleased w T ith, change. 
The map of her world was coloured by her 
affections, and it had but two divisions, — ab- 
sence and presence. She knew that Edward 
Lorraine was on the continent, and she allowed 
her mind to dwell on the vague, vain fancy of 
meeting him. 

It was winter, with a promise of spring, 
when they arrived at Naples. A few days 
saw them settled in a villa on the sea-coast, 
at some distance from the city. Emily, who 
loved flowers with all the passion of the poe- 
try that haunted them, gathered with delight 
the clustering roses which formed a miniature 
wood near the house, and wore the beauty of 
June in the days of February. Lord Mande- 
ville reproached her with being run aw r ay with 
by novelty, and said contrast gave them a dou- 
ble charm in England. "The blossom is a 
thousand times fairer when we have seen the 
leaf fall and the bough bare." 

Still, the situation of their villa was most 
lovely ; it was quite secluded, in a little vale 
filled with orange trees, now putting forth the 
soft green of their leaves, and the delicate 
white tracery of their coming buds. The 
grove was varied by a plantation of rose trees, 
a few pinasters, and a multitude of winding 
paths. It was evident that nature had been 
left for years to her own vagrant luxuriance, 
A colonnade ran completely round the villa, 
which on one side only was open to the sea, 
whose sounds were never silent, ana whose 
waves were never still. A space, lightly 
shadowed by a few scattered orange trees, 
sloped towards a terrace, which looked di- 



140 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



rectly down upon the shore. The eye might 
wander over the blue expanse, broken by the 
skimming sails, which distance and sunshine 
turn to snow, like the white wings of the sea 
birds, till sky and sea seem to meet, false 
alike in their seeming fairness and seeming 
union ; — the sails, in reality, being but coarse 
and discoloured canvass, and the distance be- 
tween sea and sky still immeasurable. On 
the left, the waters stretched far away — on 
the right, a slight bend in the coast was the 
boundary of the view. Thickly covered with 
pine and dwarf oaks to the very summit, the 
shore arose to a great height, and shut out the 
city of Naples. On the top shone the white 
walls of the convent of St. Valerie ; and on 
a fair evening, when the wind set towards the 
villa, the vesper hymns came in faint music 
over the sea. 

The time which passes pleasantly passes 
lightly ; days are remembered by their cares 
more than by their content ; and the few suc- 
ceeding weeks wrote their events as men, says 
the Arabic proverb, do benefits — on water. 
Lord Mandeville was daily more desirous of 
returning to England, and resolved to be there 
by March at the latest. Lady Mandeville be- 
gan to calculate on the effect her protegee, 
Miss Arundel, was to produce — and the result, 
in her mind, was a very brilliant one. To do 
her talents justice, Emily had improved very 
much since her residence under her care. 
Though too timid and too sensitive in her 
temper ever to obtain entire self-command, she 
had acquired more self-possession — a portion 
of which is indispensably necessary to a grace- 
fulness of manner. Encouraged and called 
forth, her natural powers began to be more 
evident in conversation ; and her accomplish- 
ments, her exquisite dancing, and her touch- 
ing voice, were no longer painful both to her- 
self and her friends, from the excess of fear 
which attended their exercise. A little praise 
is good for a very shy temper — it teaches it to 
rely on the kindness of others. And last, not 
least, she was grown very much handsomer; 
the classic perfection of her profile, the sym- 
metry of her figure, were more beautiful in 
their perfect developement. 

Some preparations for their return to Eng- 
land engaged Lord Mandeville for two or 
three days at Naples ; and the day after his 
departure the rest took an excursion to one of 
the ruins in the neighbourhood. This excur- 
sion had been long talked of; it was made in 
the name of the children — an excuse common 
on such occasions. Childish gayety is very 
contagious, and sunshine and open air very ex- 
hilarating ; and the whole party arrived at 
their destination in that humour to be pleased, 
which is the best half of pleasure. Naturally 
lively, Lady Mandevill/s vivacity was the 
most charming thing in the world. The two 
boys their only cavaliers, they wandered 
about in search of a picturesque spot for their 
dining-room. Much of the trouble we give 
ourselves is quite unnecessary — it matters very 
little where a good appetite finds its dinner. 

owever, trouble is, like virtue, its own re- 



ward. At last, at the instigation of a little 
peasant, whose keen dark eyes belied him 
much if he were not a very imp of mischief, 
they fixed on their banqueting-place. A lovely 
spot it was ; a hanging ground, just on the 
very edge of a wood, whose dark shadow 
seemed as if it had never been broken. Below 
them spread a fair and fertile country — vine- 
yards putting forth their first shoots, and olive 
plantations whose light gray leaves shone like 
morning frost-work; while the dim blue line 
of the sea closed the view. The side of their 
hill was very varied and uneven ; but the site 
of their rest was decided by the welling of a 
little spring, which bubbled up a sudden vein 
of silver from the earth, and wandered on like 
a child singing the same sweet song. The 
place was covered with moss, whose bright 
green was speckled with purple, crimson, gold, 
minute particles of colours, like an elfin carpet 
embroidered by Titania and her fairy court. 
The ground rose on each side like a wall, but 
hung with natural tapestry — the creeping 
plants which, in the south, take such graceful 
and wreathing forms in their foliage 

On a space a little below lay the ruins they 
had been seeking. Vivid must have been the 
imagination that could there have traced the 
temple which, in former days, paid homage to 
the beautiful goddess, by being beautiful like 
herself. Two columns alone remained — 
Ionian in their grace and lightness. A few 
fragments of the wall lay scattered about, but 
some chance wind had sown them with violets, 
and every trace, whether of architecture or 
decay, was hidden by the broad leaves, or the 
thousands of deep blue flowers, whose sweet- 
ness was abroad on the atmosphere. 

Francis and his brother were especially 
happy : they helped, or rather retarded, the 
spreading their dinner — every dish was to be 
ornamented with the wild flowers they had 
gathered : and they ran about, if not with all 
the utility, with all the celerity of goblin 
pages. I do not think childhood the happiest 
period of our life; but its sense of happiness 
is peculiarly keen. Other days have more 
means and appliances of pleasure ; but then 
their relish is not so exquisite. It all, how- 
ever, comes to the same in the Jong run. 
The child has to learn the multiplication table 
— the man has to practise it. 

" I am happy," said Lady Mandeville, " to 
find I have not lost all taste for those pleasures 
called simple and natural, as all out-of-door 
pleasures are denominated." 

" Even in England, whose climate you de- 
precate, in that spirit of amiable opposition 
which I once heard you call the key-arch of 
conversation," replied Emily, "I always 
loved being out in the open air. I have a 
feeling of companionship with our old trees ; 
and my thoughts take, as it were, freer and 
more tangible shapes. I always used to go 
and think in the shrubbery." 

" Dream, you mean." 

At this moment their little guide began to 
sing one of those popular airs which the Ita- 
lian peasantry execute with such singular 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



Ml 



Xste. They listened ns the sweet voiee died 
away, and then was repealed by an echo from 
the rock. A rush of hurried steps broke upon 
the song — the hranches crashed overhead — 
the party caught a glimpseof some half dozen 
dark figures. In another moment, Emily felt 
a cloak flung over her head ; and, blinded 
and silenced, was lifted seemingly in some 
rras, in whose grasp she was nothing-. 
Again she felt herself raised : she was placed 
on a horse — her companion sprang up behind 
— and oil they galloped, with a velocity which 
effectually bewildered her senses. She could 
only distinguish the sounds of other horses' 
steps besides their own. 

Al length, almost fainting with their speed, 
she was aroused by the suddenness of their 
halt. She was lifted from the horse, carried 
a short distance, the cloak partly loosened, 
and her hand drawn within a powerful arm, 
that half guided, half supported her up a long, 
steep flight of steps. A door creaked on its 
hinges — the grasp upon her relaxed — a strange 
voice said, in tolerable, though foreign, ac- 
cents, "Ladies — from the days of chivalry to 
the present, no woman was ever seriously 
angry at the homage, however rude, excited 
by her own charms : they pardon the offence 
themselves caused Pray use your own plea- 
sure, of which I am the slave." 

The door shut heavily on hinges whose 
rust grated as it closed. 

" Do throw that great cloak aside, and tell 
me what yoi think of our adventure," said 
Lady Manderille, who seemed divided be- 
tween ala*m and laughter. 

Emily collected her scattered faculties, and 
looked round with all the terror and none of 
the mirth of her companion. They were in a 
spacious room, whose days of splendour had 
long since passed away. The walls had once 
been stuccoed with perhaps beautiful paint- 
ings; — damp had effaced all, except patches 
where blues, reds, and greens had mingled 
into one dim and discoloured stain. All traces 
of what the floor had been was lost in one 
uniform darkness. The windows were fast- 
ened with strong iron lattices, and so com- 
pletely overgrown with ivy, that not one 
gleam of daylight pierced through the thick 
leaves. 

Evident preparation had, however, been 
made for their arrival. At one end of the 
room was spread a square carpet, and on it 
stood a table, on which were placed two most 
sacrilegious-looking wax tapers ; it is to be 
feared some poor sinner stayed longer in pur- 
gatory from the abduction of his offering. 
These threw their light on three large old 
chairs, covered with tapestry, which seemed 
long to have been the home of the moth — and 
also showed an open door, leading into an- 
other apartment. This Lady Mandeville pre- 
pared to explore. It was fitted up as a bed- 
room. On a dressing table stood two more 
wax tapers, but unlighted, a large looking- 
glass, and a most varied assortment of per- 
fumes and fragrant oils. The two grated 



windows were here also covered with ivy ; 
but the view was very confined. 

Lady Mandeville approached the tabl •, and 
opening one of the bottles of sweet essences 
said, " I see our bandit chief is prepared foi 
fainting and hysterics." 

" How can you laugh 1 Hark ! Did you 
not hear a step." 

"Yes, I heard my own. My dear Emily, 
do not be more frightened than is absolutely 
necessary. A heavy ransom is the worst that 
can befall us. According to the usual course 
of human affairs, we shall pay dearly for our 
amusement." 

"I wish we had stayed at the villa. What 
will Lord Mandeville say?" 

" Wonder what induced us to leave Eng- 
land." 

" O, if we were but in England now r !" 

" All our misfortunes originate in my acting 
against my principles. What business had 1 
with simple and innocent pleasures — your 
dinings on the grass — your picturesque situa- 
tions — your fresh water from the fountain'? 
Mandeville may just blame himself: he was 
always talking of rural enjoyment, till I 
thought there must be something in it." 

" But what shall we do V 

"The best we can. Try this lemon per- 
fume." 

Lady Mandeville was more alarmed than 
she would allow : still, the excitement of the 
adventure kept up her spirits. Moreover, she 
had been so accustomed to have every event 
happen according to her own -will, that the 
possibility of the reverse was one of those 
misfortunes which we expect to happen to 
every one but ourselves. 

The evening closed in. At last the rusty 
hinges of the door announced an arrival, and 
an old woman appeared, bearing various kinds 
of food. She spread the table, and presently 
returned with two flasks of wine. She looked 
good-natured, and seemed civil; but the various 
attempts of Lady Mandeville to engage her in 
conversation were fruitless, as neither under- 
stood what the other said. 

The supper was laid, and for three. The 
old woman left the room; and, a few mo- 
ments after, a cavalier made his appearance. 
Nothing could be more picturesque than his 
entrance. A large cloak enveloped his tall 
figure — the heroes of the Cobourg might have 
studied its folds ; a profusion of feathers 
waved from his slouched hat ; and his black 
whiskers and mustaches finished the effect. 
He flung the cloak most melodramatically 
over his" left arm — took off the plumed hat, 
whose white feathers swept the floor — showed 
a pair of silver-mounted pistols, and a dark 
blue doublet laced with crimson and gold, and 
a worked falling collar. Wallack himself 
could not have dressed the bandit better. He 
was tall — handsome, in the style of the sub- 
lime and sallow — and advanced to the table 
with an ease whose only fault was that it was 
too elaborate. 

"I cannot but regret, ladies, that your firs^ 



142 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



.sit to the castle of my ancestors should be 
'ess voluntary than I could wish; but, alas ! 
beauty has much to answer for." 

" The courtesy of your manner," said Lady 
.Vlandeville, cautiously suppressing- some sud- 
den emotion of surprise, " belies that of your 
conduct. What can your motive be, if you 
welcome us as guests 1 If we accept your 
hospitality, we claim your protection." 

" I would die to give you pleasure — I live 
but in your sight." 

" Again let me ask you your motive for this 
outrage; or rather, let me entreat you to name 
our ransom, and give us the means of com- 
municating with our friends." 

" Ransom ! name it not to me. Love, not 
gold, has led me on. Beautiful mistress of 
my heart, behold your slave i" and he drop- 
ped on one knee before Emily, who clung, 
half fainting with surprise and fear, to Lady 
Mandeville. " I have loved you for years ; 
in England, when an exile from my native 
country, I worshipped at a distance. I re- 
turned to Naples; but my heart was away in 
your cold island — our southern beau ties, were 
lovely in vain — when, one day, I'saw you on 
the strada. Alas ! even then none but a lover 
might have hoped. I knew the pride of the 
English — how little my noble name or my 
fervent passion would avail with the haughty 
islanders your friends. Love made me des- 
perate. I assembled my vassals; and now 
sue at your feet for pardon." 

Emily was speechless with dismay, when 
her romantic lover turned to Lady Mandeville. 

" May I implore your intercession] Tell 
her that all she waives of entreaty now, shall 
be repaid in adoration after our marriage." 

"Surely," said Lady Mandeville, retaining 
her self-possession, though with difficulty, 
"if you have been in England, you must 
know that Miss Arundel, as a minor, is de- 
pendent on the will of her guardian." 

" Ah, his pleasure will follow hers. I have 
planned every thing. To-morrow morning 
my confessor will be here; he will unite us : 
and when her guardian, Lord Mandeville, re- 
turns, I shall implore your mediation. A few 
days will arrange all our affairs." 

" I would rather die !" exclaimed Emily, 
roused into momentary energy. 

" Ah, you young ladies do not always die 
when you talk about it. To-morrow will see 
you Countess di Frianchettini." 

" Such a marriage," said Lady Mandeville, 
"would be a farce. Remember the inevitable 
punishment." 

" Which it will then be the interest *of my 
bride to avert. What rational objection can 
the lady urge 1 I offer her rank — to be mis- 
tress of my heart and my castle." 

Lady Mandeville glanced round the dilapi- 
dated and empty room. The count saw the 
look. 

" Yes, our noble house has lost its ancient 
splendour. This has been the century of re- 
volutions; and our family have not escaped. 
Should Miss Arundel prefer the security of 
fc* own more fortunate island, I am willing, 



for her sake, to make it my country. Alas! 
our Italy is as unfortunate as she is beautiful ; 
— not' hers the soil in which patriotism flou- 
rishes." 

" The Count Frianchettini is a patriot, then ? 
How does the violence practised upon us ac- 
cord with his ideas of liberty 1" 

" Love, signora, owns no rule. But, a 
thousand pardonfc— -in the lover I forget the 
host. Permit me to hand you to the supper 
table." 

Decision is easy where there is no choice. 
Faint and bewildered, Emily took her seat, 
drawing, like a child, close to Lady Mande- 
ville, who was at once alarmed and amused. 

" I can recommend this macaroni, for it is 
my favourite dish : I am very national. You 
will not take any] Ah, young ladies are, or 
ought to be, light eaters. Your ladyship will, 
I trust, set your fair companion an example." 

The count at least did honour to the maca- 
roni he recommended, contriving, nevertheless, 
to talk incessantly. He turned the conversa- 
tion on England — named divers of their friends 
— asked if one was dead, and another married 
— and hoped Emily was as fond as ever of the 
opera. 

" We seem to have so many mutual ac- 
quaintances," remarked Lady Mandeville, 
carelessly, " I wonder we happen never to 
have met before." 

The count gave her a keen glance; but 
hers was a well-educated countenance ; — even 
in ordinary intercourse she would have been 
as much ashamed of an unguarded expression 
of face as of language; and now it was under 
most careful restraint. 

" Ah, your ladyship's circle was too gay 
for me. I was a misanthropic exile, who 
shrank from society. The object that might 
have induced me to join it I had not then be- 
held — I only saw Miss Arundel just before 
she left town. My sentence of banishment 
was revoked ; but Naples had lost its charms 
when I saw the idol of my soul, and resolved 
she should be mine." 

" Take my advice — restore us to our friends, 
and our gratitude — " 

" Signora, I have lived in the world, and 
prefer certainty to expectation. I will-^iow 
retire; — late hours must not injure the roses 
I expect my bride to wear to-morrow. I go 
to guard your slumbers." 

So saying, he folded his cloak around him, 
and departed — to say the truth, a little disap- 
pointed. Emily's state of breathless terror 
had disconcerted one of his plans. He had 
relied on producing something of an impres- 
sion; — plumes, pistols, cloak, mustaches, pas- 
sion, and an attitude, he had calculated were 
irresistible ; but not a glance, except of fear, 
had been turned towards him. However, the 
game was in his own hands, and he cared little 
whether he roughed or smoothed it. 

"Why, Emily!" exclaimed Lady Mande- 
ville, unable, even under such circumstances, 
to suppress her laughter, " do you not remem- 
ber this hero of our ' Romance of the Cas- 
tle!'" 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



143 



iCmily shook her head. 

"Only, dear, that Count Frianchettini, the 
lover and the patriot, is Signor Giulio, our 
old hair-dresser. I recognised him instantly. 
O, he must know enough of English people 
to be aware that his plan is ridiculous. What 
a hero for a melodrama! I will advise him 
to-morrow to come out at Covent Garden, and 
offer to patronise his benefit." 

The old woman's entrance, to clear away 
the supper, broke off their dialogue. She 
pointed to their bedroom, made every offer of 
service by signs, and at length departed. 
They heard heavy bolts drawn on the outside 
of their door. 

"What shall we do?" exclaimed Emily, 
bursting into tears. 

" Why, I cannot advise your marriage, 
which absurd project I do not believe our ro- 
mantic professeur will dare carry into execu- 
tion. Only try to suppress all appearance of 
terror ; — fear is his best encouragement ; for 
fear, he clearly sees, is all he has to expect. 
Rely upon it, he has been reading romances 
in England, and thought a picturesque chief 
of banditti would turn any young lady's head. 
So polite a coiffeur will surely never send one 
of our ears as a token for our ransom. Why, 
it would go to his heart to cut off a favourite 
curl." 

" How dreary the room looks ! — the dark 
floor — the discoloured walls — the huge sha- 
dows, which seem to move as I gaze !" 

"The very place for ghosts and midnight 
murder. You must certainly refurnish them 
—but quite in the antique style — when you 
are Countess di Frianchettini." 

" How can you jest at the bare possibility 
of such a misfortune]" 

" What, is the use of crying? Thank God 
the children were left behind — they will give 
the alarm. I have arranged all the scenes of 
to-morrow in my own mind. You will be 
dragged to the altar; — you will faint, of 
course; this occasions a delay — a sudden 
noise is heard — a party of soldiers rush in — a 
little fighting, and we are safe. It is so very 
unromantic to be rescued by one's husband : 
it would be such an opportunity foraiover. 
What do you say to Edward. Lorraine — he 
would be a fitting hero for such an adven- 
ture?" 

Emily blushed, but made no answer. In- 
deed, she was seized at that moment with a 
desire to explore their prison. The survey 
was soon finished. The first room contained 
nothing but the table and three large chairs: 
the other, whose only entrance was the door 
which led from the outer apartment, had two 
mattrasses and the dressing table ; and the 
windows were only covered with a slight 
grating, which yielded to a touch. Lady 
Mandeville tore away some of the ivy, and 
looked out. There w r as water below — for the 
stars were reflected with the tremulous bright- 
ness which mirrors them in the wave ; and a 
dark outline, as if of a steep and wooded bank, 
arose opposite. 

" If worst comes to worst, we can but throw 



ourselves into the river: which would you 
like best — to be shot, stabbed, or drowned? 

Emily shuddered ; and, to own the truth, 
as the cold night air chilled them to the very 
heart, Lady Mandeville's spirits sank very 
considerably. Danger she could laugh at — 
for she could not force herself to believe it 
could menace her — but personal inconvenience 
made itself felt; and she trembled with cold, 
while Emily shook with fear. It was a plea- 
sant prospect of passing the night, especially 
a night that looked to such a morning. They 
sat down on one of the mattrasses — tired, but 
afraid to sleep — and very thankful that they, 
had been half suffocated by their cloaks, 
which had been used to blindfold them — at 
least they now served to wrap them up. 

Small evils make the worst part of great 
ones: it is so much easier to endure misfor- 
tune than to bear an inconvenience. Captain 
Franklin, half frozen on the Arctic shores, 
would not grumble one tithe so much as an 
elderly gentleman sitting in a draught. 



CHAPTER XL VI. 

"But our hero, as might be supposed, soon began to feel 
dissatisfied with this obscure celebrity, and to look out for 
opportunities of accomplishing a more extended fame." — 
Sydenham. 

Genius has many misfortunes to encounter ; 
but the worst that can befall it, is when it hap- 
pens to be universal. When a whole world 
is before it from which to choose, it is rather 
difficult to decide. This had been the case 
with Giulio Castelli. His mother was a dan- 
cer at the Neapolitan Opera; his father — but 
truly that was an honour which, like the 
crown of Belgium, no one seemed very ready 
to accept. The first ten years of his life were 
passed in enacting interesting orphans or Cu- 
pids; but, alas, he grew out of the theatrical 
costume and the age of love. His mamma 
died ; his uncle adopted him, and insisted on 
bringing him up in an honest way — which 
meant, cheating his customers for macaroni as 
much as possible. 

Young Giulio soon made macaroni as well 
as his uncle, and then felt he had a soul supe- 
rior to his situation. He settled his accounts 
summarily — that is to say, he took as many 
ducats as he could find, and joined a company 
of strolling comedians. If his musical talents 
had equalled his others, his fortune had been 
made ; but he had a voice and an ear that 
might have been English. He was next valet 
to an English nobleman, who lived in his 
carriage: he was cook to a cardinal, on the 
profits of whose kitchen he travelled for a 
while at his own expense. He went to Paris 
as an artist, who took likenesses in rose co- 
loured wax ; and was successful to a degree 
as hair-dresser in London. He soon was 
what seemed wealthy to an Italian. As he 
grew rich, he grew sentimental — thought of 
grapes and sunshine — his first love — and hi» 
old uncle. 



144 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



He returned to Naples — found Serafina had 
married — grown fat, and had had seven child- 
ren. His uncle was dead, and had left his 
property to a convent to say masses that his 
nephew might turn from his evil ways. Giulio 
felt idle and stupid — gambled and lost his last 
pistole — had recourse to his wits and his old 
opinion, that it was a person's own fault if he 
was poor while others were richo 

There was some philosophy in this; but, 
like most other doctrines when reduced to 
practice, it was carried too far. His prin- 
ciples endangered his person ; and the futurity 
of the galleys was a disagreeable perspective. 

One day Lady Mandeville and Emily drove 
into Naples. The gayly embroidered curtains 
of their vehicle blew aside, and the two ladies, 
muffled in fur mantles, were distinctly visible. 

It is curious how little we speculate on what 
may be the impression we produce on others 
— unless, indeed, vanity comes into play, and 
then there is no bound to the speculation. 
Still, the general feeling is utter indifference. 
Take an example from London life. Some 
fair dame " in silk attire" folds her cloak 
round her — if very cold half buries her face in 
her boa — and drives the usual morning round, 
without one thought given to the crowd through 
which she passes ; and yet how many differ- 
ent sens-ations have followed the track of that 
carriage ! admiration, envy, even hate. Some 
youth has loitered on his busy way to take 
another gaze at a being whose beauty and 
grace are of another order than his working 
world. Some young pedestrian of her own 
sex has cast a glance of envy at the bonnet of 
which a glimpse is just caught through the 
window ; and, as envy is ever connected- with 
repining, turns regretfully to pursue a walk 
rendered distasteful by comparison. Then 
hate — that hate with which the miserably poor 
look on others' enjoying, what he sees, but 
shares not, and pursues the toil that binds him 
to the soil, fiercely and bitterly saying, " Why 
have I no part in the good things of earth V 
Still less did Lady Mandeville and Emily, as 
they drove through the streets of Naples, 
dreary as is the aspect of a ^southern metro- 
polis in the winter, — still less did they think 
of the hopes, the enterprise, and the daring, 
their appearance excited in the breast of one 
individual. 

Giulio had for some time past been con- 
nected with some gentlemen who quite differ- 
ed with Solomon about the advantages of a 
dry morsel and quietness, rather preferring 
Wordsworth's view of the case — 



" The good old rule 
Sufficeth them, the simple plan — 
That they should take who have th 
And they should keep who can." 



power, 



There was an old castle by a small river, 
only a short distance from the Mandeville's — 
the haunt of some half dozen of his more im- 
mediate associates — that seemed the very place 
for an exploit like the one he meditated. His 
residence in England had taught him the lan- 
guage ; and one or two little adventures had 
given him a high idea of English predilections | 



for foreigners , he therefore came to the con- 
clusion that if Miss Arundel was a girl of any 
heart, it could never resist a picturesque ban- 
ditti chieftain — Salvator Rosa and the Surrey 
Theatre blended in one. His plan was skil- 
fully laid, and daringly executed. The im- 
pression he was to produce was the only erro- 
neous part of his calculations. 

It was now a little past midnight. "My 
dear Emily," said Lady Mandeville, " if there 
were but a castle clock to toll the hour!" 

" If Lord Mandeville returns home to-night, 
as we expected, surely he will be able to 
trace us." 

" It is upon his efforts I rely. O heaven ! 
what is that?" as something fell heavily in at 
the window. 

It was the extreme stillness that exaggerat- 
ed the noise ; for, when they picked up the 
cause, it was an arrow, evidently just cut, and 
a strip of narrow paper folded tightly round. 
It contained these words, written in pencil: — 

" If you can manao-e to lower a strino- from 
the window, your escape is certain. 

"An Englishman." 

Lady Mandeville sprang to the window. 
She had already cleared away enough ivy to 
enable her to see out. It was too dark to dis- 
tinguish any object definitely: the shadow of 
the old castle lay black on the river, and the 
outline of the opposite bank was only marked 
by deeper obscurity. 

" How shall we manage?" 

Emily, whose distinguishing quality was 
not presence of mind, only looked eagerly at 
her companion. 

"We cannot be worse off — we may be 
better. I am sorry, my dear girl, even to pro- 
pose such a sacrifice ; but give me that pretty 
apron we thought so picturesque and pleasant- 
like this morning, and help me to tear it into 
strips." 

Emily took off her blue silk apron, whose 
red trimming was a flattering likeness of a 
Neapolitan costume. It was soon torn up, 
and knotted together. 

"It is so light that the wind will blow it 
back. What shall we do to steady it] As 
arm of these huge chairs would be very con« 
venient; but to break them is beyond mj 
strength. But I have an idea." 

So saying, Lady Mandeville turned to the 
toilette, and mercilessly tied up in a handker- 
chief the various brushes, combs, oils, pomade, 
and rouge, with which the table w r as profusely 
covered. Their weight was sufficient, and the 
string was lowered from the window. 

They heard a plash in the water, and the 
next moment the string was apparently taken 
hold of: again it felt slack, and they drew it 
up, with some light weight attached to it. 
They saw a coil of rope, and another little 
scroll. It was a leaf from a pocket book, 
written in pencil — by the feel, not by the 
sight — and contained these words : — 

" To the rope is fastened a species of ladder 
Can you draw it up, and secure it sufficiently 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



145 



ay of 



to allow my ascent 1 ? If you can — by wa; 
signal, darken your lights for a moment." 

With some difficulty they deciphered the 
scrawl, and instantly proceeded to carry its 
advice into execution. 

Lady Mandeville's buoyant spirits, those 
nurses of ready wit, suggested, as she herself 
said, laughingly, "as many resources as a 
romance." They drew up the ladder, and 
secured it by attaching the rope to the three 
heavy arm-chairs. 

" Our deliverer will, at all events, not look 
his character if he outweighs these huge 
masses of architecture rather than furniture." 

The signal was given by shrouding the 
lights. One minute's surprise, and a dark 
shadow appeared at the window. A strong 
grasp forced aside the iron stanchions — a tall 
slight figure sprang into the room. 

" Mr. Spenser ! the very hero for an adven- 
ture !" exclaimed Lady Mandeville. 

" Miss Arundel !" exclaimed the cavalier, 
his eye naturally fixed on its chief object of 
interest. 

" We must wait to finish our astonishment," 
said Lady Mandeville. 

"Indeed," returned Cecil, "time is pre- 
cious. Have you courage to descend a ladder 
of rope ] I think I can guaranty your safety." 

Pausing one moment to secure the chairs 
more firmly, Spenser again approached the 
casement. 

" My young companion," rejoined Lady 
Mandeville, "shall' go first — my nerves are 
the more serviceable of the two." 

Emily trembled to such a degree that Cecil 
supported her with difficulty to the boat, 
where the ladder terminated, and was kept 
firm by some stranger. However, the convic- 
tion on his mind was, that nothing could be 
more graceful than timidity in a woman. Lady 
Mandeville followed ; and three minutes was 
the utmost time that elapsed before their little 
boat was floating down the stream. 

The strictest silence was preserved. At 
length the stranger said, in very patois sound- 
ing Italian, " We can use our oars now." 

" How did you come so opportunely to our 
rescue!" 

"I will give you," returned Cecil, "no re- 
cital just at present. W r e must now row for 
our lives, as they say on the Thames when 
they are rowing for ' the cup and the kiver.' " 

The light dip of the oars alone broke on the 
silence. Lady Mandeville was more anxious 
now the danger was over; and Emily was too 
much exhausted to speak : — besides, to tell 
the truth, disappointment, however unreason- 
able it may seem, was the uppermost feeling 
in her mind. When she saw a young cavalier 
spring into the room, she immediately made 
up her mind that it was Lorraine. A young 
lady's lover is alwa} f s present to :er imagina- 
tion ; and, of course, exaggerating in her own 
mind both the difficulty "and honour of the 
adventure, she felt as if Edward had been 
actually defrauded. If not the most unreason- 
able — that would be saying too much — a girl 
Vot.. 1— 10 



in love is certainly the most unreasoning of 
human beings. 

The tide of the narrow stream was with 
them ; Cecil and his comrade rowed vigo- 
rously ; and all danger of pursuit was rapidly 
decreasing. I But that each of the part}'- were 
too much occupied for external observation, 
the eye might have dwelt delightedly en the 
still beauty around. The deep river, where 
the oar dipped, but plashed not — the gloomy 
outlines of the steep banks, whose old trees 
seemed gigantic — the dark sky overhead, 
where two or three small but bright stars 
shone their only light, so far and so spiritual 
— the gleam of the tapers, which, from the 
stream's running in a straight line, was still 
visible from the casement of the old castle, 
though now diminished to a small bright 
point — the obscure which they were penetrat- 
ing — for, from the increasing height of its 
banks, the river grew darker and darker — all 
made one of those exciting scenes where the 
imagination, like a landscape painter, colours 
from nature, only idealizing a little. A bend 
in the river shut out the castle light : the 
boatmen paused on their oars. 

" All path by the river ends here on their 
side ; and we are now as safe as fish in the 
sea when there's nobody to catch them," said 
the same coarse voice as before. 

Cecil now commenced his narrative, which 
was soon told. Attracted by the extreme beauty 
of the wild and little known southern part of 
Naples, he had been wandering there for some 
weeks — so he said : to which may be added, 
he was making up his mind whether Miss 
Arundel would think him a welcome visiter 
at the villa. We always hesitate where the 
feelings are concerned — and he loitered away 
a whole day of uncertainty when only within a 
couple of hours' ride from their house. This, 
he stated, was occasioned by the great beauty 
of the place and its environs. 

About sunset, he was leaning on the remains 
of an old wall, which had once probably sur- 
rounded a Roman encampment, and now served 
as a line of demarcation between two villages, 
as jealous of each other's claims as near 
neighbours usually are. While he was deli- 
berating whether he should ride over to the 
Mandevilles or not, a man, a stranger — though 
by this time he was well acquainted with most 
of the peasants — came up and spoke to him. 
This is not so impertinent in an Italian as it 
is in an Englishman — or it is not thought so, 
which amounts to the same thing. Cecil, 
therefore, civilly replied to his question, which 
was one almost as general as the weather, 
viz. the time. Still the man lingered, and at 
last said, "The Signor Inglesi does not seem 
a cavalier that would leave his own country- 
women in trouble without helping them." 

" Why, that must very much depend on the 
nature of the distress." 

No Englishman was ever yet so young, or 

I so adventurous, as not to give one first thought 

| to the imposition which he always expects — 

and for which he is, notwithstanding, never 

I prepared. To make the shortest of the story 

"V 



146 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



ns mysteries are of no use now-a-days — from 
long habit, every reader always foreseeing 
their end — this man was one of Giulio's com- 
panions. Francisco had assisted in the ab- 
duction of Lady Mandeville and Miss Arundel, 
and was now on his way to fetch a priest, 
already gained over by the enterprising pro- 
fessor of curls and carbines. But 

" Envy will merit,, like its shade, pursue ;" 

and genius, though it cannot communicate it- 
self, can communicate its example. Francisco 
saw his companion after he had assumed the 
picturesque costume which was to annihilate 
the young Englishwoman's peace of mind. 
In the fulness of his glory he folded his cloak 
round him, suffered the white plumes to droop 
over his curls, polished and perfumed with 
the most fragrant oils, and, turning from his 
mirror to his friends, said, "I think my chance 
is a very tolerable one : instead of running 
away with the lady, I might have left it to 
her own good taste to have run away with 
me." 

Giulio was not the first "talented indivi- 
dual" whose vanity has been, primarily, an 
inconvenience to others, and then to himself. 
Called hastily away for a moment, Francisco 
tried on the cloak and plumed hat his comrade 
had left on a bench beside: he folded his 
arms and walked to the glass — " I am sure I 
look quite as well as he does." To this con- 
viction succeeded the doubt, why should Giu- 
lio marry the beautiful and rich English girl? 
But Francisco had no invention— he could de- 
vise no expedient by which he could step into 
the other's place. A thousand old grudges 
rose up in his memory — the reward lost its 
value in his eyes — and he arrived at the sure 
conclusion of the envious, that if he could not 
make, he could mar. The last finish was 
given to his displeasure by being sent for the 
priest while his companions sat down to sup- 
per. Off he set in one of the worst possible 
humours, and exaggerated to the utmost what 
he termed his comrade's luck. 

Now, the difference between good and bad 
intentions is this : — that good intentions are 
so very satisfactory to themselves, that it 
really seems a work of supererogation to carry 
them into execution ; whereas evil ones have 
a restlessness that can only be satisfied by 
action — and, to the shame of fate be it said, 
very many facilities always offer for their be- 
ing effected. 

Francisco was considering Giulio's good 
fortune, as if it had been taken away from 
himself, when he caught sight of Mr. Spenser. 
A thousand plans floated in most various inge- 
nuity through his brain, which finally settled 
into one. Without knowing who his country- 
women were, Cecil naturally entered most 
eagerly into any plan for their deliverance. 
His first proposition, to ride post to Naples, 
was overruled by Francisco, for the ostensible 
reason, that it would be too late next day be- 
fore they could reach the castle : the private 
reason was, that though he wished to disap- 



point Giulio, he did not wish to betray hit 
companions — whose futurity, if surprised 
would inevitably be the galleys. There i 
honour among thieves, though it does admit 
of divers interpretations. 

The very adventurousness of the plan he 
suggested accorded well with Cecil's temper. 
The only difficulty his companion considered 
great, was, how to establish a communication. 
Luckily Spenser, among the resources with 
which he had attempted to kill time, had 
once had a whim of shooting him. His 
archery dress of green, and the silver arrow — 
which he did not win from looking at the lady 
who held the prize, instead of at the mark — 
occurred to his memory ; and we have seen 
how successful his scheme of sending an 
arrow as a messenger proved. They made 
free with a boat belonging to one of the pea- 
sants — formed a rude but safe ladder of rope 
— and dropped down the stream, which Fran- 
cisco knew so well as to make the darkness 
of no consequence, but as an advantage. 

The light in the window indicated the 
room. Cecil entered, and saw, to his as- 
tonishment, old acquaintances. We cannot 
guard against dangers we do not suspect; and 
the escape of his prisoners formed no part of 
Giulio's calculations. 

In the mean time, the whole party proceeded 
in safety down the river. " We must land 
here," said Francisco, pausing. "I will 
fasten the boat to the roots of the old chestnut, 
and half an hour's walk will bring you to the 
villa." So saying, he struck a light, and, 
firing a torch made of the green pine wood, 
led the way. 

Shivering with the cold night air on the 
water, both ladies found the good effects of 
exercise; and Lady Mandeville, while she 
followed the dark figure of their guide, bear- 
ing the pine splinter, whose deep red glare 
threw a momentary brightness over the heavy 
boughs and dusky path, felt all that excite- 
ment of spirits natural to one who had an in- 
nate taste for adventure, but from which her 
whole life had been entirely removed. 

Poor Emily felt only fatigue; and while 
she accepted Mr. Spenser's assistance with 
all the gratitude of utter exhaustion, said 
faintly, "I will rejoice over our escape to- 
morrow." And Cecil — though he observed 
that the little feet, seen distinctly as they trod 
in the bright circle made by the torch, took 
faint and uncertain steps, and that the hand, 
placed on his arm, obviously showed it clung 
in sheer helplessness — somewhat forgot, in 
the pleasant task of assistance, his pity for 
her sufferings. 

In the mean time the servants, who had re- 
turned to the villa, had, of course, thrown the 
whole household into confusion. A messenger 
was immediately despatched to Lord Mande- 
ville, whom, from his master's having left 
Naples, he managed to miss on the road. 
However, he comforted himself by giving 
very particular accounts of how his mistress 
had been barbarously murdered by bauiitti; 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



147 



and the good city talked incessantly of the 
murder, till set right next day by the greater 
marvel of the escape. 

An accident to one of his carriage wheels 
delayed Lord Mandeville, who did not arrive 
at home till just before daybreak. To his no. 
small surprise, lights, voices, &c, were indica- 
tive of any thing but "tired nature's sweet 
restorer;" and yet, when he drove up to the 
door, no one seemed willing to admit him. 
His arrival produced one general outcry — then 
silence — then whispering. " Are they all gone 
mad !" He had an opportunity of answering 
his own question, for the door was at last 
opened ; and really the scene of confusion he 
witnessed might have justified a reply in the 
affirmative. 

All the servants were collected together. 
That there is safety in numbers, always holds 
good with the lower classes in cases of thieves 
or ghosts. They had, obviously, none of them 
been in bed — all looked foolish and frightened 
— and some two or three had been evidently 
having recourse to spiritual consolation. The 
nurse had left her own regions, and the young- 
est child was asleep on her knee. 

The moment Lord Mandeville entered, all 
set up some several ejaculation, of which, 
" 0, my lady !" — " murdered !'•' &c, was the 
burden. The eldest boy, pale with late hours, 
and worked up with the horrible narratives 
which every one had been contributing, sprang 
into his father's arms, and sobbed, to the utter 
exclusion of all speech. 

" Will nobody hold their tongue 1 — one of 
you tell me what has happened. Where is 
Lady Mandeville ?" 

" Murdered !" said a dozen voices at once. 

" Not so bad as. that, quite," said a voice, 
and in came Lady Mandeville herself, to the 
still greater alarm of the domestics, who took 
it for granted it was their mistress's ghost 
come to tell of their mistress's murder. 

"My poor little Frank," as the child made 
but one spring to the ground from his father's 
arms, and rushed with a scream of delight to 
his mother. 

" Dearest Ellen, what does all this mean ?" 

"That, thank Heaven, I am safe at home," 
and, catching her husband's arm, Lady Man- 
deville, for the first time, laughed hysteric- 
ally. 

A few words from Mr. Spenser did a great 
deal towards explaining much.in a little time ; 
and in five minutes the confusion had subsided 
sufficiently to allow the party to recollect they 
were very hungry: in half an hour they were 
seated round a supper-table, in all the delight- 
ful eagerness of eating and talking. Lady 
Mandeville narrated the scene of the bandit 
hair-dresser's declaration, while her auditors 
were divided between amusement and indig- 
nation — Lord Mandeville being most amused, 
and Mr. Spenser most indignant. 

The next day, procuring a sufficient escort, 
they rode to the old castle, which at first ap- 
peared but a mass of ruins; however, they 
forced an entrance, but discovered only traces 
)f its late occupiers, not themselves. In one 



of the lower rooms were some remains of 
food, and in the upper the three arm-chairs ; 
a bottle of perfumed oil also lay broken on 
the floor. 

" Another loss, in addition to what was be- 
stowed on the river last night : pity there are 
now no water nymphs to profit by the bene- 
faction." 

They returned home, where they found the 
butler in great distress. Signor Francisco 
had taken advantage of last night's confusion 
to decamp, not only with the ducats that had 
been liberally bestowed on him, but also with 
two pieces of valuable plate. 

" Truly, Mr. Spenser," said Lady Mande- 
ville, " your friends are of a questionable cha- 
racter." 

"Now, after such an adventure," rejoined 
Cecil, " it is your duty to be romantic ; instead 
of that, how worldly is your last speech ! first 
use my friends, then abuse them. For my 
own part, I shall always feel grateful to Fran- 
cisco," he looked at Emily, "though he did 
walk off with your silver spoons." 

"Do you know," said Lord Mandeville, "1 
cannot help pitying the bandit coifeur — his de- 
sign was as brilliant as the mock diamonds 
that decorated the hand he offered. They say 
ladies always forgive the sins which their 
own charms caused; now, own the truth, 
Emily, are you not flattered by this homage a 
vos beaux yeuxV 

"Nay,''' replied Emily, "don't you think it 
was rather ks beaux yeux de ma cassette ? I 
trembled for my pearl necklace, not for my 
heart." 

" Now, out upon you, Frank, to suppose 
Emily could be flattered in any such way. 
But I have noticed in all you gentlemen the 
same esprit de corps. It matters not who offers 
it, a woman must be supposed to be gratified 
by your selection. Take the 'meanest of your 
ranks' — 

1 Vain, mean, and silly, 
Low-born, ugly, old,' 

and he will make an offer to the Venus di 
Medicis, could she step from her pedestal into 
dazzling life. And, what is worse, half his 
fellow men would say, ' Well, it was a com- 
pliment.' " 

" I merely made an individual application 
of a general rule. All women love flattery — 
ergo, Miss Arundel liked it." 

" Now, mercy, heaven, upon our ill-used 
race!" replied Lady Mandeville; "the foice 
of flattery is, I am convinced, very much 
overrated. People would far sooner suppose 
you silly than themselves, and take for grant- 
ed the compliment they have paid must be re- 
ceived. For my part, how much of my va 
nity has been mere endurance ! I confess 
myself much of the Macedonian's opinion,- 
' I would wish for the prize in the chariot race, 
if kings were my competitors.' You all know 
the anecdote of the dustman who requested 
permission to light his pipe at the Dutchess of 
Devonshire's eyes. Now, I should have been 
more displeased with the dustman's venturing 



148 



MISS LAN DON'S WORKS. 



to know whether I had eyes or not, than 
pleased with the compliment." 

" Miss Arundel, I beg your pardon," said 
Lord Mandeville, laughing; "I will never 
ask whether any abduction flatters you, un- 
less run away with by the Sublime Porte." 

It is worth while to have an adventure, were 
it only for the sake of talking about it after- 
ward. 



CHAPTER L. 

"Alas! for earthly joy, and hope, and love, 

Thus stricken down, even in their holiest hour! 
What deep, heart-wringing anguish must they prove 

Who live .to weep the blasted tree and flower! 
0, wo, deep wo, to earthly love's fond trust!'' 

Mrs. Embury. 

" Thou wert of those whose very morn 
Gives some dark hint of night, 
And in thine eye too soon was born 
A sad and softened light." 

T. K. Hervey. 

If ever Circumstance, that "unspiritual 
god" of Byron, took it into his head to put 
Wordsworth's theory of " how divine a thing 
a woman may be made," into practice, it was 
in the case of Beatrice de los Zoridos. Her 
early childhood had been passed among the 
wild mountains of her native province — 
whither Don Henriquez had conveyed his fami- 
ly : one attack had been beaten off from his lux- 
urious home in the valley; that cost him dear 
enough — another might be fatal. Besides, the 
security of the mountains to those he loved 
most would send him forth an unfettered war- 
rior against his country's enemy. But what 
took Lorraine three weeks to learn, may be 
told in three minutes. 

Margaretta Fortesque was the very sweet- 
est little sylph that ever was spoiled by being 
a beauty and an only child. The last of one 
of our noblest Norman families, who, from 
professing the Catholic faith, lived much to 
themselves — a whole household seemed made 
but for her pleasure. The first suspicion that 
even a wish could exist contrary to her own, 
was when she fell in love with the handsome 
and stately Spaniard Don Henriquez de los 
Zoridos, who had made their house his home 
during his visit to England. The high birth, 
splendid fortune, and answering creed for her 
lover, overcame even the objection to his being 
a foreigner. 

Margaretta was married ; her parents ac- 
companied her abroad ; and for four years 
more her life was like a fairy tale. Its first 
sorrow was the death of her father. From 
her great to her small scale Fate repeats her 
revolutions. Families, as well as nations, 
would seem to have their epochs of calamity. 
Thus it proved with the Zoridos. The sunny 
cycle of their years was past, and the shadows 
fell the darker for their former brightness. 

The French invaded Spain, and their path 
was as that of some terrible disease, sweeping 
to death and desoiation all before it. Don 
Henriquez' house was attacked one night; the 



French were beaten off for a time, but not 
without much bloodshed. A chance ball laid 
Mrs. Fortesque a corpse at her daughter's 
side. Beatrice was wounded, though but 
slightly, in her very arms ; and when day- 
light dawned on the anxious household, to 
one-half of them it dawned in vain. Zoridos 
saw that no time must be lost ; the enemy 
would soon be down upon them in over- 
whelming numbers. A summer house near, 
which had been fired, served as a funeral pile 
— any thing rather than leave even the dead 
to the barbarity of the invader. Henriquez 
himself was obliged to force his wife from the 
body of her mother. A few necessaries were 
hastily collected — for valuables they had nei- 
ther thought nor time. Zoridos placed the 
insensible Margaretta before him on his horse, 
and rode off, without daring to look back on 
the happy home they were deserting forever. 
Beatrice's nurse followed, with her husband 
and the child. In better days, a daughter of 
the nurse had married a young mountaineer, 
whose remote cottage owed every comfort to 
their master's fair English bride. There they 
resolved to seek for shelter. A few days saw 
them in, at least, safety. But Zoridos was 
not the man to remain inactive and secure at a 
time when it was so imperative on every 
Spaniard who wore a sword to use it. His 
plans were soon formed — his wife's frantic 
entreaties were in vain — -'and he descended 
into the plain at the head of a gallant band of 
guerillas. 

Soon after his departure, it became evident, 
not only to the nurse, but to every individual 
in the cottage, that the lady's mind had re- 
ceived a shock, not her health. For days to- 
gether she did not know them — spoke only in 
English — addressed her nurse, Marcela, as 
her mother — and played with the little Bea- 
trice as if she were herself a child, and were 
delighted with such a living plaything. 

The first interval he could snatch, Don 
Henriquez hastened to the cottage. His wife 
did not know him, shrunk away in pitiable 
terror from the arms that he wore, and, as if 
all late events had passed from her memory, 
only seemed to know that she was spoken to 
when addressed as Miss Fortescue — by which 
name she invariably called herself. That 
night the dark and lonely rocks, where he 
wandered fcr hours, were the only witnesses 
of Zoridos' agony. The next day he was at 
the British camp. A week's intended halt 
permitting such an absence, he prevailed on 
an English surgeon to accompany him to the 
mountains. His opinion was only too deci- 
sive. Quiet and kindness might ameliorate, 
but never restore. The only chance he held 
out was, that when circumstances enabled 
them to return to their house, familiar scenes, 
and accustomed dress, might awaken some 
touch of memory — though nothing could ever 
recall the whole mind. 

To such a blow as this, death had been 
merciful. Similar tastes, similar pursuits, 
had bound Zoridos to his young English wifa 
— his mind had been accustomed to see itself 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



149 



.nirrored in hers, only with a softer shadow. 
rTe had been used to that greatest of mental 
pleasures — to have his thoughts often divined 
—always entered into. And now — the intel- 
ligent and accomplished woman was a weak, 
and even worse, a merry child. The affec- 
tionate wife looked in her husband's face as 
in that of a stranger, from whom she shrank 
with fear. The past with no memory, the 
future with no hope. 

The bitterest cup has its one drop of honey ; 
and the feeling of reciprocal affection was 
roused in Zoridos by the almost frantic de- 
light of his infant girl at seeing him again; 
she clung to him — hid her little face in his 
bosom — sat still and silent, with that singular 
sympathy which children often show to the 
grief of their elders — and only when overpow- 
ered with sleep could she be removed from 
his knee. 

Months passed on. The unfortunate Mar- 
garetta was taught to consider Zoridos as her 
husband, and Beatrice as her child, and gra- 
dually to feel for them the affection of habit. 
But her mind seemed to have gone back to 
her childhood : all her recollections, her 
amusements, her sorrows, and her joys be- 
longed to that period. And once when Zori- 
dos brought home for Beatrice a large doll he 
had obtained from the family of an English 
officer, her mother seized it with a scream of 
delight, and made dressing it a favourite em- 
ployment. 

Months grew into years before they dared 
return to their home ; and it was not till after 
the battle of the Pyrenees that Henriquez 
and his family again took possession of their 
mansion. No trace was left of either its 
beauty or luxury. His embarrassed affairs 
quite precluded Don Henriquez' plan of tak- 
ing his wife and daughter to England. A 
few rooms were made habitable : and Zoridos 
gave his time and attention to the education 
of his child, which, from the extreme solitude 
in which they lived, devolved entirely upon 
himself. 

Time passed without much to record till 
Beatrice reached her sixteenth year, when the 
system of oppression and extortion enforced 
in his native province called imperatively on 
Don Henriquez to take his place in the Cor- 
tez. A few weeks of bold remonstrance ended 
with the imprisonment of the most obnoxious 
members, and a heavy fine on their property. 

At sixteen Beatrice found herself in a large 
desolate house, with scarce resources enough 
for mere subsistence, her father in an unknown 
prison, her mother imbecile, and herself with- 
out friend or adviser. Zoridos had always 
foreseen that his daughter's position must be 
one of difficulty, and he had endeavoured to 
prepare for what he could not avert. The 
free spirit of the mountain girl had been sedu- 
lously encouraged : she had early learnt to 
think, and to know the value of self-exertion. 
To privation and hardship she was accus- 
tomed. She had read much ; and if one work 
wasfoodtothenaturalpoetryofherimagination, 
and the romance nursed in her solitary life, — 



another taught her to reflect upon ner feelings, 
and by the example of others' actions to in- 
vestigate her own. She was now to learn a 
practical lesson — lessons which, after all, if 
they do but fall on tolerable ground, are the 
only ones that bear real fruit. 

One day, Minora, the daughter of the old 
guerilla who had served with her father, came 
up with the intelligence that a detachment of 
soldiers, galloping up, had detailed their busi- 
ness, while pausing for wine and directions in 
the village. It was to levy the fine, and 
search for suspected persons — in other words, 
to. pillage the house. Beatrice looked at her 
mother, who was busy sorting coloured silks 
for her daughter's embroidery. Who could 
tell the consequences of another alarm, where 
the first had been so fatal 1 Her resolution 
was instantly taken. A few weeks since, 
with the view of supplying Donna Margaretta 
with a constant amusement, Beatrice' had fixed 
on an open space in the thicket for a garden, 
and had there collected bees and flowers, and 
framed a little arbour. The way to it was very 
intricate, and the place entirely concealed. 
If she could but prevail on her mother to re- 
main there, her security would be almost cer- 
tain. Hastily placing a little fruit in a basket, 
and catching up a large cloak, she proposed 
their going to eat their grapes in Donna Mar- 
garetta'sgarden. 

"She will never stay there," said the old 
man. 

Beatrice started — a sudden thought flashed 
across her mind — she turned pale and hesi- 
tated; at that moment the foremost of the 
soldiers appeared on the distant hill; she 
rushed out of the room, and returned with a 
small phial and a wine-flask, which she placed 
in the basket. 

" Leave those," said she to Pedro and her 
nurse, who were clearing away a little rem- 
nant of plate; "to miss the objects of their 
search would alone provoke more scrutiny. 
Follow me at once." 

The garden was reached before the soldiers 
rode up to the house. The wind blew from 
that direction, and brought with it the sound 
of their voices and laughter. The misery of 
such sounds was counterbalanced by the cer- 
tainty that the same wind would waft their 
own voices, or rather Donna Margaretta's 
voice, away from the house. Still Beatrice, 
who knew the extreme restlessness of her 
parent's disorder, felt convinced that she 
should never be able to prevail on her to re- 
main quiet. To be discovered by the soldiers 
would be death and insult in their worst forms. 
The whole province had been filled with tales 
of their reckless brutality towards those sus- 
pected by the government. One course re- 
mained—it was one she trembled to pursue. 
She had brought a little phial with her— it 
contained laudanum. It had been used by her 
father, who frequently suffered from a wound 
he had received. She had often dropped it 
for him. But she knew it was poison — she 
could not foresee what its effects might be 
upon her mother in her state, if she were tp 
n2 



150 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



give her too much. Her blood froze in her 
veins at the thought. Donna Margaretta grew 
every moment more restless and angry at not 
being allowed to return to the house. If pre- 
vented by force, the screams she sometimes 
uttered in her paroxysms of rage were fearful, 
and must inevitably be heard. Besides, there 
was the chance of her evading their vigilance, 
and she would then fly, like an arrow, to the 
threatened danger. 

" I must try the only hope I have — God 
help me." 

Beatrice went to the fountain, and in the 
wine and water mixed a portion of laudanum : 
her mother, seeing the glass, asked for it 
eagerly, and drained the whole contents. All 
her efforts were now to be exerted to keep her 
unfortunate parent amused. With a strong 
effort she mastered her agitation — she helped 
her to gather flowers — she made them into 
wreaths for her hair — she pointed out her 
image in the fountain, and Margaretta laughed 
with delight. After a while she complained 
of being fatigued. Beatrice thought, with an 
agon}'- of apprehension, of the sleep that was 
quickly coming over her. In a few moments 
more, Donna Margaretta was in a profound 
slumber. 

Th,e two servants, the moment their mis- 
tress was quiet, seized the opportunity to de- 
part: Marcela to seek a neighbouring village, 
whither two of the domestics had gone to at- 
tend the festival of St. Francis, and warn 
them against an abrupt return : Pedro to their 
own village, to learn, if possible, what was 
likely to be the stay of the soldiers. Even- 
ing was coming on fast, and not a moment 
was to be lost. Beatrice could hardly force 
herself to tell them not to return if the least 
peril was in the attempt. They departed with 
the utmost caution — scarce a rustle among 
the leaves told her she was alone. The next 
two hours passed in listening to every noise 
— the waving of a bough made her heart beat 
audibly — or in watching the placid sleep of 
her mother. 

The last small red cloud mirrored in the 
fountain disappeared — distant objects were 
lost in obscurity — the shadows seemed, as 
they do seem at nightfall, almost substantial 
— tree after tree disappeared — the fountain 
and the nearer shrubs looked like fantastic 
figures ; she fancied she could see them 
move. Even these became invisible ; and 
the darkness was so entire that, to use the 
common but expressive phrase, she could not 
see her hand. Still, voices came from the 
house, in singing and shouts. It was evident 
they intended to pass the night there, and 
were consuming its earlier part in revelry. 
The hope she had hitherto entertained of their 
departure was at an end. 

To spend the night in the open air was no- 
thing to the mountain-bred girl. She crept 
close to her mother — the moss and heaped-up 
leaves were soft and dry — she leaned over 
her, and felt her warm breath on her cheek ; 
she then knelt beside and prayed earnestly in 
the English tongue. There was superstition, 



perhaps, in this — but affection is supersti 
tious. 

At length the sounds from the house ceased 
-^-strange, she missed them; the utter silence 
and the darkness were so fearful in their still- 
ness ! A single star — a tone from a familiar 
voice — she would have blessed. How long 
the time seemed ! As the night deepened, all 
her efforts against sleep were unavailing ; 
move she dared not. Amid such utter dark- 
ness, the chances were, that if she left her 
mother's side, she might not again find her 
place. Sleep did overcome her — that feverish, 
broken sleep, which renews, in some fantastic 
manner, the fears of our waking. Even this 
was disturbed. Was it a sound in her dream, 
or some actual noise, that made her start up 
in all that vague gasping terror which follows 
when abruptly roused 1 All was still for a 
moment; and then a flash, or rather flood of 
lightning glared away the darkness — the 
fountain for an instant was like a basin of fire 
— every tree, ay, every bough, leaf and flower, 
were as distinct as by day : one second more, 
and the thunder shook the very ground. 

Beatrice perceived that it was one of those 
awful storms which gather on the lofty moun- 
tains, and but leave their mighty cradles to 
pour destruction on the vales below. Flash 
succeeded flash, peal followed peal, mixed 
with the crashing branches, and a wind which 
was like a hurricane in voice and might. Sud- 
denly the thunder itself was lost in the tre- 
mendous fall of an old oak, which, struck by 
the lightning, reeled, like an overthrown 
giant, to the earth. It sank directly before 
the spot which sheltered the fugitives ; some 
of its boughs swept against those of the ilex 
over their heads ; a shower of leaves fell upon 
Beatrice, and with the next flash she could 
see nothing but the huge branches which 
blocked them in. 

But even the terror that another bolt might 
strike the very tree above them, was lost in a 
still more agonizing dread. How could her 
mother sleep through a tumult like this? 
Beatrice touched her hands— they felt like 
marble ; she bent over her mouth, but the* arm , 
prevented her touching the lips; and the atti- 
tude in which she lay equally hindered her 
from feeling if her heart beat; but the upper 
part of the face was as cold, she thought, as 
death. " Great God ! I have killed my mo- 
ther." She bent to raise her in her arms — 
she might thus ascertain if her heart beat. 
Again she paused, and wrung her hands in 
the agony of indecision. She had heard that 
those whom noise could not wake were easily 
roused by being moved. If she, to satisfy 
her own fears, were to wake her mother! 
Beatrice trembled even to touch her hand. 

The storm had now spent its fury, and was 
succeeded by a heavy shower. Fortunately, 
the thick shelter of the leaves protected them; 
and the rain that fell through, though sufficient 
to drench her own light garments, would do 
little injury to the thick cloak which enve- 
loped her mother. It was too violent to last; 
but a long and dreary interval had yet to pass 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



151 



hefore daybreak — haunted, too, by the fear of 
her mother's death, which had now completely 
taken possession of poor Beatrice. At last a 
faint break appeared in the sky; it widened, 
objects became faintly outlined on the air — 
shadowy, indistinct, and sometimes seeming 
as if about to darken again ; a slight red hue 
suddenly shone on the trunk of the ilex, and 
light came rapidly through the branches. 
Beatrice only watched it as it fell on her mo- 
ther; her face was now visible — it wore the 
placid look of a sleeping child ; again she felt 
her warm breath upon her cheek. For the 
first time that night, Beatrice wept, and in 
the blessing of such tears forgot for a moment 
the dangers which yet surrounded them. 

She now percei^d that they were quite 
hemmed in by the fallen tree — she could see 
nothing beyond its boughs. Those boughs 
were soon to prove their safety. About two 
Uours after daybreak, she heard sounds from 
the house, voices calling, and the note of a 
trumpet. She listened anxiously, when, to 
her dismay, the sounds approached. She dis- 
tinguished steps, then voices — both alike 
strange. They were the two officers of the 
detachment, loitering away time till their men 
were ready. 

" The inhabitants w T ere off like pigeons," 
said one. 

" I wonder if they had any concealed trea- 
sure — I wisli we had caught them, on that 
account," was the reply. 

" Small signs of that," observed the first 
speaker; "besides, the war, we know, ruined 
Don Henriquez." 

" They say his wife was beautiful : I should 
like to have seen her. I owe the Hidalgo an 
old grudge. Well, if he gets i \it of his dun- 
geon — to do which he must be an angel for 
wings, or a saint for miracles — fie won't find 
much at home." 

Again the trumpet sounded ; it seemed to 
be a signal, for the speakers hurried off, and 
Beatrice at last heard the trampling of the 
horses gradually lost in the distance. She 
waited yet a little while, and then, her mother 
still appearing to sleep soundly, she thought 
she might leave her for a few minutes. 

With some difficulty she forced a way 
through the boughs. What devastation had 
a night effected ! Flowers torn up by the 
roots — huge branches broken off as if they 
had been but leaves, and two or three trees 
utterly blown down — show T ed how the little 
garden had been laid open to its unwelcome 
visiters. With a rapid, yet cautious step, she 
proceeded to the house. Not a human being 
was near, and she entered. W 7 hat utter, what 
wanton destruction had been practised ! The 
furniture lay. in broken fragments — every por- 
table article had been carried away — the walls 
defaced, and in one or two places burnt. 
There seemed to have been an intention of 
firing the house. What she felt most bitterly 
yet remained. There hung the blackened 
frames of her father and her mother's por- 
traits, but the pictures had been consumed. 

But Beatrice knew it was no time to in- 



dulge in lamentations. In the kitchen yet 
smouldered the remains of fire, and this she 
soon kindled to a flame, and nourished it with 
wood which was scattered about. A step on 
the threshold made her start up in terror : it 
was only Pedro. A few words explained their 
mutual situation. He had been unable to re- 
turn, but had watched the soldiers depart, and 
had come from the village with provision and 
offers of assistance. Both went to the arbour; 
and while with his axe and the assistance of a 
villager he opened a path through the boughs, 
Beatrice entered to watch the slumber she now- 
most thankfully desired to break. She bathed 
the face of the sleeper with some essence, 
raised her in her arms, and called upon her 
name. As if to reward her for the last night's 
forbearance, Donna Margaretta stirred with 
the first movement, and opened her eyes. 
Still, she was evidently oppressed by sleep, 
though cold and shivering. Pedro and his 
companion carried her to the house — a couch 
was formed by the fireside — and Beatrice 
never left her till thoroughly warmed and 
awakened. It was evident that she, at least, 
had sustained some injury. 

Beatrice rushed into the next room to throw 
herself on her knees in thanksgiving. Fatigue, 
distress, loss, were all absorbed in one over- 
powering feeling of gratitude. But the re- 
action was too strong; her nurse now arrived: 
and when Beatrice threw her arms round her 
neck to welcome her, for the first time in her 
life she fainted. 

The young Spaniard had now to commence 
a course of small daily exertions, the most 
trying of all to one whose habits hitherto had 
been those of imaginative idlesse — mornings 
passed over a favourite volume, evenings over 
her lute, only interrupted by attention to her 
mother, of which affection made a delight. 
Now the common comforts, even the neces- 
saries of life, were suddenly taken from them,, 
Their valuables had mostly been carried off; 
and rent and service were quite optional with 
the peasantry. Long habit, and the remem- 
brance of protection, still more that of kind- 
ness, met their reward in all possible assist- 
ance from the village. The little plate that, 
from its concealment, had escaped, was sold 
at once. The produce was sufficient for the 
present ; and Beatrice resolved, by the small- 
ness of the demands on the tenants of her 
father, to leave as little encouragement as pos- 
sible to the avarice that might tempt them to 
seize such an opportunity for ending their 
Hidalgo's claim. 

She dismissed all the domestics except the 
nurse and her husband, and an old negro, who, 
bred from infancy in their service, had not an 
idea beyond. She took everything under her 
own direction. A small part only of the house 
was attempted to be made habitable-^a small 
part only of the garden to be cultivated, and 
that soon became an important branch of their 
domestic economy. Their honey and grapes, 
from the care bestowed on each, found a 
market at the town, which was a few leagues 
distant. They were equally fonunate i'i then 



152 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



wine ; and the lamentations of Pedro and Mar- 
eela over the downfall of their master's house, 
mixed with a few hints of its degradation, 
were lost in the silent conviction of the real 
comfort attendant on these new plans. 

With two especial difficulties Beatrice had 
to contend. The first was to induce old ser- 
vants to believe that a young mistress could 
know better than themselves : and this was 
an obstacle nothing- but a temper as sweet as 
it was firm could have overcome. The other 
was, to reconcile Donna Margaretta to the loss 
of accustomed luxuries. Like a child, she 
attached the idea of punishment to privation. 
The loss of the embroidered cover to her chair, 
and the beautiful cup for her chocolate, and the 
wearing a coarse dress, were subjects of bitter 
lamentation. This was the more painful to 
the daughter, from her feeling that these 
trifles were all the pleasures her parent was 
capable of enjoying. 

The first great disorder of the house some- 
what reduced, Beatrice devoted every leisure 
moment to her embroidery ; and was well re- 
paid for her trouble by the scream of delight 
with which her mother saw her chair covered 
with silk worked with the brightest coloured 
flowers. One improvement succeeded an- 
other : the floor was spread with matting ; the 
virje, sacrificing its fruit to its leaves, served 
for a curtain — the walls were adorned with 
some of her drawings — her mother's flower 
garden was restored — and many months of 
comparative comfort elapsed. The work she 
had begun for her mother, by its continuance 
became also a source of revenue. Pedro im- 
proved as a salesman ; and divers ornamental 
additions made Donna Margaretta very happy. 

Still, the uncertainty of her father's fate 
kept Beatrice in a state of anxious wretched- 
ness. One morning she had wandered farther 
into the wood than was now her wont — for she 
had but little time by day for solitary reflec- 
tion — when she was startled by a figure cau- 
tiously stealing out from the thick brush wood: 
a moment more, and she was in her father's 
arms. But the happiness of their meeting was 
soon broken in upon by the precariousness of 
their situation. Don Henriquez was now fly- 
ing from a dungeon, which he had escaped 
with a price set upon his head. " Surely, 
dearest father," exclaimed Beatrice, "you 
would be safe in your own house ; secluded in 
some of the uninhabited rooms, your wants 
could be so easily supplied. I would be so 
prudent, so careful — and your old servants, 
you cannot doubt their fidelity V 

"But I doubt their prudence. A single 
suspicious circumstance — a single careless 
word, reaching the village, would bring inevi- 
table ruin on us all. Your poor mother and 
yourself are at present unmolested — God keep 
you so ! Besides, the lives of too many are 
.jow linked with mine for me to run any avoid- 
able risk. I have been here since yesterday — 
I have lingered about our old haunts in hopes 
of meeting you, and depart to-morrow with 
daybreak." 



" And you have been here for hours, and 1 
knew it not]" 

• " This is no time for my little mountaineei 
to weep. Are you likely to be missed ?" 

The certainty that, even now, her presence 
was wanted* at home — the impossibility of 
evading their notice for some hours to come 
— all rushed upon Beatrice's mind. 

" What shall I— can I do 1 To stay with 
you now will inevitably occasion a search — 
Alas ! my dearest father, you do not know 
what an important person your Beatrice is at 
home. You dare not trust even Marcela T' 

"Impossible — you know her chattering 
habits — she could not keep a secret if she 
tried." 

The truth of this, Beatrice had not now to 
learn. 

" To-night, then, my father — you know the 
old oak, which you used to call our study — 
I will be there by eleven o'clock — I cannot 
come by day without exciting wonder." 

"Alone, and at night 1 — impossible." 

" The very loneliness makes our security. 
There is moonlight enough to show me my 
way — there is nothing to fear, my own dear 
father !" 

" And, Beatrice, endeavour to bring some 
food — I must rely on you for supper." 

A hasty farewell, whose sorrow was lost in 
its fear, and Beatrice ran home in time to be 
scolded by Marcela for keeping dinner wait- 
ing. An old servant dearly loves a little 
authority — and, as for matter of that, who does 
not? 

The day seemed as if it never would end ; 
and as the evening closed, her anxiety became 
intolerable. Donna Margaretta, always un- 
willing to go to bed, was even more wakeful 
than usual. Then Marcela fancied that her 
child looked pale, and began to accuse her 
late sitting up as the cause. At last she was 
alone, and every thing buried in the most pro- 
found quiet. With a beating heart, but 
a quiet hand, she took the little basket of 
wine and provision. How thankful did 
she feel that their stores were all in her 
keeping ! 

Once out of the house,, she darted like a 
deer to the wood. The new moon gave just 
light enough to show the way to one who 
knew it well ; and Beatrice was with her 
father almost before she had thought of the 
dangers round them. Eagerly she displayed 
the contents of her basket; there was some 
dried meat, hard boiled eggs, a small loaf, and 
a piece of honeycomb ; also some olives, and 
two or three cakes of chocolate. Beatrice felt 
heartsick to see the famished voracity with 
which her father ate — it was the first time he 
had tasted food for three days. 

Each had much to tell — the child a tale of 
patient and affectionate exertion, every word 
of which was rewarded by a blessing or caress. 
The parent had to record a strict imprison- 
ment and a hazardous escape, aided by a party 
with whom he was now linked. 

Don Henriquez had sought Naples in the 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



153 



Arst instance ; a knot of exiles had there laid 
a daring- plan for revolution, which, in their 
country's liberty, involved their own restora- 
tion. Zoridos' talents and activity pointed 
him out as a fit agent. He returned to Spain, 
and was now on his way to join and take 
command of an insurrection, whose success 
was to be the touchstone of their country- 
men. 

The night passed rapidly — the morning star 
showed the necessity of parting — a few 
minutes more, and the smugglers with whom 
Zoridos was to travel would arrive. With the 
acute hearing of anxiety, each fancied they 
could discern in the distance the tramp of the 
mules : still Beatrice clung passionately to her 
father. "Beatrice," said he, after a moment's 
reflection, " you have lately shown a readiness 
of expedient, and a resolution, which even I 
could not have expected from you. You may 
safely be trusted. This packet contains im- 
portant intelligence to those to whose sacred 
cause I stand pledged. The effort about to 
be made may fail, and these papers be lost. 
If in the course of two months you hear no- 
thing farther of me, convey them, if possible, 
to Naples, but by a safe channel. As an in- 
ducement, if one be needed, the man to whose 
care it is addressed will know my fate, if 
known to any one on earth." 

Beatrice took the packet with a mute ges- 
ture of obedience, but words choked her while 
parting again with her father, and for a service 
so full of danger. But the sound of the mules 
was now close upon them. " Go — go — they 
must not see you. God bless you, my best 
beloved, my excellent child." 

A farewell, which had yet a thousand 
things to say, passed in a moment. Beatrice 
gave one long, last look — agitation lent her 
speed — she ran swiftly through the forest — 
and, unseen and unheard, gained her own 
room. 

The next two months passed in the restless- 
ness of feverish expectation; but day after 
day, week after week, and no tidings of Don 
Henriquez. The packet now haunted Beatrice : 
its own importance — the hope of learning- 
somewhat of her father — the danger of their 
situation, whose resources every hour were les- 
sening — the conviction that she had not a crea- 
ture on whom she could rely — for, besides 
Pedro's natural stupidity, he was ignorant of 
the Italian language ; and to trust him with 
the password taught by her father, might risk 
the safety of many, — all tended to increase 
the distress which surrounded her. Her de- 
liberations ended in her resolving to be her- 
self the bearer. She might leave her mother 
to Marcela's care — a pilgrimage would account 
for her absence in the village — and a mascu- 
line disguise seemed, indeed, her only protec- 
tion against the worst difficulties of her route. 
Pedro's illness prevented the execution of this 
project; and Lorraine's appearance suggested 
another. An Englishman would run no risk. 
Could he take, or transmit the packet for 
her? 

Yol. I.— 20 



CHAPTER LI. 

" 'Is love foolish, then V said Lord Bolingtiroke. 

'Can you doubt if?' answered Hamilton. 'It makes o, 
man think more of another than himself. I know not a 
greater proof of fully.' " — Devereux. 

Believing, as I do, that f al ling in love goes 
by destiny, and that, of all affairs, those of the 
heart are those for which there is the least ac- 
counting,' I have always thought, that to give 
reasons for its happening, is throwing the said 
reasons away — a waste much to be deprecated 
in an age where reasons are in such great re- 
quest. It is not beauty that inspires love — 
still less is it mind. It is not situation — peo- 
ple who were indifferent in a moonlight walk, 
have taken a fit of sentiment in Piccadilly. 
It is not early association — indeed, the chances 
are rather against the Paul and Virginia style. 
It is not dress — conquests have been made in 
curl papers. In short, to be mythological in 
my conclusion, the quiver of Cupid hangs at 
the girdle of Fate, together with her spindle 
and scissors. 

Beatrice had, even in her short and active 
life, perhaps dreamed of a lover. What 
Spanish girl, whose lute was familiar with all 
the romantic legends of her own romantic 
land, but must have had some such dream 
haunt her twilight 1 And for the matter of 
that, what girl, Spanish or English, has not 1 
But Beatrice was too unworldly to dream of 
conquest — too proud to fear for her heart — 
and too much accustomed to idealize a lover 
amid the Paladins of olden time, to associate 
the young Englishman with other ideas than a 
claim to hospitality, and a vague hope of as- 
sistance. She was now to turn over a new 
leaf in the book of life — to learn woman's 
most important lesson — that of love. 

Not one person in a thousand is capable of 
a real passion — that intense and overwhelming 
feeling, before which all others sink into no- 
thingness. It asks for head and heart — now 
many are deficient in both. Idleness and 
vanity cause, in nine cases out of ten, that 
state of excitement which is called being in 
love. I have heard some even talk of their 
disappointments, as if such a word could be 
used in the plural. To be crossed in love, 
forsooth — why, such a heart could bear as 
many crosses as a raspberry tart. 

But Beatrice loved with all the vividness 
of unwasted and unworn feeling, and with all 
the confidence of youth. Proud, earnest, and 
enthusiastic, passion was touched with all 
the poetry of her own nature. Her lover was 
the idol, invested by her ardent imagination 
with all humanity's "highest attributes." 
Undegraded by the ideas of flirtation, vanity, 
interest, or establishment, her love was as 
simple as it was beautiful. Her life had 
passed in solitude, but it had been the solitude 
of bpth refinement and exertion. She was 
unworldly, but not untaught. She had read 
extensively and variously. Much of her read 
inor had been of a kind unusual to either lie 



154 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



sex or age ; but she had loved to talk with 
her father on the subjects which engaged him ; 
and the investigations which were to analyze 
the state of mankind, and the theories which 
were to ameliorate it, became to her matters 
of attraction, because they were also those of 
affection. 

Natural scenery has no influence on the 
character till associated with human feelings ; 
the poet repays his inspiration by the interest 
he flings round the objects which inspired it. 
Beatrice had early learnt this association of 
nature with humanity. She was as well ac- 
quainted with the English literature and lan- 
guage as with her own ; and the melancholy 
and reflective character of its poetry suited 
well a young spirit early broken by sorrow, 
and left, moreover, to entire loneliness. The 
danger of a youth so spent was, that the mind 
would become too ideal — that mornings, pass- 
ed with some favourite volume by the drop- 
ping fountain, or beneath the shadowy ilex, 
would induce habits of romantic dreaming, 
utterly at variance with the stern necessities 
of life. 

But Beatrice had been forced into a whole- 
some course of active exertion. Obliged to 
think and act for herself — to have others de- 
pendent on her efforts — to know that each day 
brought its employment, her mind strength- 
ened with its discipline. The duties that ex- 
cited also invigorated. The keen feeling, the 
delicate taste, were accustomed to subjection, 
and romance refined, without weakening. 

Love is the Columbus of our moral world, 
and opens, at some period or other, a new he- 
misphere to our view. For the first time in 
his life, Lorraine loved — deeply and entirely ; 
for the first time he had met one in whose fa- 
vour his feeling, his imagination, and his 
judgment, equally decided. He wondered, 
with all the depreciating spirit of a lover, that 
he had ever thought any woman tolerable be- 
fore. 

Lorraine's own talents were too brilliant for 
him to underrate those of another; and the 
chaim was as delightful as it was new, to see 
his thoughts understood, his views reflected 
in a mind, whose powers, though softened, 
were scarce inferior to his own. Her conver- 
sation, when she did speak, had a peculiar 
fascination ; it was evident she was not in the 
habit of talking. There was an eagerness, a 
freshness, about her speech, as if the ru'sh of 
feeling and idea forced their expression rather 
for their own relief than for the impression of 
their hearer. Its singularity was, in truth, its 
entire absence of display — she spoke, as she 
listened, for pleasure ; and a great mass of in- 
formation, with a naturally keen perception 
and excitable imagination, were heightened 
by the originality given by her solitary life. 
It was delightful to have so much to commu- 
nicate, and yet to be so well understood. Then 
the contrast between the two gave that variety 
which attracts without assimilating. 

Beatrice was grave ; silent, except when 
much interested ; reserved, save when under 
ibe influence of some strong feeling; with 



manners whose refinement was that of inhe< 
rently pure taste, and much mental cultivation, 
touched, too, with the native grace inseparabla 
from the very beautiful : self-possessed, from 
self-reliance ; and with a stately bearing, which 
— call it prejudice, or pride, or dignity — spoke 
the consciousness of high descent, and an un- 
questioned superiority. The pride of birth is 
a noble feeling. 

Lorraine, on the contrary, was animatsd — 
more likely to be amused than excited — with 
a general expression of indifference not easily 
roused to interest. His manners had that fine 
polish only to be given by society, and that 
of the best. His thoughts and feelings were 
kept in the back-ground — not from native re- 
serve, but from fear of raillery — that suspicion 
of our hearers which is one of the first lessons 
taught in the world. His habits were luxu- 
rious — hers were simple ; he was witty and 
sarcastic — she scarcely understood the mean- 
ing of ridicule ; his rules of action were 
many — as those rules must be on which the 
judgments of others are to operate — hers were 
only those of right and wrong. A whole life 
spent in society inevitably refers its action to 
the general opinion. Beatrice, as yet, looked 
not beyond the action itself. 

Days, weeks, passed away, and Edward 
lingered in the neighbourhood. Marcela, like 
most nurses, thought her child might marry 
an emperor; and, as an emperor was not at 
hand, the young, rich, and handsome English- 
man was a very good substitute. With Don- 
na Margaretta he was an unbounded favourite : 
she was just a child — and gentle and genuine 
kindness never fails to win the love of child- 
ren. Beatrice knew his footstep at a distance 
that might have defied even the acute listener 
of the fairy tale ; and yet, with even such 
long forewarning, would blush crimson deep 
on his entrance. Lorraine would loiter, and 
ask for one more of her native ballads ; and 
then think, how could it be late, when he 
seemed but just to have arrived 1 

Young, loving, and beloved — how much of 
happiness may be summed up in a few brief 
words ! — All great nonsense, I grant ; and at 
this conviction most lovers arrive in a very 
few months. But if it would sometimes save 
much sorrow, it would also destroy great en- 
joyment, could we think at the time as we do 
afterwards. Yet there is a period in the lives 
of most, when the heart opens its leaves, like 
a flower, to all the gentle influences ; — when 
one beloved step is sweet in its fall beyond 
all music, and the light of one beloved face is 
dear as that of Heaven ; — when the thoughts 
are turned to poetry, and a fairy charm is 
thrown over life's most ordinary occurrences; 
Hope, that gentlest astrologer, foretelling a 
future she herself has created ; when the pre- 
sent is coloured by glad yet softened spirits, 
buoyant, though too tender for mirth. Who 
shall say that is a selfish feeling which looks 
in another's eyes to read its own happiness, 
and holds another's welfare more precious 
than its own '? What path in after time will 
ever be so pleasant as that one walk whick 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



155 



delayed on its way, and yet ended so soon 1 
What discourse of the wise, the witty, the 
eloquent, will ever have the fascination of a 
few simple, even infantile words — or of the 
still, but delicious silence which they broke'? 
Why does love affect childish expressions of 
endearment, bat because it has all the truth 
and earnestness of childhood 1 And the sim- 
plicity of its language seems the proof of its 
sincerity. Or is it that, being unworldly it- 
self, it delights to retreat upo'n those unworld- 
ly days'? Go through life, and see if the 
quiet light of the stars, the passionate song 
of the poet, the haunted beaut)?" of flowers, 
will ever again come home to the heart as 
they did in that early and only time. 

Now, let no one say that I am trying to 
make young people romantic. While I ac- 
knowledge that the gardens of Iran exist, I 
beg leave also to state that they lie in a desert 
■-•appear but for a moment— and then vanish 
in their beauty forever. Every fable has its 
moral ; and that of love is disappointment, 
weariness, or disgust. Young people would 
avoid falling in love, if — as some story book 
observes — young people would but consider. 
W'hen Cromwell sent his ambassador to 
Spain, under circumstances which somewhat 
endangered his head, he encouraged him by 
stating, "That if his head fell, that of every 
Spaniard in his dominions should fall too." 
" A thousand thanks," returned the diploma- 
tist ; " but among all these heads there may 
not be one to fit me." 

What he said of heads may also be said of 
experience — there is a large stock on hand ; 
but somehow or other, nobody's experience 
ever suits us except our own. Love rarely 
keeps its secret : it did not in the case before 
us. Beatrice was ignorant of her feelings: 
with no rival to enlighten, no vanity to insi- 
nuate — with the most romantic of ideal be- 
liefs on the subject, love never entered her 
head with reference to herself. She was 
happy without analyzing the cause ; nay, her 
veiy happiness blinded her. Accustomed to 
think of love as it is depicted in poetry, — po- 
etry which so dwells on its sorrow, its faith- 
lessness, its despair, — she recognised no trace 
of love in the buoyant feeling, which now to 
her touched all things with its own gladness. 

Lorraine was more enlightened. Whether 
it be from knowing that he was to woo as 
well as win, a man rarely loves unconsciously. 
Besides, he had all the knowledge of society, 
much of observation, something, too, of remem- 
brance. A woman's heart is like a precious 
gem, too delicate to bear more than one en- 
graving. The rule does not hold good with 
the other sex: indeed, I doubt whether it be 
not an advantage for a lover to be able to con- 
trast the finer qualities of one capable of in- 
spiring a deep and elevated attachment with 
the falsehood or the folly he has known be- 
fore. However, as they say to justify politi- 
cal revolutions, it was impossible such a state 
of things could last : and one afternoon the 
little fountain had its own silvery music 
broken by those sweetest human sounds — a 



lover's passionate pleading, and his mistress 
whispered reply. There is an established 
phrase for the description of such occasions. 
"The conversation of lovers being always 
uninteresting to a third person, we shall omit 
its detail." 

Contrary to the fashion of the present day, 
I have a great respect for the precedents left 
by our grandfathers and grandmothers; I 
shall therefore follow their example of omis- 
sion. Insipidity, though, is not the real cause 
of such dialogues being left to die on the air, 
and fade from the memory. The truth is, to 
those in the same situation all description 
seems cold, tame, and passionless ; while to 
those who have never known or outlived such 
time, it appears overwrought, excessive, and 
absurd. 

That evening Beatrice narrated the whole 
history of her past life. Her love she had 
avow r ed ; but her hand must depend on the 
delivery of the packet, and on her father. 

" I feel an internal conviction that he lives ; 
and he must not come to a desolate and de- 
serted home, and find that his child has for- 
gotten him for a stranger. Take the packet 
to Naples, make every inquiry : if my father 
live, we may be so happy in your beautiful 
England." 

" But why not go with me? Why delay, 
nay, risk our happiness 1 Young, isolated, 
as- you are, surely, my sweet Beatrice, your 
father would rejoice in your content and 
safety." 

" The God to whose care his last words 
resigned me, has been my guide through dan- 
gers and difficulties. I am still secure in 
such reliance. You know not my love for 
my father, when you bid me separate my des- 
tiny from his — to think not of his wishes — 
and to be happy, while he perhaps is wretched 
and suffering. I wall at least endeavour to 
learn his will; and, dearest Lorraine' 1 — the 
colour flushed her cheek, like a rose, at these 
words — " the sweetest song I have sung w r as 
the saddest, and it spoke of a broken vow and 
a broken heart. I w T ould fain put the love you 
tell me is so true to the test. Is there such 
change in a few w 7 eeks that you dread to try ?" 

The dispute ended as disputes usually do 
when a lady is really in earnest in the will 
she expresses to her lover. Lorraine took 
charge of the packet — was intrusted with the 
password — and prepared to take his departure 
reluctantly enough, but still with much or 
excitement and interest in his expedition. 

From the eloquent descriptions of the 
daughter, he had imbibed no little admiration 
of the father. It must be owned that Beatrice's 
character of him w T as rather his beau ideal 
than himself. Don Henriquez was a brave 
and honourable man, with a degree of infor- 
mation rare among his countrymen ; but he 
was not at all the person to be placed in un- 
common circumstances. He had seen enough 
of England to have caught impressions, rather 
than convictions, of the advantages of a free 
people ; and a good constitution seemed 
equally necessary to the nation and the ind' 



156 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



ridual. But his ideas of liberty were more 
picturesque than practical. He dwelt on the 
rights of the people, without considering whe- 
ther that people were in a state to enforce, or 
even receive them. He declaimed on tyranny- 
like an ancient, on information like a modern. 
He forgot that, for change to be useful, it 
must be gradual; and while enlarging on the 
enlightened intellect of the present time, he 
overlooked the fact, that our ancestors could 
not have been altogether so very wrong, or 
that society could not have gone on at all. 

He had a vivid imagination — and this threw 
a charm, rather than a light, around the sub- 
jects it investigated. He was one of those 
who feel instead of think, and therefore invest 
their theories with a reality incomprehensible 
to a calm observer. Hence, it seemed won- 
derful that what was so tangible to himself 
was not equally so to others ; and from being 
surprised that our opinions are not understood, 
is an easy step towards being angry. 

His views were narrow, because they were 
impassioned. Moreover, he had a natural 
flow of eloquence — a gift which deceives no 
one more than its possessor : there is a diffi- 
culty in believing that what is so very easy 
to say, is not equally easy to do. Like many 
orators, he did not take into consideration, 
that a good argument is not always a good 
reason ; and that, unfortunately for the peace 
of society, and fortunately for debaters, there 
never was yet a contested point without ex- 
ce.lerit arguments on both sides of the ques- 
tion. 

Don Henriquez was, besides, a vain, and 
therefore a restless man. The earlier part of 
his life had been spent in a career, for which, 
above all others, he was suited — that of a 
bold "and active guerilla chief: but the quiet 
and loneliness of the succeeding peace was 
perfectly intolerable. He talked in the. most 
beautiful manner of devoting himself to the 
education of his child ; but unfortunately Bea- 
trice was too young to comprehend the extent 
of the sacrifice. Having only his own opi- 
nion by which to estimate his talents, no mar- 
vel it was an exaggerated one. 

Don Henriquez would have been a happy 
man in England : he would have taken the 
chair at public dinners, and said the most 
touching things about alleviating the distresses 
of our fellow creatures : he would have de- 
layed as much as possible the business of 
county meetings, by showing how much bet- 
ter it might be done : he would have given 
dinners to politicians, and called it supporting 
his party — and dinners to a few successful 
authors, and called it encouraging genius : he 
would have been in the opposition, and made 
some (loquent speeches on retrenchment and 
reform, and the newspapers next day would 
have complimented the honourable member 
for Cockermouth on his brilliant and patriotic 
display : he would have died, and left mate- 
riel for a well-rounded paragraph in the obitu- 
ary, without having retarded or advanced one 
single circumstance in the great chain of 
events. But alas! for the mismanagement 



of fate — he was quite out of his place in the 
Cortez of Spain: he dilated on religious tole- 
ration to those in whose ears it sounded like 
blasphemy — on the blessing of knowledge, to 
those with whom intellect and anarchy were 
synonymous — and on the rights of the people, 
to Hidalgos, who were preux chevaliers in 
loyalty to their king. 

Zoridos soon became an object of suspicion 
to the government. Besides, like most bril- 
liant talkers, he-generally said more than he 
meant; and not being in the habit of very 
closely analyzing his thoughts, his expres- 
sions often admitted of two constructions. 
His eloquence ended in his arrest. 

A happy man was Don Henriquez during 
the first week of his confinement. Execrable 
tyranny — infamous oppression — incarcerated 
patriot — victim in the glorious cause of liberty 
— was enough to console an} r one. Henriquez 
was also a lucky man ; for, just as his situa- 
tion lost its novelty, and he begun to think 
suffering in the cause of his country rather 
tiresome, if it lasted too long — a fellow cap- 
tive opened to him a plan of escape, on condi- 
tion of his joining some patriots in an insur- 
rection. 

Don Henriquez's bravery was well known ; 
and, as is often the case with new acquisi- 
tions, his talents were over estimated. He 
was first sent to Naples to learn w 7 hat as- 
sistance might be expected from the Carbo- 
nari there. A great many signs were agreed 
upon — a great deal of talking took place — and 
Zoridos returned, as we have related, to or- 
ganize a revolt in the mountains. 

His situation was certainly bad when he 
met his daughter in the wood; for exaggerat- 
ing his importance, he also magnified his dan- 
ger, and took such pains to avoid suspicion, 
that he created it. So carefully had he shun- 
ned the villages, that he missed one of his 
stations ; and by the time he arrived near his 
own house, there really was some danger in 
approaching it. Besides, a conspirator's is a 
melodramatic character, and he was desirous 
of giving due effect to his part. 

The philosophy of atoms has some truth in 
it. What exceedingly small motives make 
the great whole of a fine action ! Henriquez 
loved his child dearly ; but, with the true 
selfishness of display, he forgot her anxiety, 
in his desire to impress upon her the full im- 
portance of his position. A natural feeling 
for her lonely and neglected condition, and the 
thought of a home that seemed very happy 
now he was banished from it, both conspired 
to make his interview in the wood a very set- 
rowful parting. Unhappiness with him al- 
ways invested itself in a fine phrase, which is 
a great consolation. We always bear a dig- 
nified misfortune best. 

The speech he made after supper to the 
smugglers, under Whose escort he was to tra- 
vel, would have brought down three rounds 
of applause in any meeting ever yet held at 
the Crown and Anchor. It began with his 
principles, proceeded with his feelings, and 
wound up with his suffering. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



15'. 



'* Yes, gentlemen, my house is in ruins ; 
my homeless wife — my deserted child — know 
not where to lay their heads. I am an exile 
from my native land — the sword of the execu- 
tioner waits for the hlood of the victim of op- 
pression ; hut I disdain the fetters of the 
tyrant, and defy his power. I live or die for 
the cause of my country." 

The muleteers were greatly struck — first, 
hecause we usually think that very fine which 
we do not quite understand ; secondly, they 
were rather grateful to a gentleman who ex- 
erted himself so much for their entertainment; 
and thirdly, the king and the custom house 
officers, liberty and French brandy duty free, 
were, somehow or other, entirely associated 
in their minds. 

It is a singular thing that it never occurred 
to Don Henriquez that his misfortunes were 
very much of his own seeking : if he had. not 
gone to the mountain (Liberty is a mountain 
nymph — is she not?) the mountain would 
never have come to him. He had been under 
no necessity of becoming a member of the 
Cortez, and still less of talking when he got 
there. Neither did that very obvious truth 
suggest itself, that if 'tis plans for illuminat- 
ing and ameliorating the human race were so 
excellent, he might first have tried a portion 
of them on his own estate — reformed his own 
house, before he tried to reform the world. 

It will readily be supposed that Lorraine 
took a different view of the case, and, after 
two or three lingering days, prepared to set 
forth in search of his intended injured father- 
in-law. Farewell — it is a sorrowful word 
enough at all times, never yet pronounced 
with indifference, even by the indifferent : 
what then is its pain to those who love — to 
those whose eternity is the present ? It is so 
very hard to exchange certainty for hope — to 
renounce to-day in expectation of to-morrow. 
But that Beatrice had from the earliest period 
been accustomed to think of others' claims, 
not her own, she never could have resigned, 
the lover who stood beside her for her distant 
father. 

The dew shone like frost-work, as the sun 
touched the silvery leaves of the olive — every 
step left its trace on the grass, as Beatrice 
trod the little wood path which led to the 
road her lover must pass. One moment she 
paused — it was so early, and a blush of femi- 
nine timidity, rather than pride, gave the co- 
lour of the morning to her cheek, as she 
thought—" If I should be first." But Ed- 
ward was at the old cork tree before her. 
What could any lovers in the present day say, 
that has not been said before 1 ? — trees, rivers, 
sun and moon, have alike freen called upon to 
register the vow they witnessed. These 
parted as all part ; many a gentle promise, 
which rather satisfies itself than its hearer — 
many a lingering look — many a loitering step 
— and at last one sudden effort, expected by 
neither, and all is over. Beatrice gasped for 
breath, as the trees hid Lorraine from her 
sight; there were two or three hurrying steps, 
as if they forced their speed ; a rustling of the 
Vol. I. 



boughs, and all was still — even the beating of 
her heart. It was as if the whole world had 
lost the life that animated it, during the long, 
the melancholy day which followed. In part- 
ings, those who go know not half the suffer- 
ing of those who stay. In the one case, oc- 
cupation strengthens, and novelty engages, 
the mind. Lorraine's journey necessarily, at 
times, diverted his attention. Sunshine and 
exercise are equally good for the spirits ; be- 
sides, at night, fatigue made him sleep ; how- 
ever, he dreamed about Beatrice a good deal, 
and, like Caliban, wished to dream more. 
She, on the contrary, was left to utter and un- 
amused loneliness, and to small daily duties, 
distasteful from interrupting those dreaming 
moods in which strong feeling loves to in- 
dulge. Well, I do not know how it may be 
in the next world, but most assuredly that sex 
denominated by poets the softer, and by phi- 
losophers the weaker, part of creation, have 
the worst of it in this. 



CHAPTER LII. 

"I do not often talk much." 

Henry VIII. 

" Why weep ye by the tide, lady 1 
Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I'll find ye aniiher luve, 
And ye sail be his bride." 

Scots' Song. 

" The ancients referred melancholy to the 
mind, the moderns made it matter of diges- 
tion — to either case my plan applies," said 
Lad)' - Mandeville. "I am melancholy, or, in 
plain prose, have a headache, to-day ; there- 
fore I propose putting in execution our long 
talked of visit to the convent of St. Valerie : 
if of the mind, contemplation will be of ser- 
vice — if of the nerves, a ride will be equally 
beneficial. 

" 'How charming is divine philosophy ! 

Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,' " 

replied Mr. Spenser. 

" You are improving," returned Lady Man- 
deville. "I dare say by the time your cou- 
sin, Helen Mori and, is able to appreciate 
compliments, you will be able to pay them in 
' good set terms.' " 

Flow very unpleasant a few words can con- 
trive, to be ! It was very disagreeable to be 
reminded of his cousin. Though Mr. Mor- 
land was the last man in the world to have 
acted on such a wish, Cecil was aware of his 
uncle's desire to see his favourite nephew and 
his daughter united. Now, for his very life 
could he picture Helen but as he last saw her 
— a very pretty child, whose canary was an 
important object. It was also very disagree- 
able to perceive that Lady Mandeville was 
not in his interests, aware as he was of her 
influence over Emily. For, what with a little 
absence — an absence passed in solitude and 
exaggeration — and a little opposition, enough 
to excite, but not enough to deter — an adven- 
ture romantic enough to make falling in \o\<- 



153 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



almost matter of necessity — with all these to- 
gether, young Spenser had progf issed consi- 
derably in his attachment. 

Emily was very pretty, with a quiet gentle- 
ness that left much to the imagination, and 
also a sweetness which was a good beginning 
for it to work upon. Besides, though attach- 
ed to Lorraine with all the depth and earnest- 
ness of first love — which, after all, is the.only 
one that has those high ideal qualities ascribed 
to love — she could not be always "sadly think- 
ing" of him. She thought of him whenever 
she saw any thing beautiful in art or nature — 
love links itself with the lovely : she thought 
of him when she sang the songs he had liked, 
or that she thought he would like : when they 
spoke of affection before her, it ever recalled 
her own : she turned the page of the poet as 
the mirror which gave back her feelings : in 
short, she thought of him when she was sick, 
sullen, or sorry. Still, there were times when 
the natural gladness of youth burst into mirth- 
fulness, and 

" Her brow belied her, if her heart was sad." 

At such times Cecil was quite sure he was 
in love. Constancy is made up of a series of 
small inconstancies, which never come to any 
thing ; and the heart takes credit for its loyalty, 
because in the long run it ends where it began. 
I doubt whether the most devoted fidelity 
would bear strict examination as to the short 
reposes even the most entire fealty permits 
itself. 

Lady Mandeville, if not the keeper of Emi- 
ly's conscience, took some care of her con- 
stancy. She had quite made up her mind that 
a marriage between Miss Arundel and Mr. 
Lorraine was the most eligible thing in the 
world for both parties; and when a mind is 
once made up, it is very tiresome to have to 
unmake it. No wonder Edward had hitherto 
escaped heart whole. She even exaggerated 
the taste whose delicacy was refined almost to 
fastidiousness ; but that very taste would be in 
favour of the great improvement which had 
taken place in Emily. Lady Mandeville did 
full justice to it, and a little more— for it was 
her own work. Like most persons whose vivid 
imagination applies itself to actual things, 
instead of abstract creations, she gave a reality 
to her schemes that seemed to make failure an 
impossibility ; and having once settled that 
Emily would be very happy with Lorraine, it 
was an absolute impossibility to allow her to 
be happy with any one else. 

Lorraine was a great favourite — Spenser was 
not. The indolence which Cecil had rather 
permitted than indulged — for, heaven knows, 
it was no indulgence at all — had at first pre- 
vented his offering that homage to which she 
was accustomed ; and now, when he did offer 
it, it was marked, suspected. His admiration 
of Emily interfered with her arrangement ; and 
the very circumstance of Lord Mandeville's 
encouraging him was any thing but an advan- 
tage : a woman must bean angel to endure 
Weinc.- worsted in domestic tactics. Not that 



Lady Mandeville enacted the part of confi. 
dant — 

" Cato's a proper person to intrust a love tale with ; : ' 

besides, Emily's feelings were quite deep 
enough for silence. But Lorraine's memory 
was kept alive by slight recurrences to his 
opinions, and frequent allusions to the chances 
of meeting him. How r ever, bright sunshine 
and a rapid drive did a great deal for the good 
humour, or spirits, whichever you like to crn- 
sider it, of the party on their way to St. Va- 
lerie. 

All convents built in what we call the dark 
ages, show singular good taste in the selection 
of their various situations ; if there was a fine 
view to be had, their site usually command- 
ed it. 

The convent of St. Valerie was on the very 
summit of a small hill, whose abruptness 
added to its height. A thick copsewood of 
dwarf oaks, intermixed with one or two slender 
chestnuts, covered the side even to the sea, 
from which it was separated by a narrow slip 
of smooth sand, over which, in a calm day, 
the small waves broke in scattered form, some- 
thing like the swelling of the unquiet human 
heart. The other side of the hill, whether 
from nature, or art of days so long past as to 
seem nature now, was much less steep, and, 
if more luxuriantly, was less thickly wooded, 
and with trees of larger size, and more varied 
sorts. Through these wound a very tolerable 
road. 

The convent was a white high building, 
with a chapel of great antiquity, and gardens 
of much beauty. The last notes of the anthem 
were dying into tremulous silence as they 
entered, and a long black train of dark and 
veiled figures were gliding through an oppo- 
site portal, whose massive doors closed heavily, 
almost hopelessly, on them. At the upper end, 
raised by a single step from the other pave- 
ment, stood a statue of the virgin — one of 
those exquisite conceptions to which an artist 
has given the beauty of genius developed by 
the labour of a life — one of those forms, which 
the modeller may frame, and then die. 

Sculpture never seems to me like the repre- 
sentation of human life : its forms — pale, pure, 
and cold — have the shape, not the likeness, of 
our nature. I always personify a spirit as a 
statue. Paintings, however idealized as to 
beauty, still give the bright eye, the rosy 
cheek, the glossy hair, we see daily. Por- 
traits are but the mirrors of lovely counte- 
nances. Sculpture is the incarnation of beings 
whose state seems higher, because calmer, 
than our own. The divinities of Greece owed 
half their divinity to the noble repose with 
which their sculptors invested them. The 
characteristic of the picture is passion — that 
of the statue, power. 

From the chapel the party proceeded across 
the court to the garden, except Emily. Like 
all persons whose feelings are awakened 
through the imagination, Emily was peculiar- 
ly susceptible of outward impressions. She 



i! 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



159 



lingered in the chapel, watching the cold gray 
light — for the windows fronting the north let 
in daylight, hut not sunshine — the white floor 
only marked by inscriptions whose worn letters 
told that the living trod over the dead — the 
White walis, where the carved tablets were 
also sacred to the memory of the departed. 
The extreme silence oppressed her with a 
sense rather of sadness than of calm. She 
looked on the tombs, and thought how they 
had been wept over. She held her breath, to 
be more deeply conscious of the stillness ; and 
the beating of her heart seemed to remind her 
how little part she had in such quiet. 

Some slight chance usually rivets the atten- 
tion : it did so now. On one of the tablets 
were inscribed various names of an apparently 
large family, the dates of the different deaths 
singularly near to each other. Emily felt as 
if her own solitary situation had never weigh- 
ed upon her thoughts till now. " Many are 
kind to me, but none care for me." Youth, 
with its affection an impulse and a delight, 
judges others by itself, and exaggerates its 
claims. 

Strange it is that people (unless in the way 
of ostentation) never value the blessings they 
possess. But if life has a happiness over 
which the primeval curse has passed and 
harmed not, it is the early and long enduring 
affection of blood and habit. The passion 
which concentrates its strength and beauty 
upon one, is a rich and terrible stake, the end 
whereof is death ; — the living light of existence 
is burnt out in an hour — and what remains 1 
The dust and the darkness. But the love 
which is born in childhood — an instinct deep- 
ening into a principle — retains to the end some- 
thing of the freshness belonging to the hour 
of its birth: the amusement partaken — the 
trifling quarrel made up — the sorrow shared 
together — the punishment in which all were 
involved — the plans for the future, so fairytale- 
like and so false, in which all indulged: so 
true it is that love's slightest links are its 
strongest! 

There is something inexpressibly touching 
in the story of Ishmael, the youth who was 
sent into the wilderness of life with his bow 
and his arrow, " his hand against every man, 
and every man's hand against him." Even 
in our crowded, busy, and social world, on 
how many is this doom pronounced ! What 
love makes allowances like household love ? — 
what takes an interest in small sorrows and 
small successes like household love 1 ? God 
forgive those (and I would not even say for- 
give, were not divine mercy illimitable) who 
turn the household altar to a place of strife ! 
Domestic dissension is the sacrilege of the 
heart. 

Emily looked on the death stone, and 
thought only of her uncle — -he who had been 
to her as a father — a father in early kindness 
— in allowance for failings — in anxiety for her 
future — delight in her present — to whose affec- 
tion she owed gratitude a thousand times be- 
yond that due for " the bitter boon, our birth." 
Gratitude, forsooth! — it ought rather to ask 



forgiveness. She remembered how her child- 
hood had grown up into youth, how happily! 
— recalled her first leaving home — then it was 
that she turned a new leaf in the book of life. 
She thought over her disappointment at first, 
her after brief enjoyment — her eyes opening 
at once to love and sorrow. How much had 
happened since then ! — how much of morti- 
fication, how many vain hopes had flowered 
and then fallen ! And yet her heart was still 
feverish with vague anticipation. With a sick, 
sad foreboding she thought of returning to 
England — to Edward Lorraine's country — but 
not with joy. Emily seemed to herself to 
have no longer spirits for hope. The quiet of 
the grave was scarcely too deep for her pre- 
sent mood. 

At this moment the stillness of the chapel 
itself was broken " by a confusion of tongues." 
First, a coarse and corporeal laugh — that 
which rises loud at a practical joke ; a small- 
er, shrill, and undecided one — of the sort with 
which young ladies reply to a compliment 
equally above their merits and comprehension ; 
also a foreign tongue, like " Iser, rolling ra- 
pidly;" and a drawling, yet dictatorial voice, 
loud above the rest, evidently patronising the 
prospect: — these "did overload the air." In 
came the family party, the Higgs's. Mrs. 
Higgs instantly knew Emily. "Lord, lord, 
miss, who would have thought of our meeting 
in these here outlandish parts !" 

Emily recognised her companion of the 
steamboat, and replied with a good-natured in- 
quiry, asking how she liked Italy ] 

First glancing round to see whether she was 
observed — a needless precaution, Mr. Higgs, 
" her eldest hope," having put himself into a 
position (even on paper we cannot call it an 
attitude) of enthusiasm before the statue of 
the Madonna — while the two daughters were 
assuring an Italian count, as they called him, 
that they should like monstrously to be nuns, 
and he, as in duty bound, dwelt upon the loss 
which the world would thereby sustain : — 
"Like Italy]" said Mrs. Higgs — "not I; 
I havVt had a meal fit for a Christian this three 
months. Why, Lord love you ! they are as 
dirty as ducks — you know what dirty animals 
ducks are— they'll eat any thing — not but what 
they are very good roasted, but it's all the dif- 
ference being dead and alive." 

"A very just distinction," said Emily, 
while her companion paused to take breatl 
and a peppermint lozenge. 

" You should go into the kitchens here," 
resumed Mrs. Higgs. Poor woman! her 
daughters never allowed her to talk, for fear 
of her disgracing them — so, as she herself 
used to observe, a little rational conversation 
did her good. " You've no notion of the dirt, 
or you'd never eat nothing: but dear, dear! 
I dare say you don't take on about these things 
yet — you must when you're married. I rr.ind 
what the Bible says, 'A virtuous woman's a 
crown to her husband' — many a crown have I 
saved mine. Not that Mr. Higgs need look 
after a pound even, now— but, as I tell my 
girls it is as well to lay up for a rainy day ' 



160 



MISS LANDON 8 WORKS. 



" Have you seen Rome ]" asked Miss Arun- 
del. 

" Bless you ! there was nothing 1 to see — not 
a shop tit to spend a penny in — and as to com- 
fort, they hav'n't a notion of it. Bob there — I 
mean Mr. Robert Hirers — has such a taste for 
the fine arts — he didn't inherit it from me, 
though — that he would make us go poking 
about all the great cold rooms to see picturs 
and staturs. As for those poor staturs, they 
always set me shivering — they look so like 
human creaturs froze to death : I am sure, had 
I been at home, I would have got up a sub- 
scription for some cheap flannel for them. 
You may get very good flannel to give away, 
for sixpet ce a yard, at the Lunnun Emporium. 
But, Lord ! Lord ! one might as well be out 
of the world as oat of Lunnun." 

" You have stayed longer on the continent 
than ygu intended." 

"It was all on Carry's account — shew T ould 
go sailing on the lake — what do ye call it ? — 
bless my old head ! it never remembers them 
foreign names — with a friend of ours, Mr. 
Simcoe — a very nice young man, but melan- 
cholic like — and, being a great poet, he never 
knew what he was doing just at the time. 
You know, miss, genusses are never like no- 
body but themselves. Carry and he were 
very sweet upon each other; and as his fa- 
ther was a comfortable man, and could afford 
to make his son a gentleman, Mr. Higgs and 
I thought his son's genus would wear off — 
and young people needn't be crossed in love 
when there's money on both sides — so Carry 
and he used to make a deal of love to each 
other. Poor fellur ! he wrote her halbum all 
full of such beautiful verses — and she used to 
plait her hair, and dress, and do all sorts of 
things, to please him. She always used to 
wear a veil, for he could not abide a bonnet — 
he said it was so unpoetical like. Well, 
well — to make a short of a sad story — one 
evening they would go on the lake, though 
there was a great big black cloud coming up ; 
but Mr. Simooe said it would be just like the 
Coasehair, or Courser, or some such name, and 
spouted some poetry — which, after the sad ac- 
cident, Mr. Higgs and I learnt by heart, as a 
warning to our young friends. But, some- 
how, we never, though we took a world of 
pains, could remember more than the first two 
or three lines — for we are too old to begin our 
schooling over again, and Ave were neither of 
us any great shakes at book learning — but two 
lines will do for an example — a nod's as good 
as a wink to a blind horse." So saying, Mrs. 
Higgs repeated the following lines in a most 
Sunday-school tone : — 

"Ay, let the vild vinds vhistle o'er the deck, 
So that them arms cling closer round my neck : 
The deepest murmur of' this mouth shall be, 
2\o sigh for safeness, but a prayer for thee." 

Here Mrs. Higgs's voice sunk into " tears 
and forgetfulness." " It isn't, miss, so much 
want of memory, as that I am overtaken by 
my feelings. But, miss, before I go on with 
my story, you musn't think nothing of the 
arms round the neck, because that was only 



in poetry — you may be pretty sure I shoulc 
never have allowed no young man whatsum- 
ever to take such a liberty with my daughter. 
I just name this, because, if I did not ex- 
plain, it might be bad for poor Carry's next 
chance." 

Emily instantly assured the confiding but 
careful mother, that she entertained no doubts 
of Miss Caroline Higgs's perfect propriety of 
conduct; and Mrs. Higgs resumed her nar- 
rative. 

" Well, into the boat they got. Mr. Simcoe 
was quite a sailor. I remember he told us he 
had been ^ on seven-and-twenty parties of 
pleasure to Richmond. They did look so nice 
— my daughter had on her best green silk and 
a white lace veil (real thread) thrown over 
her head. Mr. S. had a large straw hat, and 
striped jacket and trousers, and his shirt fast- 
ened at the throat by a broach with Carry's 
hair, for he was always quite above wearing a 
neckcloth. Dear, dear, they went away sing- 
ing, 

' O, ccme to me as soon as daylight sits ;' 

and well, miss — the boat overset. Mr. Simcoe 
(poor Benjamin — as we have called him since 
— he never could abide it during his lifetime) 
was drowned; and my daughter was brought 
home wet to the skin, and all the colour 
gone out of her green silk — quite spoilt." 

Here Mrs. Higgs paused for a moment, and 
drew out a huge red pocket handkerchief, with 
which her face was for some minutes con- 
founded. Emily, really shocked, remained 
silent, till her companion, who found talking 
very efficacious for her complaints, went on 
again. 

" Besides all her sorrow, Carry had caught 
cold ; for she had been in the water, only had 
got picked up by a boat that was passing, and 
she was very ill : so, as I said before, she has 
been the cause of our staying in these here 
foreign parts. The doctors said the climate 
was so mild. I am sure we should have been 
a deal warmer in our own parlour, with a good 
coal fire, and carpets and curtains. Here, all 
you can get is a little charcoal in a box — for 
all the world like a warming pan, without a 
handle, and with holes in the top. We've 
had no Christmas pudding — the boys have 
been left at school — and people may talk what 
they please about sunshine and Italy: m} 7 " say 
is, that a winter in Rome is no joke." 

Emily duly sympathized with her; but, re- 
membering the laughing she had witnessed, 
could not resist asking, "If ?>Iiss Higgs had 
got over her disappointment 1 ?" 

" O Lord, yes ! it was five months agone. 
You know a new nail always drives out an 
old one. Carry got another lover : he didn't, 
however, turn out very well, for he hadn't six- 
pence ; and, of course, our eldest daughter 
couldn't have nothing to say to him. But it 
served to divert her from the thoughts of her 
grief; and we can look out for a proper hus- 
band when we get home ; and that's one great 
reason why I wants to get back to the Square. 
Carry isn't so young as you'd think: but, 



ROMANCE AND REALITY 



]G1 



bless me, she'd cut my tongue out if she 
thought I was talking about her age. You 
won't say nothing about it, will you 1 ?" 

Emily vowed all imaginable discretion. 
Mrs. Higgs, who had not enchanted with her 
discourse any listener's ear so long for many 
a day, felt, as she herself expressed it, the 
very cockles of her heart warm towards her 
pretty and patient listener. 

" I hope, my dear, I shall see you in Fitz- 
roy Square: I won't make small beer of you, 
I can tell you. We'll get up a bit of dance 
for you, for we know lots of nice young 
men." 

A cold shiver ran over Emily at the very 
idea of Mrs. Higgs's " nice young men." 
Her son at that moment came up, by way of 
a specimen. " By Jove, mother, we thought 
we had lost you ! rather a large loss that 
would have been." Seeing that the cause of 
her lingering was, however, a lady, and one 
who was both pretty and young, Mr. Robert 
Higgs, who was an admirer, or, to use his 
own favourite phrase, "always the humble 
servant of the ladies," thought, to employ 
another of his little peculiarities of speech, 
"his company would be as good as his 
place ;" and with that quiet, comfortable 
conviction of his own merits, which sets a 
man most and soonest at ease, he coolly ad- 
dressed Miss Arundel : — " Quite as our great 
bard says, 

'Like patience on a tombstone shivering with sorrow.' 

Beautiful lines those of Byron. Don't you 
admire him, ma'am ?" 

Mr. R. Higgs considered poetry an infal- 
lible topic with young ladies. Emily, how- 
ever, did not feel that the courteous attention 
w r hich his mother's age made in her eyes in- 
dispensable, at all necessary to be extended to 
her very forward son. 

Mr. Higgs only thought — "Poor thing, 
dare say she never heardL of Byron — knows 
nothing of poetry — I've been too deep for 
her;" and forthwith commenced on a lighter 
subject. 

" So, this is a nunnery. I wonder, ma'am, 
how you'd like to be a nun ! — shut up — not 
allowed to see one of our perjured sex — I sus- 
pect you'd be a little dull!" 

At this moment Mr. Spenser entered. " I 
am sent, Miss Arundel, in search of you." 

Emily took his arm with a readiness which 
enchanted Cecil, and left the chapel, bowing 
civilly to Mrs. Higgs, who, accustomed to her 
daughter's eternal flirtations, thought she 
might hold her peace as soon as a young man 
came, and had from her son's entrance been 
silent. 

"A very plain and vulgar young woman 
that," said Mr. Robert; " but you always are 
picking up such horrid people." 

" Lord, I thought her such a very pretty 
spoken young lady." 

" Well, I don't; and you know I am a bit 
of a judge. But, come, let's join my sisters, 
and be jogging home. I feel very peckish— 
I made but a poor breakfast." 
Vol. I.— 21 



" Dear, dear, we shall have no dinnera 
worth eating till we get to England. I quite 
long for a good Sunday smell of a piece of 
roast beef and a Yorkshire pudding." 

The feeling, says some writer, which turna 
in absence to our native country, is one of the 
finest in our nature. True ; but it takes many 
forms. One exile sighs after the fair meadows 
of England^ and another after its mutton. 



CHAPTER LIII. 

"You would say something that is sad— Speak !" 



" I'll come to Naples." 



Shakspeare. 



But we must again return to Spain, where 
a new subject of anxiety diverted Beatrice's 
attention — her mother's illness. She had soon 
not a moment she could call her own. Poor 
Donna Margaretta's situation was the more 
pitiable, as she both suffered and complained 
like a child. The remedies her case required 
it was next to impossible to indjce her to take. 
One day she would be in the strong and angry 
excitement of fever, the next in the fretful de- 
spondency of ague. Now she would, even 
with tears, ask for the wine and food most 
hurtful, and then turn with loathing from her 
needful nourishment. With some difficulty, 
by appealing to his humanity, an old medical 
practitioner, from the nearest town, was pre- 
vailed on to visit them; thus doing for pity 
w r hat he had refused to do for interest. 

" My good child," said the old man, after 
seeing his patient, " I might have stayed at 
home; the poor lady is far beyond all human 
assistance — a little care and a little kindness 
is all she will want on this side the grave — 
just let her do what she likes." 

It was late, and he hurried to mount his 
mule, but not till — for his heart w T as touched 
by her desolate and deserted condition — not 
till he had told Beatrice he would always be 
glad to render her any service. Whether 
Donna Margaretta connected any vague idea 
with the stranger, or Avhether it was the mere 
instinct of weakness, it is impossible to tell, 
but from that day a strange terror of death fell 
upon her; she could not bear to be left for a 
moment — she would wake in the night and 
implore Beatrice piteously to save her. This 
impression was, however, as transitory as it 
was violent. As she grew weaker, she grew 
calmer and more affectionate. She would lean 
her head for hours on Beatrice's shoulder, only 
now and then applying to her some childish 
and endearing epithet. She was soon too much 
reduced to leave her bed ; they used to raise 
her head with pillows, and Beatrice would sit 
beside, her arm round her neck; and her poor 
mother seemed, like a child, happy in being 
soothed and caressed. There is mercy in afflic- 
tion ; Donna Margaretta's memory could only 
have awakened to sorrow, and she died with- 
out a pang or struggle, so quietly, that Bea- 
trice, in whose embrace she lay, thought it \,as 
o2 



162 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



sleep. Wishing to wake her at her usual hour 
for refreshment, she kissed her — the chill of 
the lips made her shudder — she leant over 
them for a minute — the breath had passed away 
forever. 

Donna Margaretta's death was a blessing, 
but Beatrice could not think so at the time ; 
her few objects for affection had made that 
affection proportionably intense. She had lost 
the only being she could serve — the only one 
to whom her care and kindness were of value 
— and we all know how they endear the ob- 
jects on which they are bestowed — the whole 
business of her life was gone. 

Perhaps the worst pang of death is the 
burial. One touch of human weakness min- 
gled with the young Spaniard's sorrow. She 
was proud — very proud of her high and noble 
birth. A hundred chiefs of her blood slept in 
the chapel of San Francisco. But since the 
confiscation of her father's property, the house 
adjoining it in the town, besides being a day's 
journey distant, was turned into a military 
depot. She had no choice — her mother's tomb 
must be the green grass of the village burying 
place. With added sorrow she had her in- 
terred there by torchlight — herself sole mourn- 
er. It was a relief to be unwitnessed. The 
two peasants who had assisted returned to the 
village — old Pedro and the negro, one of whom 
still retained his torch, attended Beatrice home 
— she followed the light mechanically. The 
agony with which she had watched the 
body laid in the earth — that fearful shudder 
which follows the falling of the mould on the 
coffin — the pressing down of the grass sods, 
as if the dead were conscious of their weight 
and soil — all this had subsided into stupor. 
She felt that strange disbelief in its reality 
that always succeeds violent grief. 

Weak creatures that we are, for the body to 
overcome the mind as it does ! Beatrice slept 
that night long and soundly — the bitterness of 
sorrow, affection, and anxiety sank beneath 
fatigue. The awakening after such sleep is 
one of the most dreadful moments in life. A 
consciousness of something terrible is upon 
even the first sensation — a vague idea of the 
truth comes like the remembrance of a dream ; 
involuntarily the eyes close, as if to shut it 
out — the head sinks back on the pillow, as if 
to see whether another dream would not be a 
happier one. A gleam of light, a waving cur- 
tain, rouses the sleeper ; the truth, the whole 
terrible truth, flashes out — and we start up as 
if we never could dream again. 

In losing her mother, Beatrice lost her great 
employment — to provide her with small indul- 
gences, and such amusements as she could 
enjoy, had been a sweet and constant study. 
The homely associations of life are its tender- 
tst. No tears were more bitter than those 
Beatrice shed over the beautiful purple grapes 
which she had so carefully dried for her parent. 
One consolation she had — a little English 
Bible became the chief companion of her lone- 
ly hours. 

Don Henriquez had much of that indiffer- 
ence to religion too often termed liberality. 



The bigoted beliefs of his native creed were 
the last he ever thought of impressing. Their 
country house stood entirely by itself, and the 
few priests who passed that way belonged to 
mendicant orders. Beatrice, with the gene- 
rosity inherent in her nature, readily filled 
their scrips ; and the friars were not very anx- 
ious about the principles of one whose actions 
were so truly catholic. But it was impossible 
for a girl who lived in the solitude of nature, 
and who had been early tried by sorrow, not 
to be religious. 

There are some works of God which most 
especially seem the work of his hand, and 
some ills of humanity which seem most of all 
to ask aid from above. The mighty gathering 
of the storms on her native mountains — the 
thunder that shook the earth — and the light- 
ning that in an hour laid bare the depths of 
the forest which had stood still and shadowy 
for years — the starry silence of the summer 
nights — the mystery of the large and bright 
planets, filled the young heart that was lifted 
up by their beauty with deep and solemn 
thoughts. Again, her desolate situation — the 
dangers beyond her ability to foresee or to 
avoid, made her at once feel her nothingness 
and her need of protection. The holy page, 
read at first for its beauty, was soon resorted 
to for its power. Beatrice dwelt on the gentle 
promises made to the afflicted, and the words 
of encouragement spoken to the simple, till 
hope rose strong within her, and grew to be 
that clear and steady light " which hidethnot 
its face in the time of trouble." Beatrice was 
a genuine Christian, if entire trust, deep hu- 
mility, and earnest conviction could make 
one. True, the Bible was almost the only 
religious book she had ever read, but she had 
indeed read it with all her heart. 

She was leaning over the sacred volume 
one night, when a dark shadow fell upon the 
very lines she was reading. Beatrice looked 
up, and saw 7 a man standing before her : the 
huge sombero overshadowed his face, but the 
light of the lamp shone on a large and glitter- 
ing knife in his girdle. She started from her 
seat ; but mastering her fear in a moment, she 
stood, and calmly facing the stranger, inquired 
his errand. The man laughed. 

" Your father need not be ashamed of you ; 
but if you had been frightened, it would have 
been at nothing." 

" My father !" exclaimed Beatrice ; " is he 
safe]" 

" Safe enough, if he will but keep quiet ; 
but I bring a note from him, and you had bet- 
ter read that than question me. I am not 
oversafe in these quarters myself. I have 
kept faith with him — mind that when you see 
your father." 

Laying a soiled and crumpled letter on the 
table, the smuggler turned to depart. 

" Is there nothing you will have— nothing 
that I can do to show my gratitude? " 

" I doubt," said the man, " whether your 
cellar be worth my risking a capture for its 
contents." 

"At least," exclaimed Beatrice, "take 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



163 



this;" and she poured the contents of her 
purse into his hand. 

"Four — five — six gold pieces!" replied 
he, hesitatingly, — "I have been paid." 

"Take them as a gift, and God bless you 
for the happiness you have brought me." 

"A free gift! — many thanks to you, lady." 

A slight sound — it was but the wind in the 
vine branches — startled the man ; he laid his 
hand on his knife, and darted through the 
casement; in less than a minute all was si- 
lent as before. Eagerly Beatrice opened the 
letter — it was from her father, and ran thus : 

"My beloved Child : — The iron hand of 
despotism has quenched the last spark of li- 
berty ; hunted down like a wild beast, I am 
watching an opportunity to fly my degraded 
and enslaved country. Some far and foreign 
land mast henceforth be the home of the un- 
fortunate exile. Will my Beatrice soothe 
and share her parent's ill-starred lot ? I am 
hastening to Naples — you know the address 
on the packet. I shall be at Senhor Pachet- 
ti's — join me there, if possible, with your 
poor mother. I know this will require equal 
presence of mind and exertion — surely I may 
expect both in a daughter of mine ? Come 
with all the speed you can ; I doubt not to be 
there before you ; and shall be impatient, in 
the happiness of the father to forget the 
wrongs of the patriot. God keep you, my 
sweet child. 

" Your affectionate father, 

" Henriquez de los Zoridos. 

" Burn this letter instantly." 

Beatrice kissed the scroll, and held it over 
the lamp — it was too wet with tears to burn 
rapidly. "Your poor mother!" — and must 
their first meeting be imbittered by words of 
death ? But she was too young to dwell 
only on the sorrow ; her heart beat hurriedly 
and joyfully as she thought that her father 
and Lorraine must inevitably meet. Her first 
impulse was to make every effort to reach 
Naples, but calmer deliberation induced her 
to renounce this plan. Love increases a wo- 
man's timidity — the more she thought of Ed- 
ward, the more did she shrink from so long 
and unprotected a journey. It cost her a 
sleepless night; but she resolved on staying 
in Spain till she either saw or heard from him 
— he and Don Henriquez, when they met, 
would decide on what course it might be best 
to pursue. 

We waste a great deal of thought. As is 
usual in all cases of long deliberation, she did 
precisely the reverse of what she intended. 
The following afternoon she was wandering 
round what had been her mother's garden — all 
her life's sweetest associations were there — 
when she saw a peasant approaching. Alva- 
rez was the soldier who had so attracted Lor- 
raine's attention the first evening he rode into 
the village, and during his stay he had found 
a home beneath his roof; — Alvarez, too, had 
served under her father : a visit from him 
was, therefore, nothing uncommon . but to- 



day there was an appearance of haste and 
anxiety that augured any thing but good 
Yet he hesitated ; and a basket of pomegra* 
nates he brought from his little Minora, was 
evidently the ostensible, not the real, cause 
of his coming. 

"The senhora must find the old house verv 
lonely." 

" Lonely and sad enough, indeed, my good 
Alvarez." 

"Is she not afraid, now that the nights are 
so long and dark — has nothing occurred t& 
alarm the senhora lately ?" 

" We have nothing to lose — we leave fea?. 
to the rich — besides, I am a soldier's daugh 
ter ; do you allow Minora to tremble at eithe? 
robbers or ghosts ?" 

" But, lady, have you seen no one abou 1 
the house whose appearance was calculated 
to excite suspicion ?" 

" I have seen no one to excite dread," re- 
plied Beatrice, with a slight accent on the 
last word. 

"Pardon, lady, but was there a strangei 
about your house last night V 

Beatrice started — had her father's messen- 
ger been seen ? to-day it could be of no avail 
and distrust might bring on the very dangej 
she would fain avoid. 

" There was, Alvarez ; from you I need no' 
hide that he came from my father." 

"My brave captain ! — is he safe?" 

" Safe, but now watching for an opportunity 
for flight." 

" Now, the saints help us, not in thii 
neighbourhood ?" 

" Far away, but where, even I know not.' 

" I will tell you all, senhora. Pedro rushed 
in last night to the cottage where they sell 
wine, in a fright at some dark figure he had 
seen hovering about. I had my own thoughts, 
and, by old stories of his early cowardice, 
raised a laugh, and hoped the dark figure was 
forgotten. But there were others besides our- 
selves — two strangers, whose business here 
has puzzled us all ; they left this morning ; 
and from what they said at parting, the old 
house will be filled with soldiers before mid- 
night. The idea is abroad that Don Henri- 
quez has sought shelter here." 

"Thank God it is not so," gasped his 
daughter. 

"Are there any papers of importance?" 

" None — none." 

" Then, lady, collect any valuables you can 
hastily, and prepare for a retreat with me. 
Your arrest was spoken of — and you know 
rough measures are used when a secret is in 
the case." 

The thoughts of torture, imprisonment, se- 
paration from all she loved, made Beatrice's 
heart die within her — almost helplessly she 
clung to the old man's arm. She loved, and 
to her life now was valuable. 

"Nay, nay, my poor girl, you must not 
want the courage you had as a child. I have 
a plan. You have heard me tell of the cave 
where Minora and her brother were concealed : 
it is a good hiding place yet. Meet me in a» 



164 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



hour by the three ilexes in the wood, and I 
will answer for your security." 

" But my nurse and Pedro — " 

" Do not, like you, incur danger. Don 
Henriquez would confide in his daughter, but 
not in servants, whose characters for gossip the 
whole neighbourhood can swear to — leave 
them in ignorance : a secret brings its own 
risk, and their safety is insured by their anx- 
iety. An hour hence at the three ilexes." 

Alvarez went off without waiting for an 
answer. It is the luxury of parting, to wan- 
der round places haunted by our childish 
steps and hallowed by our childish thoughts, 
and to loiter beneath the old trees where we 
have not always stood alone. But this was 
no luxury for Beatrice. She caught a handful 
of late rose leaves, and hid them in the folds 
of her dress — she turned one last look on the 
fountain — she could not have looked again 
for the world. 

On returning to the house, her nurse asking 
her the simple question of what she was to 
do with the pomegranates, smote on her heart 
with a new and bitter feeling of deception. 
Hastily she collected together the few arti- 
cles of value left: a chain of gold, a little 
ruby cross, her English Bible, and the unbro- 
ken sum of pistoles she had collected for her 
former journey. Fortunately, she met none 
of its other inmates as she left the house — she 
must have betrayed her purpose. 

It was at least three miles to the ilexes, but 
she proceeded with a light fleet step, and 
gained the appointed place. It was too late 
to retire unperceived, when she caught sight 
of the white veil of a female. 

Her anxiety was but for a moment — the 
girl turned, and there was all the encourage- 
ment of youth, health, and good spirits, in the 
bright black eyes of Minora. 

" My father thought my absence would be 
less marked than his — so, if you will, sen- 
liora, I am to be your guide to the poor old 
cave. Garcia and I were very happy there." 

A narrow, almost imperceptible path led 
them through the thicket of the wood. Two 
or three times they had to creep under boughs 
which, but for the ease with which they gave 
way, would seem never to have admitted a 
passage before. Suddenly the trees were 
broken by some masses„of gray rock, round 
which dwarf myrtles grew in great profusion. 

Here Minora stopped, and took from her 
basket a little lamp made of horn. Striking 
fire from some flints laid ready, she lighted 
the lamp ; and, giving Beatrice the basket, 
oade her follow her. Lifting up a heavy and 
luxuriant branch of the myrtle, she showed 
tfhat seemed the rough bare rock beneath ; 
md asking her companion to hold the lamp 
also, with both hands she raised a large slant- 
ing stone — it showed a passage, into which 
Beatrice entered with some difficulty, toge- 
ther with her companion. 

Minora first carefully replaced the myrtle 
branch, then the stone, and, taking the basket, 
baae Beatrice proceed along the passage, 
which was too narrow to admit of more than 



one at a time. This soon terminated in an 
open space, from which branched off several 
small paths. Minora now took the lead. 
"You will observe," said she, holding the 
lamp to the ground, " that the passage we 
take has a slight redness in the sand — the 
others lead to nothing." 

A short while brought them to the cave 
itself. By the lamp was dimly visible their 
own figures, and what seemed the immense 
depths of surrounding darkness. There was 
a sound as if of falling water. Minora first 
turned to a pile of wood, and, with Beatrice's 
aid, a very brilliant fire soon illuminated the 
cavern. It looked more comfortable than pic- 
turesque : the walls and roof were blackened 
with smoke — the floor was of a light dry sand 
— at one end was a huge arch, down which 
water kept constantly trickling, and beneath 
was a deep well, by the side of which was a 
ledge of rock, where any person might walk 
— beyond it was quite dark. 

"There is a passage, but it terminates in a 
piece of water, and the rock soon comes so 
low that there is no getting beyond it; and 
though the smugglers do come here still, this 
is not now their time — and you are as safe 
here as in the Escurial." 

Minora heaped fresh fftel on the fire, and 
showed where some heath and dried goat 
skins formed a very respectable bed ; while 
her companion sighed to remember that she 
herself had once resorted to a similar expe- 
dient. Next she lighted some half-a-dozen 
fir wood splinters — excellent torches, for 
whose support some rude wooden stands had 
been inserted in the walls — and pointed out ii 
a recess a most ample supply. 

" Be sure you keep a good fire ; and, as l 
may do you more harm than good by staying, 
I leave you to take what food you please from 
the basket. There's some honey, as clear as 
my own amber beads. The good Madonna 
keep you, senhora !" and , affectionately kissing 
Beatrice's hands, the kind peasant departed. 

Beatrice paced up and down her dreary 
cave, every moment starting from her revery, 
as the sound of the falling water startled her 
like a strange step. With a strong effort she 
calmed herself, and, drawing one of the 
wooden seats to the fire, opened the little vo- 
lume, and read till all vain terrors had de- 
parted, and even her natural anxiety was 
soothed into patient and sweet reliance on 
Him who suffereth not a sparrow to fall to the 
ground unheeded. 

She had a little French watch, Lorraine's 
only gift. He had said, laughingly, to her 
the last evening they spent together, " You 
shall have this to count the hours of my ab- 
sence." He did not think how sweet a com- 
panion it would be. Time, which we have 
no means of reckoning, is so dreadfully long. 
How often, that night, did Beatrice refer, with 
a warm feeling of society, to the little glitter- 
ing face over which the hours were passing ! 
The weariest time of all seemed the morning 
after she rose. It was impossible to fix her 
attention on any thing, while every moment 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



x65 



expecting some intelligence from without. At 
last she heard footsteps, and Minora came 
running before her father. 

"Ah, senhora, we have been so anxious 
about you ! If it had been possible, I would 
have returned and spent the night with you; 
for we said, to a stranger our good cave will 
seem a little dreary. How did you sleep ] 
See — we have brought you some breakfast. 
I have some chocolate, to-day." 

" Many thanks for your intended breakfast; 
but, truly, your yesterday's supply was suf- 
ficient. If I had expected visiters, I could 
have feasted them in my cavern. But my 
nurse and Pedro]" — 

" Are well, and in our cottage. As I ex- 
pected, the soldiers came down, and" — here 
Alvarez made the usual pause of narrators 
who have something unpleasant to tell. It 
usually happens that people by breaking, as 
they call it, their bad news gradually, con- 
trive to add suspense to our other miseries. 

" What has happened ]" said Beatrice, 
gasping for breath. 

" The fine old house, lady, it has been 
burned to the ground." 

Beatrice struggled for a moment; but it 
was in vain. She hid her face in her hands, 
and wept bitterly. Strange the affection 
which clings to inanimate objects — objects 
which cannot even know our love ! But it is 
not return that constitutes the strength of an 
attachment. 

"They questioned your nurse," said Alva- 
rez, " till her poor head was even more bewil- 
dered than usual ; but it was soon very evi- 
dent she knew nothing of the matter. Pedro 
knew even less ; and at last the officer let them 
go. ' He would not have,' he said, ' the poor 
old creatures injured in any way.' They were 
sent off to the village, and then the house was 
fired." 

" I am glad," sighed Beatrice, "my father 
did not see it." 

"And now, senhora, what is to be done about 
yourself? I have seen enough of you to know 
it is far best to tell you the truth. In about a 
week this cavern will be no refuge for you: 
its old occupants will be here. You will not 
be safe an hour in my cottage." 

" If," exclaimed Beatrice, " I could but get 
to the sea-shore, and embark for Naples !" 

" Have you friends you could trust there 1 
You are very young, and" — 

" I should find my father there." 

" Very well — very good, indeed. We may 
get to the coast; but to cross the wide sea, we 
know not whither, is a dreary look-out. Now, 
senhora, you and Minora are of a height ; her 
clothes will suit you, and you must pass as 
my daughter for two days. I will go and see 
you on board myself. The neighbours trou- 
ble their heads very little about my outward 
journeyings. We will be off "o-morrow." 

" The kindness you have shown me will, 
I hope, never be needed by your own child. 
Nothing can be better than your plan. Lwill 
not speak to you of trouble : I take your as- 
sistance as frankly as i', is offered." 



" You will have but a rough journey." 

" O, never fear me! I am mountain-bred." 

" We will return home as fast as we can, 
Minora; you must come back with what the 
Donna Beatrice can best wear on her journey 
— no fine colours — the dark feathered bird flies 
safest. The saints keep you, senhora! Wil: 
you be ready to start by daybreak to-morrow V 

" One word, good Alvarez. You see" — 
producing her purse — "I am well provided 
for a journey." 

" A good companion on travel ; and, to tell 
you the truth, senhora, the one we most 
wanted." 

Again Beatrice was left to her loneliness, 
broken, however, by Minora's afternoon visit. 
It is an ill wind that blows nobody good. The 
young peasant left the cave, happy in the pos- 
session of a rosary of cut coral beads, which, 
after much blushing, smiling, and refusing, 
she had at length been forced to accept. She 
was also depositary of the golden chain, the 
produce of whose sale was to be devoted to 
the nurse's support. 

That night was even longer than its pre- 
decessor. Anticipation is a bad sleeping 
draught. Moreover, the fear of being too 
late, made Beatrice continually start from her 
anxious slumber. Long before the time, she 
was up and dressed. Her new apparel con- 
sisted of a dark-blue bodice and skirt, trim- 
med with a narrow red braid; a white linen 
veil, and large cloak of black serge, with a 
capacious hood ; stockings of dark-blue cloth 
— hempen sandals. A string of large black 
oaken beads completed her dress. Minora, 
with a true fellow feeling, had placed her own 
little mirror at the bottom of the basket; and, 
it must be owned, Beatrice did take a rather 
satisfactory glance. Even in the very worst 
of situations, no woman is quite insensible to 
her personal attractions, or would willingly 
look worse than she can help. Small atten- 
tions, too, are essentially womanly. 

Beatrice hurried her own breakfast, that 
there might be no delay on her part, but pre- 
pared some of the chocolate for Alvarez, who 
was punctual to his time. " Why, I could 
almost take you for Minora," said the old 
man, on his entrance. " What ! breakfast — 
and the chocolate made] Well, you know 
the old proverb, ' Meat and drink never hin- 
dered journey.' Very good it is too — though 
I had breakfasted — for, with your leave, sen- 
hora, we did not. give you credit for being 
half so ready." 

A soft gray tinge, half mist, half light, palo 
as it was, dazzled Beatrice's eyes when sho 
emerged from the cave. Two mules were in 
waiting: she sprung lightly upon the one in- 
tended°for her. At first cautiously— from the 
broken path — and afterwards at a brisk pace, 
they commenced their journey. Beatrice's 
own embarrassment was its only difficulty. 
Accustomed to live in such unbroken solitude, 
the sight of the many strangers they met al- 
most bewildered her. The light conversation 
in which Alvarez at times joined was like 
the language of another world. She fancied 



166 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



every person looked especially at her. How 
odd it is, that any secret or anxiety of which 
we are ourselves aware, we immediately think 
every one else suspects ! 

They arrived about noon at the seaport, and 
alighted at a small inn, where Alvarez left her, 
with a rough charge, not to be staring about, 
under the care of a good-humoured but most 
talkative landlady. He had, at every place 
where they stopped, been as cross to his sup- 
posed daughter as a crabbed old gentleman 
could be, which served to account for her shy- 
ness, and for which he always begged pardon 
as soon as they were out of hearing. She 
waited a half hour of intolerable anxiety, 
when Alvarez returned. "Come, girl — I have 
found out your aunt — there, don't be looking 
behind- -and draw your veil over your face. 
How slow you are !" 

" Well, well," said the landlady, " he ought 
to take care of his daughter — she is pretty 
enough; but no good will come of his being 
so cross." 

" We are very fortunate, senhora," said 
Alvarez, as soon as they were in the street ; 

there is a felucca on the point of sailing to 
"Naples — I have secured a passage, but we 
>nust not lose a minute." 

They had scarcely time to get on board. 
Dizzy with the motion of the water, confused 
with the noise, terrified to think she would be 
alone in a few minutes, — much as she wished 
to spare his anxiety, Beatrice could hardly 
force out her farewell thanks to Alvarez. Me- 
chanically she watched him as he descended 
to the boat — heavily the sound of the oars 
smote upon her ear — she looked eagerly round, 
but every face was strange and careless : how 
bitterly did she feel that she was alone ! 

" I guess how it is," said the captain of the 
ship, whose kind and even sweet voice con- 
trasted strongly with his rough appearance; 
" you are not the first who has found a can- 
vass sail safer than a silken bed. Poor child! 
you look very young for care or hardship. 
Well, you are secure enough here : if we can- 
not make you comfortable, at least we will 
try. In half an hour you will have a snug 
little cabin to yourself." 

Beatrice had early learnt the useful lesson 
of conforming to circumstances ; she thanked 
the captain cheerfully, and readily took a seat 
on some piled baskets. " Give me the child 
to hold," exclaimed our young Spaniard to a 
poor woman whose increasing faintness made 
her terribly conscious of her inability and her 
charge. The poor creature murmured a few 
words, gave up the infant, and let her head 
sink on a coil of ropes. When the captain 
came to say that her cabin was ready, her first 
request was that her unfortunate companion 
might be conveyed thither also; and for some 
hours she most kindly and soothingly enacted 
the part of nurse to the child. Luckily for 
her it was a good little sleepy thing. Over 
fatigue and exhaustion were evidently the mo- 
ther's causes of illness. Alvarez, even in the 
brief space of time he had been absent, had 
stocked a sea chest with many little comforts 



and necessaries. She took some wine and a 
piece of biscuit, and with some difficulty in- 
duced the invalid to swallow them, who, after 
slumbering for about an hour, awoke much 
revived. With a degree of gratitude almost 
painful to receive, she soon joined Beatrice in 
doing due honour to some eggs and coffee, 
which the latter, who had already made friends 
with a boy, who, too young for much work, 
was yet proud of showing his usefulness, had 
boiled. 

A good action always meets its reward — so 
says the copy book : in this instance it said 
the truth — for Beatrice found her companion 
invaluable. She was the widow of a sailor, 
returning home to her friends at Naples. Ac- 
tive, and well known to the sailors, she en- 
abled the young and timid voyager to remain 
almost entirely secluded in her cabin, which 
she never left save for a little air in the 
evening. 

It would have done those good who talk of 
common feelings as evil and coarse, to mark 
the little attentions, the delicate kindliness, 
with which the sailors cleared a path for her 
steps, or made a seat of planks and sails for 
the young Spanish exile. Alvarez had told 
her history truly. He judged rightly, because 
he judged others by the better part of his own 
nature. Yet it was a weary and sad voyage. 
Beatrice had never lived in luxury, but she 
had in refinement — the refinement of nature, 
solitude, and intellectual pursuits. She had 
dwelt in stately rooms, whose torn tapestries 
and shattered furniture were associated with 
noble and stirring memories ; her lute, a few 
books, and gentle cares for her mother, had 
filled up her time. Her eyes had dwelt on 
the stately forest and thS dark mountain; her 
step was accustomed to the silver dew and the 
fragrant heath. She had been used to fami- 
liar faces, and had hitherto reckoned time but 
by the falling leaf or the opening flower. Now 
her room was a wretched cabin the size of a 
closet, and that, too, rudely formed of boards. 
The incessant noise, the loud voices, the sa- 
vour of the pitch, which seemed to be part of 
every thing she touched — the s! range faces, 
the faint, sick feeling that perpetually stole 
over her, made her indeed pine for the wings 
of the dove that nestled in the trees of her 
native woods. 

If it were not for romance, reality would be 
unbearable ; nevertheless, they are very dif- 
ferent things. Beatrice had often thought, 
with a passionate longing, of the eternal 
ocean, the mighty mirror of the stars and the 
sunshine of heaven — she had listened to the 
autumn wind sweeping the depths of the dark 
woods, and marvelled if its sound resembled 
the stormy murmur of the waves : but, now 
that she was at sea, most devoutly did she 
pray to be on shore, and wept with very de- 
light when they saw land. 

I doubt whether any minor on his travels, 
sleeping in his carriage on deck, secure of be- 
ing awakened by his valet at the proper mo- 
ment for being in ecstasies with the lovely 
bay of Naples, ever approached its shore 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



167 



with greater indifference to the prospect than 
Beatrice. She was much too agitated to ob- 
serve it, and watched the crowd on the quay 
with mingled terror and anxiety. The idea 
that Lorraine might be among them was up- 
permost in her mind. A vague hope of her 
lover's presence is always floating in a wo- 
man's mind ; and though Beatrice said she 
hoped to meet her father, she thought she 
might, perhaps, meet Edward too. 

Her companion had promised to be her 
guide to Signor Pachetti's, who, she was 
somewhat surprised to learn, was a goldbeater 
on the Strada. Still, with the natural feeling 
of one who has lived in seclusion, it seemed 
impossible but that a crowd so immense must 
contain those she sought. With brief but 
earnest thanks she quitted the felucca, and 
her last few coins were left with the sailors 
of the boat. Clinging to, rather than leaning 
on, the arm of the woman with her, Beatrice's 
head swam with the confusion of meeting so 
many eyes. With what envy did she see her 
companion rush into the arms of an old man ! 
— " il mio padre" exclaimed she, and gave 
him the child. Some hasty words passed be- 
tween them, and in a few moments they were 
traversing a narrow street which led to the 
Strada, and soon stopped at a small, mean- 
looking shop. 

Taking leave of her kind companions, who 
seemed very reluctant to go in, Beatrice en- 
tered alone. A harsh voice, in an unfamiliar 
language, demanded her business. How 
strange does another tongue sound in our 
ears ! Though perfectly acquainted with Ita- 
lian, the question was thrice repeated before 
she comprehended its meaning. Glancing 
hurriedly around, to ascertain if they were 
alone, she approached the thin, miserable- 
looking being whose figure began to emerge 
from the surrounding darkness ; she leant for- 
ward, and, in a whisper, pronounced the pass- 
word taught by her father. The old man 
hastily pulled down his spectacles from their 
sinecure office on his forehead, and looked at 
her with an expression of most angry amaze- 
ment. "Now, the good St. Januarius help 
me ! but it is my opinion that all the world 
are gone mad. Women and mischief, women 
and mischief — when were they ever sepa- 
rate?" 

" I shall trouble you but little," said Bea- 
trice, her pride and her presence of mind 
rising together: "I am the daughter of Don 
Henriquez de los Zoridos : my father is here, 
I believe, and it is at his bidding that I have 
come." 

" Don Henriquez here ! — no, indeed : evil 
was the hour that ever I listened to any of his 
wild schemes ! Why, the insurrection he 
went to head, and which was to change the 
whole face of affairs in Spain, was blown 
away like a swarm of musquitoes. Zoridos 
has, I dare say, been killed — I have heard no- 
thing of him — I know nothing about him." 

"A fortnight," said Beatrice, "has not 
elapsed since 1 heard from my father : he ap- 



pointed to meet me here, as at the house of one 
who knew his secrets and held his property." 

" Property !" said the man, hastily, and 
with a more civil manner — " I never denied 
it — I am a safe person to trust. So the don 
has escaped? I hope he's by this time sick 
of conspiracies. One wax taper, two wax 
tapers, to the good Saint Januarius, to set me 
free of these luckless Carbonari ! No good 
comes of change. How has the world gone 
on so long, if every thing needs altering now ? 
But, you, senhora, what do you want of me V 9 

" Protection in a strange city till my father's 
arrival — or till I can hear from my friends. 
Fear not that Don Henriquez will spare his 
reward." 

" Well, if this is not too bad !" 

But what the new speaker, a woman, 
thought too bad, was not destined to be ex- 
pressed at this moment ; for, Signor Pachetti 
hastily dragging his most unwilling compa- 
nion into some room behind, their words were 
quite inaudible. In a few minutes they reap 
peared. Signor Pachetti introduced the fe- 
male as his wife, who desired the donna tG 
walk in — in a tone which sounded as if she 
had said, walk out. 

The evening had now closed in, and a little 
earthenware lamp dimly lighted a small close 
room, where a table was laid, apparently for 
supper. Her hostess pushed forward a chair, 
and after examining the contents of a closet, 
sat down also. The husband, who had em- 
ployed the interval in closing the shop, re-en- 
tered, and likewise drew a chair to the table. 
A hungry-looking hag brought in a dish of 
fried fish;, and supper began in the most pro- 
found silence, only broken by Signor Pachet- 
ti's occasionally offering to help his guest, 
which he did in a hesitating voice, and every 
word accompanied by a deprecating glance at 
his wife, who returned it with one of those 
dark frowns which are the black clouds that 
foretell a domestic tempest. 

Beatrice now found herself in that most 
painful situation — an unwelcome visiter — 
knowing that she was an intruder, yet utterly 
unable to help herself. Supper was scarcely 
over, when her hostess rose — " I suppose the 
stranger sleeps here — you can come this way." 
So saying, she lighted another lamp, and 
showed her unfortunate guest to a room, the 
dirt and misery of whose appearance was as 
new to her as it w T as wretched. Without a 
word, she set down the lamp, and slammed 
the door — the very eloquence of anger to the 
vulgar. 

Disappointment too great to bear — vexa- 
tion at the timidity which had prevented 
her asking about Lorraine — anger at her re- 
ception — dismay at her situation, overcame 
all her resolution, and it was long before she 
even struggled with her passion of tears. 
The absurdity would have lightened the in- 
sult, could she have suspected that her hostess 
was jealous, not inhospitable. Jealousy ought 
to be tragic, to save it from being ridien 
lous. 



168 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



CHAPTER LIV. 

You're very welcome." 
" Yet the charmed spell 



Shakspeare. 



Which summons man to high discovery- 
Is ever vocal in the outward world, 
Though they alone may hear it who have hearts 
Responsive to its tone. The gale of spring, 
Breathing sweet balm over the western waters, 
Called forth that gifted old adventurer 
To seek the perfumes of spice-laden winds 
Far in the Indian isles." 

Cambridge Prize Poem : the North West Passage. 
G. S. Venables. 

''Don't you, Mandeville, take an especial 
interest in your young plantations, and say to 
yourself, 'How much more taste I have in the 
disposition of oak, elm, and beech, than my 
ancestors had !' " 

" To what does this allusion, whose truth 
I confess, tend 1 ?" said her husband, smiling. 

" Why, I want you to sympathize with me 
in my rejoicing over Emily's improvement ; 
you know I set it all down to my own judi- 
cious advice and exquisite example." 

" You need not put on a deprecating look ; 
I am not going to find a single fault. Emily 
is wonderfully improved — she has lost all 
that was painful, and retained all that was 
pleasing, in her timidity ; and to her own na- 
tural graces she has added divers acquired 
ones, for which I do confess she is greatly 
indebted to you : and then she is so very 
much prettier than I ever gave her credit for 
being." 

"That is," said Lady Mandeville, "be- 
cause now you always see her dressed, to ad- 
vantage." 

" Nay, Ellen, you will not tell me that a 
pretty gown makes a pretty woman." 

" It does a great deal towards it; but you 
gentlemen always run away with some vague 
idea of white muslin and cottage bonnet sim- 
plicity, which you call dress — which, in reality, 
ought to be numbered among the fine arts, 
and requires both natural and cultivated taste. 
Now, Emily had the one, but wanted the 
other. During her first season she was left 
to her own inventions — the heaviest of mis- 
fortunes to a young damsel. Lady Alicia 
was just ' ivorie neatly fashipned ;' and Emily 
came up to town a domestic darling and rural 
beauty. Her self-estimate was at once true 
and false — true, as regarded the really pretty 
face she did possess : false, as regarded the 
effect to be produced by the said face. She 
was not so much vain, as convinced of her 
own importance, from having been all her life 
the principal object in her own circle; finding 
herself suddenly of little consequence, she 
shrunk back into all her natural timidity, and 
left London with a great stock of mortification, 
a little sentiment, and having acquired more 
knowledge than wisdom." 

" Wisdom," observed Lord Mandeville, 
"is only knowledge well applied." 

" My pretty protegee was very little likely 
to turn hers to much account. Remember 
how we found her — living in the most entire 
seclusion, cherishing grief like a duty, nursing 
all sorts of fancies ' vain and void,' neglecting 



herself, indulging in the most morbid sensi- 
bility, and having every probability of wast- 
ing the best days of her life in sickly seclu- 
sion, and either dying of a consumption, or, 
when she came to the romantic age in woman 
— I mean between forty and fifty — marrying 
some fortune hunter who could talk sentiment, 
or resembled her first love. Nous avons 
change tout cela. A beauty and an heiress — 
coming out under my auspices ! think of the 
effect Emily Arundel will produce next sea- 
son." 

" Why not marry her at once to Cecil Spen 
serl" said Lord Mandeville, abruptly. 

There is a most characteristic difference in 
the way a man and a woman take to introduce 
a desired topic : the one, like a knight, claps 
spurs to his steed, and rides straight into the 
field ; the other, like an Indian, fights behind 
cover, and watches her opportunity: the 
knight often misses the enemy, the Indian 
never. Lord Mandeville was more abrupt 
than ingenious. 

"I marry Emily to Mr. Spenser]" said the 
lady, with a most meek air of utter inability • 
"really I do think she may be allowed a 
choice of her own. I cannot take her feelings, 
as well as her ringlets, under my charge. 
You give me credit for authority which I not 
only do not possess, but shall be sorry to ac- 
quire." 

" Well, Ellen, you must have your own 
way ; but this I must say, Emily Arundel is 
a girl of whose strong feelings I think even 
your penetration is scarcely aware." 

"Truly I am one very likely to encourage 
romance in any young lady ! Did you ever 
know me to patronise moonlight walks, or 
talk even forgivingly of cottages and roses ? 
and have I not a natural antipathy to honey- 
suckle ?" 

" ' And raillery takes the field for reason ;' 

it is vain to argue with a woman : just like 
walking in London on a rainy day, for every 
step forward, you slide back two at least; and 
even as the mud slips from under you, so does 
her mind. I wish, Ellen, you were a little 
more reasonable." 

" You should have thought of that before 
you married me ; but now your misfortune is 
irreparable, 

' Till gentle death shall come and set you free.' 
And there is the carriage ; so now for our 
drive — I want to make some purchases in the 
La Strada." 

How very satisfactory those discussions 
must be, where each party retains their own 
opinion ! Presentiments — those clouds, indi- 
cative of change, which pass over the mind— 
what are they 1 They come, and they come 
not. W^ho shall deny but that some events 
"cast their shadows before;" while others, 
and those, too, the great ones of our life, come 
suddenly and without sign : 

" As ships that have gone clown at sea 
When heaven was all tranquillity 1" 

Surely some presentiment ought to have in- 
formed both Emily and Lady Mandeville of 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



169 



the event that day was to bring forth. It came 
not ; and they set off for the gay shops of La 
Strada, as if only a few yards of riband had 
depended on that morning. They were all in 
the very act of returning to the carriage, when 
who should emerge from a small, mean-look- 
ing jeweller's shop, but Edward Lorraine 1 ? 
Emily saw him first — how soon we recognise 
the object uppermost in the mind ! — she did 
not, however, even attempt to speak — her 
cheek grew pale — her heart seemed to stop 
beating — she almost felt as if she wished him 
not to recognise them : the next minute they 
all met, and Lady Mandeville was the first to 
exclaim, 

" Mr. Lorraine ! now what chance brought 
you here 1 ?" 

" A most fortunate one," replied Edward ; 
and mutual and cordial greetings took place, — 
though there was something very satisfactory 
to Cecil Spenser in Emily's silence, and cold 
and distant bow. There are a great many false 
things in this world, but none are so false as 
appearances. 

" Of course you will accompany us home," 
said Lord Mandeville. 

" I suppose you are just arrived." 

" I arrived yesterday." 

Inquiries of that small kind with which con- 
versation, after absence, always commences 
among friends, occupied the way to the car- 
riage. Lorraine was installed in the vacant 
place, the other two gentlemen followed on 
horseback. Lady Mandeville was in the best 
of all possible humours — she was really glad 
to see Edward on his own, and delighted to 
see him on Emily's account. In short, to use 
the favourite newspaper phrase for all cases of 
escape, whether from fire, water, or mail 
coachmen, (we mean their driving,) his ap- 
pearance was " quite providential." She was 
only anxious about Miss Arundel's looks — 
they were irreproachable. The pretty little 
mouth, all unconsciously, had broken into 
" dimples and smiles," the eyes darkened and 
danced in their own delight, and her colour 
was like that of the young rose when it puts 
back its green hood from its cheek, crimson 
with the first kisses of the morning. A little 
judicious encouragement soon led her to take 
part in the conversation, — and the drive seem- 
ed ended almost before it had began. Edward 
could not help pausing on the steps of the hall, 
to express his admiration of the great improve- 
ment in Emity. " What a lovely creature she 
is grown !" Lady Mandeville gave him the 
very sweetest of smiles. 

Their early dinner was ready ; and some of 
the party, at least, were very happy. Lord 
Mandeville partially forgot the interests of his 
young friend in the charm of Edward's conver- 
sation. Cecil was the only one who was in 
the u winter of discontent;" but it was very 
hard to be placed himself between a French 
countess — young, pretty, and exacting the 
amount of such demands in full — and a Miss 
Arabin, an English heiress, whose designs 
upon him had grown from amusing to alarm- 
ing. He had not even the consolation o ' sit- 
Vol. I.— 22 



ting opposite to Emily ; she was on the other 
side, between the countess's husband — a man 
whom nothing abstracted from the glorious 
science to which, as he said, he had for years 
devoted every faculty of his body and mind, 
viz. eating. To enjoy his dinner first, and 
afterwards to reflect on that enjoyment, com- 
prised the whole of his estimate of table 
duties : as for talking, it was sometimes matter 
of necessity, but never of pleasure. It was 
said he only married in order to have a wife 
to talk for him ; and if anyone asked him how 
he did, his constant reply was, mais demandez 
a ma femme. There was no hope, therefore, 
of his distracting Emily's attention from the 
handsome Lorraine on the other side. How 
is human happiness ever to be arranged, when 
the same cause produces such different effects'? 
Emily's satisfaction was utterly irreconcilable 
with Cecil's. In the position of the table she 
could imagine no change for the better. Poor 
Cecil resigned himself in despair to the gayety 
of the countess, and the sentiment of the heir- 
ess. He turned from the bright black eyes of 
the one to the soft blue eyes of the other, and 
he escaped from a smile only to be lost in a 
sigh. Miss Arabin looked at him, la telle 
comtesse laughed at him. Please to remember 
there are two ways of laughing at a person ; 
and Madame de St. Ligne had often had the 
pretty French madrigal applied to her : 

"Elle a tres bien cette gorge d'albatre, 
Ce doux parler, et ces beaux yeux ; 
Mais, en effet, ce petit ris folutre 
C'est a mon gre ce qui lui sied le mieux." 

To be laughed at with eyes full of compli- 
ment, and a mouth whose teeth were little seed 
pearls, ought to have been rather pleasant ; 
but Cecil was not in a humour to be pleased. 
Miss Arabin, seeing he was graver than his 
wont, looked as sad as she conveniently could 
— gravity and sensibility being, with her, 
synonymous. She talked of withered flowers 
and blighted feelings — of the worthlessness of 
fortune when weighed in the scale of affection, 
and of the little real happiness there is in this 
world ; till Cecil took refuge from them both, 
by being suddenly most deeply interested in a 
discussion carrying on opposite to him, about 
the facilities of going by steam to Timbuctoo. 
The consequence was, that Miss Arabin said 
he was such a coxcomb, and Mde. de St. 
Ligne that he was si bete. 

" To me," remarked Lord Mandeville, 
" there is something very melancholy in the 
many valuable lives which have been sacri- 
ficed during the course of African discovery. 
But I believe that travelling is as much a 
passion as love, poetry, or ambition. What 
of less force than a passion could, in the first 
instance, induce men to fix their thoughts on 
undertakings whose difficulties and dangers 
were at once so obvious and so many ] What 
but a passion (and the energy of passion is 
wonderful) could support them through toil, 
hardship, and suffering— all in the very face 
of death — and for what'? But true it is, that 
of any great exertion in which the mind has 
part, the best reward is in the exertion itself." 



170 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" I do not know any thing," observed Mr. 
Brande, " that has more moved my sympathy 
than Bruce's position on his return home. 
After all he had suffered, and, still more, all 
he had overcome, to find, when he arrived in 
his own country, having performed one of the 
most extraordinary undertakings that was ever 
accomplished by a single individual, — to find, 
I say, on his return, that he was a by-word 
and a mockery; his honourable feelings as a 
gentleman insulted by disbelief of his asser- 
tions ; and his own high sense of difficulties 
dared and overcome, laid in the dust by sneer 
and ridicule, which must have entered into his 
very soul, and left their own littleness be- 
hind." 

" Or," returned Lord Mandeville, " what 
do you say to Columbus returning laden with 
irons from his own discovered world, which, 
to this very day, does not even bear his 
name V 

" Why, I say," exclaimed Cecil, " that I 
do not see the advantage of taking much trou- 
ble about any thing." 

" I cannot agree with you," said Edward. 
" The imagination makes the delight of the 
exertion which itself supports. The feeling 
with which Columbus saw the gleam of that 
white-winged bird which avouched that land 
was near — the breath of leaves and spices, 
sweet airs whose sweetness was of the ' earth, 
earthy' — the dim outline of the shore becom- 
ing gradually distinct, as the nightshade broke 
away from the face of morning and a new T 
world, — I do think that such a feeling might 
be weighed in the balance with thousands of 
disgusts and disappointments, and find them 
wanting, and not pressing down the scale." 

" I believe," observed Lady Mandeville, 
" that our greatest enjoyments go into the 
smallest space : they are like essences — the 
richer the more they are concentrated. One 
drop of the attar condenses a whole valley of 
roses." 

" But, sir," said Mr. Brande — who, being 
a traveller himself, considered that their in- 
juries were personal ones — " look at the long 
years of obloquy and wrong, of taunts and 
doubts, which imbittered Bruce's return 
home." 

" I can only repeat, — think of his feelings 
when he stood by the three mystic and sacred 
fountains, and saw the morning sun shine on 
their deep waters, and could say to himself, 
' I, alone and unaided, have done what kings, 
at the head of banded armies, tried to do and 
failed. I am the Alexander of the Nile.' I 
say of these fountains, what Scott says of a 
martial company, 

Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, 
One glance at their array.' 

Besides, do you hold as nothing his own con- 
sciousness of right V 

"Why, sir," replied Mr. Brande, "truth is 
a good thing — a very good thing — but one 
iikes to have it believed ; and a traveller has 
a right to his honours, as a labourer to his 
hire " 



"Ah," said Lady Mandeville, ,; I see how it 
is. Mr. Brande would like his travels to Tim- 
buctoo to go through some dozen editions — tc 
enlist the whole alphabet after his name, as 
fellow of this society, and fellow of the othel 
— honorary member of half the continental 
institutes — some score of silver and gold 
medals laid in red morocco cases on his table 
— his name to be affixed to some red or yellow 
flower, never heard of but in a book, nor seen 
but in a print — or to have some rock christen- 
ed as an is'and in honour of him — also, to 
have his picture taken and engraved." 

" Add to these, my lady," replied the tra- 
veller, laughing, " the privilege of telling my 
own stories after dinner uncontradicted." 

" I thank you," said Lorraine, " for rein- 
forcing my favourite theory, which maintains 
that a love of talking is the great feature of 
the present time. Steam is not half so much 
its characteristic as speechifying." 

" Our monopoly of talking," observed Lady 
Mandeville, " is being transferred to you gen- 
tlemen. I saw some English newspapers the 
other day, and I must say London just now 
seems visited with the plague of tongues. 
Why, there is our friend Mr. Delawarr, every 
evening — poor unhappy Wednesday not now 
excepted — gets up and speaks at the rate of 
ten miles an hour, or, I should rather say, ten 
hours a mile, to judge by the little progress 
he makes. When did any of us ever say a 
quarter so much 1" 

"The supply," replied Lord Mandeville, 
" in this case, does not create the demand. 
What woman could ever find listeners willing 
to go such lengths'?" 

" There, now !" exclaimed Mde. de Ligne, 
" that speech is just your belle alliance of per- 
siflage and politeness : half of what vos autres 
Anglais call witty speeches, are only rude. 
Who but an Englishman would have thought 
of tellinor a woman she w T ould not be listened 
to ?" 

" Perhaps a Turk," replied Lord Mande- 
ville. 

" Ah, you see you are forced to seek a like- 
ness to yourself among barbarians," returned 
the lady. 

" Do you regret or rejoice at the prospect 
of returning to England?" asked Lorraine of 
Emily. 

. " I count the days. I have been surprised 
— delighted — with a great deal that I have 
seen ; but I quite pine to behold the old hall, 
and be at home again." 

"Ah, Emily!" exclaimed Lady Mande- 
ville, " you are intensely English. I believe, 
in your heart, you think the ruins so called of 
Sir John Arundel's chapel, which said ruins 
consist of a broken wall and some scattered 
bricks, are more picturesque than all the 
mouldering temples, half marble and half 
acanthus, to be found "in Italy ; and I am per- 
suaded one great reason why you want to bo 
at home again, is to see if ) r our myrtle tree is 
grown taller than yourself." 

" I, for one," said Edward, " sympathize 
in Miss Arundel's reminiscences. I do nol 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



171 



20 quite the length of the modern philosopher, 
who asserts that our nature is not wholly so- 
phisticated so long as we retain our juvenile 
predilection in favour of apple dumpling; but 
I do think that the affection which clings to 
the home of our childhood — the early love 
which lingers round the flowers we have sown, 
the shrubs we have planted — is, though a sim- 
ple, a sweet and purifying influence on the 
character. I cannot help thinking that the 
drooping bough, the fairy-like rose, lend 
something of their own grace to one who has 
loved them and made them her ecEipamons. 

" Now," ejaculated Lady Mandeville, " I 
expect to hear, as a finish, that you have fallen 
in love with some mountain nymph, who has 
found your heart w T eak and large enough to 
contain herself, crook, flock, simplicity and 
all." 

" I plead guilty," said Edward, " to no 
such pastoral taste." 

" A gentleman's idea of simplicity always 
amuses me," returned Lady Mandeville* " I 
have nothing to say against Nature — and I 
have no doubt a lady made by her would be 
a very charming person ; but where is unso- 
phisticated nature to be found 1 where is the 
beauty, however rustic or rural she may be, 
without some touch of art] And if nature is 
to be modelled, let it be by refinement, grace, 
and education. Again I say, I laugh at your 
idea of simplicity. It always puts me in mind 
of the heroines in novels, from Sir Walter 
Scott's Di Vernon downwards. In order to 
give an idea of beauty unspoiled by art, the 
heroine's hat falls off, and her hair falls down, 
while she looks lovely in dishevelled ringlets. 
Now, they quite forget two things : first, that 
though the hat may come off, it is by no 
means a necessary consequence that the hair 
should come down too; and secondly, if it 
did, the damsel would only look an untidy 
fright. And your notions of simplicity in real 
life are just as consistent." 

" Do you not think," asked Mde. de Ligne, 
" that there are some faces which a simple 
style suits V 

"Agreed," replied Lady Mandeville ; "but 
I hope you call such style only 

' The carelessness yet the most studied to kill.' " 

"How beautiful," said Mr. Brande, "is 
the simplicity of the ancient statues !" 

"Yet they would have been," retorted 
Lady Mandeville, "just as natural in an un- 
easy or an ungraceful attitude; but the sculp- 
tor had the good taste to select the attitude 
most pleasing, the folds of drapery the most 
harmonious." 

" Lady Mandeville only contends," said 
Edward, " that Nature should make, not a 
sacrifice, but an offering to the Graces." 

" Few things have struck me more since 
my arrival in Italy," said Mr. Brande, " than 
the little real love my countrymen have for 
the fine arts; they may affect 'a taste,' but 
'they have it not.' I should have wonder- 
ed still more at this want, had I not felt it 
in myself. I have seen others hurrying, and 



I have hurried, from cr llection to collection, 
from gallery to gallery, with nothing but the 
fear of the future before my eyes — that future 
which, when we return home, makes it an im- 
perative necessity to say we have seen such 
things. We rise up early in the morning, and 
late take rest — we crowd time and memory, 
for the sake of one pleasant remark, ' Well, I 
do declare it is quite wonderful that you could 
manage to see so much in so short a time !' " 

" Our English taste for the fine arts," said 
Lord Mandeville, " may be classed under two 
heads — ostentatious and domestic. Our nobi- 
lity and gentry buy fine pictures and statues 
as they do fine furniture, to put in fine rooms. 
They are indications of wealth — articles of 
luxury — bought far more with reference to 
w*hat others will think, than to what we our- 
selves will feel. A gentleman fills his gal- 
lery with paintings, and his sideboard with 
plate, on the same principle. Then, as to ob- 
jects of art that attain the greatest popularity 
among us — which are they] Portraits of our- 
selves, our wives, children, brothers, uncles, 
nephews, nieces, and cousins. We like paint- 
ings of horses, bulls, dogs, &c. ; or we like 
small scenes from common life — children, 
especially if they are naughty — and a set of 
breakfast or tea things are irresistible. In 
sculpture, who will deny our preference for 
busts, or our passion for monuments ? What 
are the casts which enjoy most plaster of 
Paris popularity ] Napoleon in his cocked 
hat — the Duke of Wellington — Tarn o'Shan- 
ter and Souter Johnny — though even these 
yielded in attraction to china Madame Yestris 
or Liston as broom girls." 

" The prettiest casts that ever found favour 
in our island ej^es," added Lorraine, "were 
the reading and writing Cupids. People 
bought them out of compliment to their own. 
little chubby cherubs. ' Pretty dears !' I 
once heard a woman say — ' bless their nice 
little fat arms !' " 

"Look at the enthusiasm," rejoined Mr. 
Brande, " about the works of art at Rome. 
The story of the barber — I have forgotten the 
artist's name — who flung himself at the .cardi- 
nal's feet, and implored him to take away his 
life, but not the picture which had been paint- 
ed beneath his roof — is a simple fact. The 
very postilions reign up their horses, and 
point out to strangers, with a gesture of pride, 
the first glimpse of St. Peter's. It would be 
long enough before one of Mr. Newman's 
postboys stopped on Highgate Hill to point 
out the cupola of St. Paul's." 

"And yet," said Lorraine, "we are not 
without some sort of attachment to it — I do 
think we attach an idea of respectability to 
St. Paul's." 

" Perhaps," returned Lady Mandeville, 
" from its vicinity to the bank — to say no- 
thing of its utility to set watches by." 

" Our insular imagination is the exact re- 
verse," observed Lord Mandeville, " of the 
Italians' : theirs delights in outward impres* 
sions — ours dwells on internal impressions 
theirs is the imagination of the ideas — ours o 



172 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



the feelings; they create a world — we exag- 
gerate the influences of the one in which we 
live. Whether in painting or in poetry, we 
are egotists — we like what we can bring home 
to ourselves. Byron is our poet of passion — 
because it is passion we have felt, or fancied 
we have felt or could feel. Wordsworth is 
our poet of philosophy — because we all think 
we have practised, or could practise, his phi- 
losophy. The groundwork of the imagina- 
tion of the Italians is fancy — that of the Eng- 
lish is sentiment." 

" It is curious to observe," said Mr. Brande, 
"the varieties of national character. The 
laws of the universe" — 

" Nay," exclaimed Lady Mandeville, " pray 
keep a discussion on the laws of the universe 
till we are in England — it will accord with 
the reigning whim. While reforming and 
settling as we are now doing, to arrange for 
the whole world will be a small matter. But 
such a weighty business is too much for this 
land of sunshine and rose — I move we do ad- 
journ the meeting." 

" It is an old privilege of mine," said Lor- 
raine, " to bring my adventures to your feet. 
I have really been sufficiently romantic lately 
for recital. May I find audience ' meet, 
though few V " Lady Mandeville and Emily 
were standing side by side — both smiled ac- 
quiescence. " The balcony of the fountain is 
the very place wherein to enact a scene from 
Boccacio." 



CHAPTER LV. 

u Alas ! the heart o'eracts its part ; its mirth, 
Like light, will all too often take its birth 
'Mid darkness and decay. Those smiles that press, 
Like the gay crowd round, are not happiness— 
For Peace broods quiet on her dovelike wings— 
And this false gayety a radiance flings, 
Dazzling, but hiding not. And some who dwelt 
Upon her meteor beauty, sadness felt; 
Its very brilliance spoke the fever'd breast- 
Thus glitter not the waters when at rest." 

L. E. L. 

Who that had looked on that trio, as the 
young cavalier commenced his narration, but 
would have thought, " What a fairy-like pic- 
ture of beauty and enjoyment!" The balcony 
was filled with young orange trees, wearing 
the first white promises of coming spring, 
whose rich perfume blended with the violets 
heaped below. A little fountain flung up its 
sparry rain, which then fell on the leaves 
around, and there lay glistening. Grove and 
garden were wrapped in that rich puvple at- 
mosphere when day has caught the first 
shadow of night — its softness, but not its 
gloom. There was a glorious sunset on the 
other side of the house, but the sky opposite 
was clear and pale, and only edged towards 
the west by two or three wandering clouds, 
whose freight of colour softened from crim- 
son to the faintest rose. A large window 
opened into the room, whose painted walls 
looked in the dim light as if life were in their 
gracefil forms. A small statue of Hebe was 



placed on the balcony, and against that Emily 
leakic, so near that the hues of her own cheek 
were reflected on the marble. 

Lorraine, had resolved, if possible, to in 
terest Lady Mandeville in the beautiful bu' 
isolated Spanish girl. He had lived too much 
in society not to be solicitous about its opi- 
nion ; and was somewhat over anxious thai 
Beatrice should at once take that place which 
would meet both her deserts and his wishes. 
The difference that there is between a wo- 
man's love and a man's ! His passion may 
lead him, in the first instance, to act in oppo- 
sition to opinion — but its influence is only sus- 
pended ; and soon a sneer or a censure wounds 
his pride and weakens his love. A woman's 
heart, on the contrary, reposes more on itself, 
and a fault found in the object of her attach 
ment is resented as an injury : she is angered, 
not altered. 

Briefly, as briefly as lover could well speak 
of his mistress, Edward recounted his engage- 
ment with Beatrice de los Zoridos ; and never, 
certainly, was narrative less interrupted. Lad} 
Mandeville dared not even look at Emily , 
and when under the absolute necessity of say- 
ing something, the very faculty of speech 
seemed to desert her. It looked so odd not to 
reply to Edward with all the kindness he had 
a right to expect; while it would be so cruel 
to Emily to congratulate him with any degree 
of warmth. To her utter astonishment, Emily 
actually was the first to speak. " Nay, Mr. 
Lorraine, you ought to canvass me ; do you 
not know that all the gracious countenance 
Lady Mandeville can extend is mine by pledge 
and promise 1 I do not know whether I will 
allow her to grant the light of her favour to 
any rival next season — more especially to one 
so dangerous to the undivided effect I mean to 
produce, as this beautiful and interesting un- 
known." 

Edward made some deprecatory reply ; and 
Lady Mandeville recovered breath and presence 
of mind together. 

" Positively," exclaimed Madame de Ligne, 
" I will admit no more of these divided coun- 
cils — I am tired of monsieur votre mari, be- 
cause he is tired of me. Mr. Spenser looks 
sad, and Mr. Brande stupid ; Miss Arabin is 
in an attitude which there is no one to admire, 
excepting my husband, who is asleep. The 
saloon is lighted; and I heard some visiters 
come in as 1 left it." 

Lady Mandeville rose, and drew Emily's 
arm within her own; she felt it tremble, and 
press hers convulsively. It was but a mo- 
ment; for the countess caught Emily's hand, 
and said, "Come with me, ma mignonne; I 
have a fancy to-night de faire des tableaux vi~ 
vans, and your services will be invaluable." 

" I shall bring more willingness than abili- 
ty," replied Emily; "but I will promise to 
do my best." 

The whole party, excepting the two, ad- 
journed to the saloon, which showed sign of 
the countess's preparations by a large picture 
frame, before which was hung a curtain. In a 
very brief space the curtain was drawn aside, 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



173 



and showed what seemed a tent. The subject 
of the picture was Roxelana receiving a pre- 
sent of the sultan from a young- Greek girl. 
The countess personified the brilliant coquette 
to perfection. Half enveloped in a splendid 
cashmere — the letter of the sultan flung be- 
neath one very pretty foot, which a furred and 
scarlet slipper, " bie?iplus Ara.be qu' 'en Arable" 
showed to perfection — a very white arm hung 
over a pillow of the sofa and round it — the 
other little hand was clasping an additional 
chain of gems, which were not so bright as 
the eyes that were fixed upon them in smiling 
and sparkling attention. As the countess her- 
self said, her personification of Roxelana was 
a triumph of the fine arts. Fortunately the 
spectators could not look at one without see- 
ing the other, or Mde. de Ligne would scarcely 
have been satisfied with the effect produced 
by her young companion. 

Emily had on a long loose white dress, 
closed round the throat with a narrow band 
of gold, and gathered round the waist with 
another band of gold, only broader. Her 
arms, enveloped in the large sleeves, were 
crossed, after the eastern manner of homage, 
and she knelt a little in the background at the 
one end of the sofa. A crimson turban, worn 
low on the forehead, entirely concealed her 
hair; and the profile of her face was turned 
towards the audience. It was impossible to 
give a more exquisite representation of a young 
Greek girl, parted from the home of her child- 
hood and her affection. With all the beauty, 
but none of the brilliancy of youth — the per- 
fect outline of face — the marble pale cheek, 
on which rested the long dark eyelash, curled 
and glistening with unshed tears — the rich re- 
lief of the crimson turban, which made the 
face look even more colourless — the white 
slender throat — the finely curved mouth, whose 
deep red seemed that of fever, and wearing 

The sweetness of a smile, 
But not its gayety;" — 

the subdued and drooping attitude — nothing 
could more accurately depict the " delicate 
Ionian" pining for her own free and mountain 
village. 

The curtain fell, and in a few moments the 
fair pictures stepped into life. The countess, 
to whom activity was enjoyment, and who 
imagined if people were quiet they must be 
dull, proposed proverbs. The one they se- 
lected for illustration was " chemins divers — 
meme but" — " divers roads, and the same end." 
The countess and Emily were two sisters, each 
of whom affect an attachment to the cavalier 
they care not for, to pique the one they prefer. 
Madame de Ligne, who always considered 
choice as her privilege, had a fanc3 r for being 
sentimental ; the livelier sister was, therefore, 
left in Emily's hands. Lorraine and Spenser 
were to enact the lovers ; and the one or two 
subordinate parts were soon filled up by the 
rest of the company. 

Both Madame de Ligne and Edward acted 
admirably. Spenser was out of humour, and 



took his Englishman's privilege of showing 
it: but Emily was the charm of the piece. 
Her vivacity appeared as graceful as it was 
buoyant; her gay spirit seemed the musical 
overflowings of youth and happiness ; hel 
eye and cheek brightened together ; and hel 
sweet glad laugh was as catching as yawning. 
It is utterly impossible to say more. The 
little piece was shortened by Madame de 
Ligne, who, having always looked upon Emily 
as a pretty painting, had only expected her to 
make a good side scene, and was more sur- 
prised than pleased by a display that cast her- 
self quite into the background. 

" Indeed, Ellen," said Lord Mandeville, 
earnestly, " our little Emily is overacting hei 
part. I grant that Lorraine must be struck 
with her improvement ; but, indeed, there is 
too much display for attraction." 

" You are quite mistaken ; but take no no- 
tice now," was the reply. "Is it possible," 
thought Lady Mandeville, " that I have all 
along been mistaken, and that Emily is in 
reality indifferent to Lorraine'? Has she 
hitherto been withheld from expressing her 
real opinion from deference to mine, and from 
supposing him to be my favourite ?" 

This idea w T as only started to be rejected. 
A thousand slight but strong circumstances 
rose to her memory. 

" I do believe she had a preference for him ; 
but, alas ! amusement is wonderfully in the 
way of constancy. Emily is a very sweet 
creature, but it requires strength of mind for 
strength of attachment." 

How little do even our most intimate friends 
know of us ! There is an excitement about 
intense misery which is its support : light suf- 
ferings spring to the lips in words, and to the 
eyes in tears ; but there is a pride in deep 
passion which guards its feelings from even 
the shadow of a surmise. 'Tis strange the 
strength which mingles with our weakness, 
that even in the suffering which sends the 
tear to the eye — not to be shed, but there to lie 
in all its burning and saltness — which swells 
in the throat but to be forced down again, like 
nauseous medicine; even in this deep and 
deadly suffering, vanity finds a trophy of 
power over which to exult. It is somewha* 
that speaks of mental command, to think how 
little the careless and the curious deem of the 
agony which, like the conqueror, is reigning 
in misery and desolation within. 

" Leaving Naples early to-morrow," ex 
claimed Lord Mandeville, " and returning to 
Spain?" 

" Yes," replied Edward, " and that must 
plead my excuse for hurrying away to-night." 

" Well, I suppose," returned his host, " I 
must take no note of your departure 

1 For well I wot unwelcome he 
Whose glance is fixed on those that flee.' " 

" And, considering what I leave behind,' 
said Edward, smiling, and looking toward? 
the bright and gay looking groups which wen 
p 2 



174 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



flitting through the saloon, " I ought to depart 
with the two following lines, 

' And not a star but shines too bright 
On him which takes such timeless flight.' " 

" I pity you so very much for leaving us," 
said Emily, with a sweet glad laugh ; for she 
and Mr. Spenser had been standing near 
enough to hear all the conversation. 

" I have a favour to ask of you, Mande- 
ville," said Lorraine, drawing him a little 
aside, while he proceeded to recommend Don 
Henriquez to his protection and assistance, 
should he arrive in Naples before they left. 

"I am so surprised," said Spenser, abrupt- 
ly, "that Mr. Lorraine should be leaving 
Naples so immediately." 

" Nay," returned Emily, " Spain is a very 
interesting country, and it was only urgent 
business that brought him to Naples." 

" I should like to know what it was," said 
Spenser, quite unconscious that he was think- 
ing aloud. 

" Never reproach our sex with curiosity," 
replied Emily; "see how curious you are 
yourself. I beg leave to tell you, it is some- 
thing romantic, and very mysterious ; and that, 
to our feminine credit be it known, I am aware 
of the secret, and do not intend telling it." 

" Really," said Miss Arabin, veiling spleen 
in smiles — its common veil, by-the-by — "I 
cannot allow you, Miss Arundel, to stand there 
flirting the whole evening," they had not been 
talking five minutes, " with Mr. Spenser. An 
Englishman is such a rarity here, that he ought 
.0 be public property." 

Mr. Spenser wished the fair intruder at the 
devil, at least. Emily felt thankful to her, 
for Edward at that moment approached to say 
good night. The pulses of her heart were like 
the chords of an instrument strung to their 
highest pitch. She bade him farewell with 
equal kindness and gayety, and turned away 
to waltz with one of their other visiters. She 
did not see him leave the room, but she heard 
the door close after him ; that slight noise fell 
like a dead weight upon her ear. At first she 
listened without understanding what her part- 
ner was saying, again the pride of concealment 
came to her assistance, and her gay voice and 
laugh startled Lady Mandeville. She looked 
earnestly at Emily — the bright eye, the flush- 
ed colour, the unusual vivacity, betrayed more 
than it concealed. 

" I was wrong," thought she, " in suppos- 
ing she felt little, because she controlled it — 
she has more self-command than I gave her 
credit for. The desire of hiding a disappoint- 
ment is one great step towards conquering it 
altogether. My part must be to observe ner 
as little as possible. I always did, and always 
shall, doubt the advantages of consolation. 
There's now a prospect for Cecil Spenser — 
many a heart is caught in the rebound." 

At last the evening came to a close. Ma- 
dame de Eigne was glad of it; for it had 
brought the disagreeable conviction, that Emi- 
ly had produced more effect than herself. 
Spenser was glad of it ; for he was not quite 



satisfied with Miss Arundel's gayety. Lord 
Mandeville was glad of it ; for his curiosity 
was waiting to be gratifed — and curiosity, 
like a postman, dislikes to be kept waiting. 
Miss Arabin was glad of it; for it would be 
some comfort to vent upon her maid the rage 
excited by Spenser's indifference. Lady Man- 
deville was equally rejoiced to see her guests 
depart; for she was both anxious and weary 
and as she was under the necessity of telling 
her husband how completely mistaken she had 
been, the sooner it was told the better. So 
much for the enjoyment of such a pleasant 
party, composed of such delightful people! 

"Emily, love," said Lady "Mandeville, 
" you have exerted yourself so much this 
evening, that you must be tired — there now. 
go at once, like a good child, to bed." 

Emily took the lamp ; it was a relief th-U 
Lady Mandeville evidently had no intention 
of being either consoling or confidential. Sb.e 
longed, yet dreaded, to be by herself — she felt 
as if another minute, and the throbbing head 
and beating heart could be subdued no longer. 
She left the room quiet and smiling. 

" Thank God !" exclaimed she, as she found 
herself in her own chamber, " I am alone." 

The proof that keen feelings are incompa- 
tible with happiness is shown in the fact, that 
the young commit suicide, the old, never. The 
old have outlived that mental world we so 
misname in calling it a world of enjoyment; 
— they have outlived the feverish dreams 
which waste those keen hopes — the pelicans 
of the heart, feeding on the lifeblood of their 
parent ; — they have now no part in the excite- 
ment of success, whether in its desire or dis- 
appointment. Delicate food, the card table, 
money, are the delights of old age ; and do we, 
then, become content in proportion as our con- 
tentment becomes of " the earth, earthy ?" 
Are the feelings that redeem, the aspirations 
that dignify our nature, only like the ancient 
tyrant's machine of torture, which, under the 
semblance of beauty, stabbed the bosom that 
clung to it 1 Who is there that has not, at 
some period or other, paused, as it were, upon 
existence, to look to the past with sorrow, the 
present with weariness, the future with loath- 
ing I and when has such pause been made but 
in youth 1 

The difference between past grief and past 
joy is this — that if the grief recurred again to- 
day, we should feel it as bitterly as ever ; but 
if the joy returned, we should no longer have 
the same delight in it. 

There are many paths to lead to this (as the 
little matrimonial maps call it) rock of disap- 
pointment. Emily had trodden but one— it 
was short and bitter enough — that of unre- 
quited affection. Early solitude had increased 
the power of imagination — early indulgence 
had weakened her moral, as much as delicate 
health had relaxed her physical, energy. Love, 
to a girl who has lived secluded from the 
world, is a very different thing from love to a 
girl who has lived in society: sentiment will 
be the Scylla of the one, as vanity will be the 
Charybdis of the other. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



175 



The keen feeling, the high-toned romance 
-f Emily's character, had she been more accus- 
tomed to the harsh realities of life, or been 
placed in circumstances where exertion was a 
necessity, would have been sweet and kindly 
guards against the selfishness contracted in 
the world : but left to be that character's sole 
materiel, there was no strength to meet sorrow, 
no reality to ballast romance. A chain of 
small but unfortunate events had brought her 
into continual contact with Lorraine. Daily 
intercourse first gave attachment all the force 
of habit ; — loneliness next gave all the refining 
exaggeration of utterly unemployed fancy; — 
and^love had become to Emily an imaginary 
world, where thoughts, hopes, feelings, were 
all gathered and confided. The wreck was 
total — as total as that ever in which trusts its 
all to one argosy. The great happiness secret, 
after all, is division. How dare we, in this 
vain, fleeting world, concentrate our whole 
freight of interest in one frail bark] 

The night was oppressively hot — perhaps 
the weight at her own heart added to the op- 
pression. She drew to the open window, 
purple with the night shadows, made dimly 
distinct by here and there a distant star; the 
gulf beneath blended in the darkness, till but 
one atmosphere seemed both above and below, 
sometimes illumined by flashes of phosphoric 
light — meteors that might have suited sea or 
sky, and broken by two or three ridges of 
foam, seen in obscurity, like lines of snow. 
Her first burst of passionate grief was over, 
and the relief it gave was over too ; — the hys- 
teric rush of long suppressed tears is enjoy- 
ment, compared to the hopeless despondency 
which succeeds. Emily looked down on the 
calm deep waters, and wished that she were 
sleeping beneath them. For her the wide 
world was a desolation ; — she felt but the 
misery of loving in vain, and the shame which 
heightens such misery. 

Perhaps, from an innate desire of justifica- 
tion, sorrow* always exaggerates itself. Me- 
mory is quite one of Job's friends ; and the 
past is ever ready to throw its added darkness 
on the present. Every cause she had for re- 
gret rose upon her mind. She thought upon 
her utterly isolated situation ; — the ties of 
blood or of that early affection which supplies 
their place, were to her but names. She had 
no claim of kindred, or even of habit on any 
living creature — no one in the world whom 
?,he could say really loved her, or to whose 
ove she had a right. True, Lady Mandeville 
had been kind, very kind — but she had ■ so 
many others to love ; and Emily, somewhat 
forgetful of the real affection ever shown to 
herself, thought but of the utter want of sym- 
pathy between their characters, and shrank 
from the imaginary picture of that gay temper 
and sparkling wit being turned against her- 
self. And the next year was to be passed in 
all the gayety of London ! She was then to 
join in crowds — all the hurry, all the exertion 
of pleasure ! To be subject to meeting Ed- 
ward Lorraine, and perhaps his ; but, 

even to ':erself, she did not finish the sentence. 



" Quiet, quiet," exclaimed she; "it is all 1 
ask — not to be seen — not to be spoken to. 
W ould to God I were with the only human 
being who ever loved me — in the grave !" 

The remembrance of her uncle again 
brought the tears to her eyes ; her face was 
hidden in her hands ; slowly the large drops 
fell through her slender fingers. Life knows 
such tears but once. 

At this moment tones of music came upon 
the wind : at first faint, as if the soft notes 
had not yet travelled the air, but soon richly 
distinct in its swell and its softness. Emily 
had often before listened to that midnight 
hymn. By moonlight, the white walls and 
green cypresses were easily seen ; — to-night, 
the dark outline of the little hill was rather 
fancied than visible. The sound was a sweet 
and familiar one to Emily; but in her present 
state of excited feeling it came like a voice 
from heaven. It was as if a sign had showed 
her a place of rest. She thought on the dim 
light — the monumental repose — the silence of 
the small chapel — the still, shadowy garden — 
the veiled figures that have exchanged hope 
for repose, and offer to their God that heart 
of which the world is unworthy. The last 
echo died over the waters ; and Emily's re- 
solution was taken. 

Early the next morning, the party met at 
breakfast, all equipped for an excursion to 
Count Orsini's exquisite villa. They were 
becoming impatient for Emily's appearance, 
when a message was delivered, making her 
excuses for not joining them, under the femi- 
nine and frequent plea of a violent headache. 

Lord and Lady Mandeville exchanged 
glances. " Had you not better, Ellen," said 
he, drawing her into the recess of the window, 
" go to her?" 

" I think not. Between ourselves, solitude 
is the best remedy for her headache. She is 
at present too much under the influence at re- 
cent disappointment to control her feelings; 
to betray them will be to confide them — and 
1 a confidant is the worst thing- in the world. 
Vanity will, after a little time, come into 
J play ; and the grief that is concealed is half 
! subdued." 

" Now, my dear Ellen, confess that you do 
not know w r hat to say. You have, if not di- 
| rectly, yet indirectly, kept alive the romantic 
fancy of Miss Arundel for Lorraine. You 
thought of the match as suitable, till it almost 
seemed certain. You were neither prepared 



for the disappointment, 



I fear, for the 



keenness with which that disappointment 
will be felt." 

"There, now, do not make out the case 

worse than it really is. Change of scene, and 

a new lover, are infallible specifics, always 

supposing there is no character for constancy 

to be supported : if I witness the violent sor- 

| row of to-day, I impose upon to-morrow the 

l necessity of being sorry also. Our hurry— a 

i wish not to disturb her, as she has the head- 

! ache, so early — are valid excuses for not see- 

: ing her this morning. If there is depression, 

1 let us not seem to notice it; — let us speak as 



176 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



usual of Lorraine. New objects, new amuse- 
ments, will occupy her mind ; and unhappi- 
ness, equally unsuspected and unspoken* will 
die of its own nonentity." 

" Well, Ellen, I suppose one woman knows 
best what the feelings of another woman are ; 
but I do think you might reason with her." 

" Reason on an affair of the heart !" 

Their conversation was now interrupted by 
the rest of the party becoming impatient to 
depart. Leaving a kind message for Emily, 
Lady Mandeville stepped into the carriage, 
with spirits more depressed than she would 
willingly have admitted. Perhaps, had she 
seen Emily that morning, Miss Arundel's 
whole destiny might have been altered. But 
life's great circumstances turn on its small 
ones. Could we see into the causes of all 
important events, we should often find that 
some small &md insignificant trifle has been, 
as it were, their fate. 

If any thing could have increased the bitter- 
ness of Emily's feelings, it was Lady Mande- 
ville's leaving the house that morning without 
approaching her : she seemed so neglected, 
so friendless. She knew that the effect of 
yesterday's discovery was no secret to Lady 
Mandeville ; and yet, for a few hours' care- 
less amusement she could leave her without 
one word of kindness or comfort. Emily's 
last, perhaps her most painful tears, were 
shed as she heard the carriages drive from the 
door. She was mistaken in accusing Lady 
Mandeville of unkindness; but both were 
wrong in their judgments. Emily's was un- 
just, as a judgment formed under one over- 
ruling feeling always is ; and Lady Mande- 
ville erred in applying a general rule to a 
particular case. 

Which is it most difficult to judge for — 
others or ourselves] The judgment given in 
ignorance, or that biassed by passion — which 
is best] Alas, for human sagacity ! and that 
which is to depend on it — human conduct ! 
Look back on all the past occurrences of our 
lives ;• — who are there that, on reflection, 
would not act diametrically opposite to what 
they formerly acted on impulse] No one 
would do the same thing twice over. Expe- 
rience teaches, it is true; but she never 
teaches in time. Each event brings its les- 
son, and the lesson is remembered ; but the 
same event never occurs again. 



CHAPTER LVI. 

" She shrank away from earth and solitude 
To the sole refuge for the heart's worst pain : 
Life had no ties— she turned her unto heaven. 

"Raised where the pine and hill o'erlook the sea, 
Stands thy lone convent, fair St. Valerie: 
It has an air of sadness, as just meet 
For the. wrun^ heart to find its best retreat." 

L.E.L. 

" You know I always tol : you how it would be."— Com- 
monplace of Domestic Conversation. 

It was a small room, lined with wainscot- 
ing of the black oak, richly carved with that 



imagery — half fantastic, half religious — which 
marked the works of our industrious and ima- 
ginative forefathers. The height was quite 
disproportioned to the size ; for the eye could 
with difficulty trace the rich colouring and 
fine outline of a group of angels, painted by 
some artist who had left a work, though not 
a name, behind. The window was large ; 
but what with the branch of a huge cork tree 
that passed across, and the heavy folds of the 
purple curtains — a purple almost black — the 
light was nearly excluded. 

On one side of the room was a large coffer, 
whose carving was worn smooth and shining 
with time ; and on the other was a cumbrous 
book case, filled with large and silver-clasped 
tomes. The only other articles of furniture 
were a small table, and a heavy, high-backed 
chair, covered with black serge. On the table 
lay an illuminated missal and a silver crucifix. 
The abbess herself was seated in the chair — 
pale, abstracted, and with features whose ex- 
pression, in repose at least, was severe. 

The door opened ; a bright gleam of sun- 
shine shot into the room, but darkened in- 
stantly as the portress admitted the visiter. 
The abbess rose not from her seat, but mo- 
tioned with her hand to the stool beside her. 

" A stranger and a foreigner," said she, 
turning a gaze rather earnest than curious on 
her evidently embarrassed guest. " What 
dost thou seek from the servant of the Ma- 
donna]" 

A moment's silence intervened, which was 
broken by the stranger's kneeling beside her. 

" I come for refuge." The voice, though 
broken, was sweet ; and the Italian correct, 
though with the accent of a foreign land. 

" Our lady never yet denied her protection 
to the unhappy," replied the abbess, who saw 
at once that the rank of her suppliant placed 
her among those to whom assistance is most 
readily accorded; at the same time, caution 
might be requisite. " Your voice is sad, but 
sincere. Let me look upon yom face." 

Another moment of hesitation, when a tre- 
mulous hand removed the bonnet and veil 
from a countenance whose momentary blush 
subsided into marble paleness. With the 
ready recollection of one who sees but few 
objects for remembrance, the abbess recog- 
nised the young Englishwoman who had so 
lately visited her convent. 

" I told you of the vanity of hope — have my 
words so soon proved the truth ] What does 
a stranger — whose home is afar — whose faith 
is not as our faith — want of our Lady degli 
Dolori]" 

Emily clasped her hands passionately. 
" Peace — calm — a refuge from a wide and 
weary world, in which my portion is but sor- 
row. Home, I have none ; — kindred, mine 
are in the grave; — no living creature will 
care for my solitude. I ask but a brief so- 
journ, to turn my thoughts to heaven, and to 
die.' 

" We have here rest for the weary — peace, 
for the bruised and broken heart; but youi 
belief is that of your heretical island ; you 



ROMANCE AND REALITY 



177 



must have friends who will oppose your in- 
tent." 

" Friends ! I have no friends; at least none 
whose care extends beyond courtesy. I can- 
not argue on points of faith ; but our God is 
the same. Bind me by what vow you please. 
I am rich — I am independent. Will you shel- 
ter me? save me from a troubled and evil 
World ?" 

" It were a sin against our lady, did I not 
seek to save the soul she sends me. Come, 
daughter; henceforth we have but one shrine 
and one home." 

Every individual has some peculiar taste. 
That of the superior of the convent of la Ma- 
dre degli Dolori was for authority. r An only 
child, her sway in the paternal house had 
been absolute — that over the Count Cima- 
rozzo, her husband, even more so. His death, 
some ten years before, in embarrassed cir- 
cumstances, leaving her very much at the 
mercy of a distant relative, who inherited 
title and estate, and had, moreover, a lady 
ruler of his own — turned the haughty coun- 
tess's views to a cloister. Her own resolute 
desire of advancement, aided by the family 
interest, soon placed her at the head of her 
convent. Without rival or opposition, it may 
be doubted whether the Sister Cassilda was 
not a much happier person than the Countess 
Cimarozzo. 

To increase the wealth and power of her 
convent was the great object of her existence. 
The rich English convert was indeed a prize. 
To give her agitation a religious impulse — 
impress her imagination with some solemn 
ritual — were the first steps to be taken. That 
day Emily was kept in a state of powerful 
excitement. The abbess asked her no ques- 
tions ; but spoke beautifully and touchingly 
on the calm of a soul devoted to Heaven, and 
on the many perils and sorrows of life. She 
bade her kneel at her side during the service 
of the day. The deep, solemn tones of the 
organ, mingled with sweet young voices, 
filled the chapel. 

Emily was now in that mood to which 
aught of sacrifice is relief; and when — her 
head almost dizzy with previous agitation, a 
frame tremulous with exertion, her senses 
overpowered with music and the faint per- 
fume — the abbess bade her kneel, and record, 
with a vow and a sign, her resolve at the altar, 
the feverish and excited girl was a machine 
in her hands. She knelt, though supported 
by the arm of the abbess, which she yet 
grasped ; a black robe was thrown over her 
form — a black veil over her head ; the nuns 
crowded round to greet their sister; and 
Emily, as the abbess herself hung the rosary 
and crucifix round her neck, heard her clear, 
melodious, but determined tones, bless her by 
the new name of Sister Agatha. 

Pale, faint, they led her to a cell appointed 
for her use. That night it was within the 
convent that Emily heard the vesper hymn. 

On Lady Mandeville's return, her first in- 
Buiry was after Miss Arundel ; and great was 
Vol. I— 23 



her surprise on hearing that she was absent, 
and had been absent all day. 

" But there's a note, my lady," said one of 
the servants. 

It contained these few words : — 

" I have turned from a world which has for 
me no attractions, and many sorrows. The 
calm of a religious life is surely fittest for her 
who has no tie, and no home. Forgive me, 
my dear kind friend ; but what am I to you ? 
— you have a husband, children, friends — you 
are happy. I entreat you, as a last favour, 
make no effort to disturb my retreat. I could 
not — indeed I could not — go to England with 
you. I pine for quiet. Farewell — God bless 
you!" 

The paper dropped from Lady Mandeville's 
hand. 

"Good God! — what can be done 1 ? We 
cannot suffer her to stay in the convent !" 

Lord Mandeville took up the note, and read 
it through twice, with an expression of as 
much grief, but less surprise than his wife. 

"To-night nothing can be done — you must 
see her to-morrow. Ellen, she is too sweet, 
too good, too kind, to be allowed to sacrifice 
herself thus." 

Early next morning was Lady Mandeville 
at the gate of the convent of our Lady degli 
Dolori. Admittance to the abbess was easily 
obtained — that to Emily was matter of more 
difficulty. The rules of the order — her own 
desire of seclusion, were alike urged. But 
Lady Mandeville was not to be denied. The 
marble paleness of her face more visible from 
the straight piece of black serge across the 
forehead ; her figure entirely concealed by the 
loose dark robe — she scarcely knew Emily 
on her entrance. Prayers, remonstrances, 
nay, reproaches, were alike in vain. The 
abbess had not miscalculated the effect of the 
yesterday's ceremony — she knew it was not 
binding, but its influence as a religious obli- 
gation was enthralling to a degree. Weak 
in body, suffering under the reaction of ex- 
citement, with a vague but strong sense of a 
solemn vow, the desire of rest, the shame of 
retracting — all conspired to keep firm Emily's 
resolve. Angry at length — though angry in 
the very best spirit of affection — Lady Man- 
deville rose to depart ; then, and not till then, 
did Emily seem to rouse from her stupor. A 
thousand acts of kindness rushed at once upon 
her mind — she threw herself on her friend's 
neck, and in a scarcely audible voice called 
down every blessing from heaven upon her 
and hers. Still she said farewell; and when 
Lady Mandeville returned to the carriage, she 
shed the bitterest tears she had ever known. 

Gentle, affectionate, full of those small 
courtesies so endearing in daily life, generally 
silent, but such an appreciating listener, so 
unworldly, so young, and so lovely — Emily 
attached those with whom she lived, more 
than even themselves suspected. You passed 
her over among many — you loved her among 
few. The interest she excited was that cf 
protection. Accustomed always to see h 



178 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



yield her opinion or her inclination, Lady Man- 
deville never suspected Miss Arundel of taking 
any decided step. But she forgot that when 
the very gentle do nerve themselves for action, 
it is under some strong and sudden impulse, 
and they then act usually in opposition to the 
whole of their previous bearing. Opposition 
is too new not to be carried into obstinacy. 
It has cost them so much to form a resolution, 
that they adhere to it with all the pertinacity 
felt for an uncommon and valuable acqui- 
sition. 

A. thousand times did Lady Mandeville re- 
proach herself for feeding Emily's attachment. 
It is a dangerous amusement, getting up a lit- 
tle romance in real life — playing private thea- 
tricals with the feelings of others. " But who 
could foresee his going to Spain, and having 
his head turned by the black eyes of a pretty 
conspirator 1 ? I shall detest the name of pa- 
triot as long as I live. What business have 
they with daughters ?" One of the most dis- 
agreeable parts of what was disagreeable alto- 
gether, was having to tell her husband of the 
non-success of her morning's expostulation. 
Nor a shadow of blame could be thrown upon 
him, thereby cutting off one great source of 
consolation. Fortunately, it was equal mat- 
ter of regret to both. 

After listening patiently to divers plans for 
forcing the fair recluse from her retirement, 
" Time will be our best aid ; we can do no- 
thing now; leave her," said Lord Mandeville, 
"to get tired of her monotonous seclusion — 
to feel how much she has sacrificed. She 
cannot take the veil for a year — next spring 
we will visit Naples again, and I trust our 
foolish little Emily will have grown happier 
and wiser." 

Where there is no choice, there must be 
submission. They had been very intimate 
with the English ambassador's family, and to 
iheir care and interest they committed Miss 
Arundel for the present. Lady Mandeville's 
last act was to write a long, kind, and earnest 
letter to Emily, and the next day they sailed 
for England. 

The letter never reached the address ; and 
again Emily's heart died within her with the 
feeling of neglect and friendlessness. Circum- 
stances close around us as with a chain. The 
ambassador was suddenly recalled; and she 
was left without a creature in Naples to inte- 
rest themselves in her fate. The abbess was 
not one to neglect such an opportunity. She 
saw that Emily was only acting under the in- 
fluence of strong, but temporary feeling. Old 
habits, old feelings, would be violent in their 
reaction — the present was every thing. 

Three weeks after the departure of the Man- 
devilles, all Naples flocked to witness the pro- 
fession of a young Englishwoman, a dispensa- 
tion having been obtained for the novitiate. The 
love of sight-seeing is the characteristic of 
humanity — and a sight that involves aught, of 
human sorrow or human suffering, is a thou- 
sand times more popular than any display of 
human ingenuity or human genius. Fireworks 
that sweep the skies, with a rope dancer that 



descends through them like a spirit, to boot, 
bear no comparison as a spectacle to that of a 
man hanged ! And the most eloquent preacher 
that ever made the truth of religion come home 
to the heart, would see his congregatioi turn 
aside to witness the immolation of youth, hope, 
and happiness, in the living sacrifice of the 
cloister. 

It was a cloudless day — one of those when 
sunshine wraps the earth as with a garment, 
and the clear air brings out every object in the 
bright and defined outline ; every near wave in 
the bay was a cut and sparkling diamond, 
while those in the distance formed one broad 
sweep of unbroken light. The inhabitants 
most accustomed to the city looked back on its 
fairy beauty with delight. The green of the 
country — grass and tree — was of that soft 
fresh verdure so short-lived in a warm climate ; 
but as yet not a hue was tarnished, not a leaf 
fallen. The sunny atmosphere was like wine 
— the spirits rose buoyantly beneath its influ- 
ence. It was curious to mark the change as 
the visiters passed through the little wood of 
gloomy pines, in which the convent stood. 
The laughter ceased with the sunshine ; the 
conversation gradually died away before the 
melancholy and monotonous sound peculiar to 
the harsh branches of the pine. As they ap- 
proached the nunnery, many voices joining in 
the sacred chorus floated from the chapel : all 
crowded in ; and more imaginative impressions 
were lost in the effort to obtain places. 

The chapel was splendidly lighted, though 
day was carefully excluded. This passing 
from day to candle-light has a singularly ex- 
citing effect. A thousand wax tapers burned 
in honour of the Madonna. Four beautiful 
children swung the silver censers before her 
picture, till a cloud of incense arose and float- 
ed in broken masses to the fretted roof, and 
the whole air was heavy with perfume. On 
one side, motionless and veiled, stood a dark- 
robed group, the nuns themselves — so still, 
and each individual figure so shrouded in 
black drapery, that it seemed more like a 
painting of life than life itself. Yet from them 
arose a strain of the most perfect music : that 
most exquisite of instruments — the human 
voice — excited to its utmost power, and tuned 
to its utmost sweetness. 

The fathers of the Italian church well knew 
the people they ruled : they knew the Italian 
susceptibility to sight and sound ; and they 
made music and painting the spells of their 
sway. All was hushed in the most profound 
silence when the abbess led her proselyte to 
the feet of the bishop. For the last time, she 
was robed in all that taste could devise, or 
wealth procure. As if to give every possible 
effect to the scene, the costume of the bride of 
heaven always slightly differs from the reign- 
ing fashion of the day. She was now dressed 
in white satin, the border worked by the nuns 
in roses with leaves of gold ; the stomacher 
was covered with precious stones ; and a girdle 
like a rainbow encircled her waist : a scarf, 
richly embroidered with many coloured flowers 
and gold, fell from her shoulders in well ar- 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



179 



langed drapery. If the sisters had given up 
dress, whatever became of the practice, the 
theory was perfect. Her hair was simply 
parted on the forehead, supported by a single 
comb, and confined by a bandeau of diamonds. 
Her face only was suffused with a slight deli- 
cate crimson ; and once or twice, as some ne- 
cessity for movement occurred, the glowing 
colour gushed over neck, arms, throat, to her 
very forehead. Emily, in truth, was not at 
all prepared for this theatrical display, or for 
the crowd it would draw. The first glance 
round made her shrink into herself with true 
English sensitiveness of public exhibition: 
the thought that she was there the mark of 
gaze for 'hundreds of stranger eyes stupified 
her ; her cheek burned with blushes ; and, 
trembling and confused, she obeyed the abbess 
almost unconscious of her actions. 

They unbound the diamond circlet from her 
brow, and let down her luxuriant hair — it 
swept the floor as she knelt, and the air grew 
sweet with the fall of its perfumed lengths. 
Again an overpowering sensation of shame 
sent the blood to her cheek, and the tears to 
her eyes. They flung a dark robe over her, 
and she felt thankful — it was something of 
concealment. They shred the auburn tresses 
from her head ; and the next moment her face 
was hidden in the black veil which was to 
cover it forever. The chorus raised the glori- 
ous music of its triumphal hymn; the incense 
filled the chapel — its silvery cloud dispersed 
— but the new-made nun was already lost amid 
the group of her veiled sisters. The crowd 
soon separated — acquaintances formed into 
little knots to discuss the ceremonial and the 
topics of the day. That evening the young 
nun, lay exhausted between life and death in 
a brain fever, while all Naples was ringing 
with the faith, beauty, and fervour of the Eng- 
lish proselyte. 



CHAPTER LVII. 

" Oh, you know he does not dare say his soul is his own 
oefore his wife." — Treatise on Ordinary Experience. 

Caterina. Pachetti had been a very pretty 
woman, which she remembered more to her 
own edification than to that of her friends. 
Whether from design or destiny, she had not 
married till youth was something on the de- 
cline, and then to a man some years her junior. 
Signor Pachetti was not at that time the rich 
man he afterward became : of this his wife 
did not fail often to remind him. She forgot, 
she had married from desperation rather than 
disinterestedness. There are two motives to 
every action, and two versions of every story. 
He had then had no dealings with conspirators. 
The opinions which attracted the attention of 
some of the Carbonari's agents towards him 
were confined to striking the barber with 
horror, and the macaroni-seller with dismay. 



His opinions were now altered, because hs 
acted upon them. His conversations changed 
with his connexions ; and it was impossible 
to find an individual less liberal in word or 
action than the secret and trusted agent of the 
Carbonari. Moore says, that love 

" Hath ever thought that pearl the best, 
He finds beneaih the stormiest water." 

In this case business was of the same opinion 
as love, Pachetti's word was worth a thousand 
piastres any day ; and his cassino on the coast 
had a very different appearance from his small 
dark house on the Strada. 

The feeling which of yore made the old 
warrior desire to die in harness, is the same 
which chains the citizen to his counter. Early 
habit taking a less picturesque form, Pachetti 
always spent festivals and Sundays at his 
cassino, but certainly those days did seem 
intolerably long. Honest, if not liberal — a 
sure and prudent agent — his emp^ers and 
himself had been mutually satisfied. A secret 
always carries its own importance ; and while 
Pachetti remonstrated on their imprudence, 
and complained of the danger, his dealings 
with the Carbonari were, in reality, the enjoy- 
ment of his life. He used to vow two wax 
tapers to Santo Jai»uario, to save a poor quiet 
trader from such wild doings, and then double 
the offering lest he should be taken at his 
word. 

To his wife he was the most amiable of 
husbands: he was not very fond of contradict- 
ing anybody — he never dreamed of contra- 
dicting her. In j^outh he never noticed her 
flirtations — in age he never controlled her ex- 
penses. Could mortal obedience go farther"? 
Signora Caterina thought it could. Weak, 
yet cunning — vain, yet conscious of having 
outlived her attractions — with one of those 
tempers "which we conceive to be the true in- 
terpretation of the old fairy tale, where out of 
the mouth of the party proceeded snakes, 
toads, locusts, and other pleasantries. Almost 
desperate for want of a complaint — nerves 
were not known at Naples — Caterina had a 
bilious fever — " some demon whispered, have 
a taste" for jealousy. She recovered on the 
instant, and jealousy was henceforth the busi- 
ness and the pleasure of her life. The jea- 
lousy founded on the affections is torture — 
that on the temper is enjoyment : — 

" There is a pleasure in the temper's pains 
Only the temper knows." 

It was some months before Signor Pachetti 
settled into a state of passive endurar3e: I 
am not sure whether at first he did not consi- 
der it as a personal compliment. B.it his 
wife generalized too much — her suspicions 
extended from sixteen to sixty — and with this 
latter selection it was impossible to be flat- 
tered. 

For the few last weeks a press of business 
had confined him so closely to his shop, that, 
as few female neighbours ventured to set foot 
over her threshold, Caterina's vigilance had 
sadly lacked employment. The past fort- 



180 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



night nad been one of sullenness, cold black 
looks, short snappish words, and those inge- 
nious contradictions which sometimes vary the 
halcyon calm of domestic felicity. Beatrice's 
appearance was quite a godsend. Nothing 
is more inhuman than a bad temper. The 
forlorn situation of the young Spaniard only 
struck her hostess as enabling her to be inso- 
lent with impunity. 

Weary, but too anxious for sleep, Beatrice 
gazed round the miserable little room : the 
walls, from which the plaster was mouldering 
— the cobwebs, that for years had been ga- 
thering on the rafters of the roof — the window, 
or rather opening, for window there was none, 
but a wooden shutter, which kept creaking 
backward and forward — the floor discoloured 
with dirt — the wretched pallet — all struck her 
with a sick shudder of loathing and misery. 
Drawing her cloak round her, she opened the 
shutter, and, seating herself on a little wooden 
stool, the only seat in the room, she endea- 
voured to trace some plan of action. One 
hope she dwelt upon with mingled timidity 
and trust : " If Lorraine is in Naples, I have 
one friend at least." The high blood of her 
race mounted to the very temples at the 
thought of dependence even on her lover. 
Gratitude has nothing to do with love, more 
especially the imaginative love of a woman. 
She who would fain give the starry worlds to 
the object of her affection — it is a fine and 
beautiful pride which makes her shrink from 
aught of benefit from him. Once or twice her 
head dropped in momentary forgetfulness 
on her arm, but it was only to start again into 
full and bitter recollection. Towards morn- 
ing she slept, completely overcome by fatigue. 
A. shrill voice awakened her — it was that of 
her hostess, politely informing her, "Indeed 
they could not wait breakfast." Hastily 
Beatrice descended, drawing her veil close 
round her head to conceal her hair, whose 
massive plaits sadly wanted Minora's little 
mirror. Pachetti received her with a most 
obsequious bow, and gave her the arm-chair; 
Caterina stared at her without speaking; and 
down they sat to breakfast. 

Beatrice shuddered at the fried fish swim- 
ming in oil, which was placed before her, and 
gladly filled a cup of water, of which, with a 
piece of bread, she commenced her meal. 
" Shame good food should be wasted !" mut- 
tered Signora Pachetti. Her husband offered 
some of the light wine to mix with the water. 
"I suppose I am not to be helped to-day: 
well, w T ell, a man's wife is always the last 
person he thinks of," was the running accom- 
paniment of his agreeable helpmate. 

" I believe, Signor Pachetti," said Beatrice, 
' you have received a package of much con- 
sequence from my father; its bearer" — for her 
life she could not have pronounced the name. 

" Yes, yes, quite true — bv a young English 
nobleman." 

" Do you," asked she, in a low and hesitat- 
ing voice, "know whether he is in Naples?" 

"Naples! — one would have thought our 
oeautiful city had been Palermo, (good enough 



for the Sicilians !) he was in such haste tc 
leave it. He sailed for Spain again a week 
ago. He was very anxious about your father's 
escape. I suppose his Excellenza Inglese 
w T as one of those, too, who want to set the 
world to rights ?" 

Sailed for Spain ! Her heart died within 
her ; unconsciously she grasped the cup of 
water — a feeling as of suffocation was in her 
throat — but her hand trembled too ni'icri to 
raise it. Strong as emotion is, small things 
control it : she caught Caterina's eyes fixed 
on her with an expression of discovery, and 
triumph in her disappointment ; the tears 
were forced back, and her steadied hand raised 
the water to her lips. What an effort it cost 
her to sw r allow it! Her voice was somewhat 
lower, but it was calm, when she again turned 
to Signor Pachetti, who had been too much 
occupied with his fish for remark — " Mr. Lor- 
raine — did he leave with you any directions ?" 

" He gave me the address of the great 
bankers here; they were to forward any news 
to London, whither he was to go after a short 
stay in Spain. He left a letter for your father, 
in case he arrived here after his departure." 

" That letter I will take into my own charge 
— and I shall trouble you with another to the 
bankers. And now to proceed to my own ar- 
rangements : you have property of my father's 
in your hands — I must request an advance." 

" I hope my husband will first take good 
care to know the truth of your story," ex- 
claimed Caterina, whose anger had risen, as 
anger usually does, on its own encourage- 
ment. " A good trade this of a fine day, and 
a fool to deal with : I think I'll turn Spanish 
exile myself. You might find a better em- 
ployment than making quarrels between man 
and w r ife. And as for my husband's money, 
I wish you may get it." 

Beatrice rose from her seat perfectly aghast ; 
her conduct, however, required but a mo- 
ment's deliberation. " I know not,'^_said she 
to Pachetti, with that quiet, calm tone whose 
authority is so absolute over passion, "whe- 
ther your wife is indulging a customary li- 
cense of tongue. My business is with you, 
and you only. You should not have under- 
taken your office, unless prepared for its va- 
rious exigencies. I will not deny that I came 
here with the expectation of receiving protec- 
tion and assistance, where I have only met 
with inhospitable insult. But I have not now 
to learn that my own resolution is my best 
resource. Here, as in my own country, there 
are convents; and surely, in one of them a 
noble Spanish maiden may find temporary re- 
fuge. I ask no farther assistance, signor, 
than to point out one which may serve for a 
present abode." 

"A convent! — the best place too," mut- 
tered the incorrigible shrew — "a convent! 
your best possible plan ! I was sure a lady 
of your noble birth and habits could never 
condescend to put up with our humble home. 
The convent of St. Valerie is close at hand. 
I know a little of the superior. There were 
new gold clasps put to her missal from oui 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



181 



*«ry shop— richly embossed they were. But 
ihe pension is high." 

" It matters not," said Beatrice : " my 
stay will be but short, and my father will 
not grudge the expense of his child . Besides, 
J have jewels — you must be aware of the va- 
lue of these," drawing forth the bright cross 
made from the choicest rubies of Peru. 

" Keep it yourself, donna," said Pachetti, 
who seemed to take spirit from Beatrice's 
firmness — " I have ample funds of Don Hen- 
riquez' — a liberal gentleman he is." 

" I would wish to set off at once — I can 
myself tell the abbess my story. I need only 
ask your services as guide and to confirm my 
statement." 

Pachetti stepped with most ingenious 
adroitness out of the room, and Beatrice was 
left to a tete-a-tete. The signora, by silence 
to her guest, conversation to herself, and looks 
Df mixed dislike and disdain, contrived to 
concentrate no little share of annoyance in the 
next hour. Al length Pachetti returned, with 
information that she would be received at the 
convent of St. Valerie, and that a little covered 
carriage was at the door to convey her thither. 
Caterina received her salutation without a re- 
turn, while her husband was profuse in his 
parting civilities. She paused for a moment 
in the shop to write an acknowledgment for 
the ducats she had received for present use, 
and to obtain the address of Lorraine's banker. 
Pachetti then handed her to the carriage, 
taking an opportunity of saying, in a most 
carefully subdued tone, "I shall be very glad 
to render you or your father any service or 
services. Caterina, poor thing! has not that 
blessing, an even temper ; but she means very 
well. You know you ladies have all your 
little peculiarities." 

" You ladies !" — the fire flashed into Bea- 
trice's eyes at the words ; however, she re- 
plied only with the thanks really due to his 
civility. Once, and only once, she drew aside 
the curtains of her vehicle, and then shrunk 
back in confusion at the number of people 
who turned the usual stare of the lazy on the 
passing carriage. They arrived at the con- 
vent gate ; and an old nun, who officiated as 
portress, gave her in charge to another, who 
conducted her to the abbess. The large wain- 
scoted room, hung in a style with which she 
was familiar, raised her spirits into a sensa- 
tion of home. The superior, a stately and 
pale, though still handsome, woman, received 
her politely but coldly — the coldness of indif- 
ference, not of dislike. She asked a few un- 
important questions, and, ringing a small sil- 
ver bell, the summons was answered by a 
nun, to whose care she consigned Beatrice. 

The sister hurried her away, with all the 
delight of a child who has got a new play- 
thing. Her desire to show her the convent, 
and introduce her to her companions, was ar- 
rested by observing the faintness and fatigue 
under which she was sinking. With the 
kindest sympathy, she led her to the cell ap- 
pointed for her reception, insisted on her lying 
down, helped her to undress, brought her 

Vol III. 



some warm soup, and then left her to that 
quiet which was the greatest of luxuries. A 
soft, fresh air, but sweet as if it had just 
passed over flowers, came from the open lat- 
tice; the young Spaniard drew one dcev 
breath of enjoyment, and sank languid. y on 
her pillow. In another moment she was 
asleep. 

She slept for some hours. When she 
awoke, her apartment was filled with the 
warm crimson atmosphere of sunset — rich 
rose stains fell on the wall and floor, which, 
even as she looked, grew fainter — and gra- 
dually the purple obscurity was only broken 
by the shadowy outline of a creeping and odo- 
riferous shrub which had been trained round 
the casement. Suddenly a sound of music 
rose upon the air — it was the even song of the 
convent; the notes of the organ and young 
sweet voices mingled in the hymn. The 
music — the fragrance of the flowers, whose 
odour was exhaling in the now falling dew — 
the languor of recent exertion — the sense of 
past dangers and present security — operated 
on Beatrice like the first and delicious stage 
of an opiate. All that was soothing in her 
hopes — all that was endearing to her memory, 
rose in their most fairy fancies. Beatrice 
listened till she lay and wept with delight. 

A gentle hand now opened the door, and 
her former kind guide appeared. " You look 
much better, but you must not get up — to- 
morrow you will be quite another creature. 
You see I have not forgotten you : so eat 
your supper, and go to sleep again." 

Some boiled rice, with some exquisite con- 
serves, and a glass of wine, aromatic as if 
made of flowers — and Beatrice finished her 
repast with a conviction that never had there 
been any thing half so delicious. A gastro- 
nome ought to fast sometimes on principle : 
we appreciate no pleasures unless we are oc- 
casionally debarred from them. Restraint is 
the golden rule of enjoyment. 



CHAPTER LVIII. 

" L'absence diminue les m^diocres passions, et, aug- 
mente les grandes ; comme le vent eteint les bougies, et 
allume le feu."— Rochefoucauld. 

Our first love-letter — it is an epoch in our 
life — a task equally delightful and difficult. 
No lover ever yet addressed his mistress, and 
no mistress ever yet addressed her lover, with- 
out beginning the gentle epistle some dozen 
times at least. There is so much to be said, 
and which no words seem exactly to say — 
the dread of saying too much is so nicely ba- 
lanced by the fear of saying too little. Hope 
borders on presumption, and fear on reproach. 
One epithet is too cold — another we aie 
scarcely entitled to use. Timidity and ten- 
derness get in each other's way. The letter 
is sent, and immediately a thousand things 
are recollected — those, too, we were most 
anxious to write — and every sentence that or- 



182 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



ours is precisely the one we wish we had 
omitted. The epistle is opened and read— 
with a little wonder, most probably noc d, little 
vexation, at its constrained style. True it is 
that no first love-letter ever yet gave satisfac- 
tion to either writer or reader. Its delight is 
another question. 

When Beatrice sat down to write, it seemed 
the most simple thing in the world to inform 
Lorraine of her arrival in Naples — it was 
quite another matter when the letter came 
really to be written." Between design and 
execution in such cases, a wide gulf is fixed. 
She drew her little table to the window, and 
began: "Dear Edward" — - that was a great 
deal too familiar — she threw the sheet aside. 
" Dear Sir" — that was as much too formal — 
the second sheet followed its predecessor. 
Then she resolved merely to begin by some 
general phrase. They say Mr. Rogers takes 
sixteen hours and as many cups of coffee to a 
sentence, on the strength of which he keeps 
his bed for a week. Beatrice bestowed nearly 
as much time, and quite as much thought, on 
her composition. It was written on her last 
sheet of paper. 



HON. EDWARD LORRAINE. 

as I do, that Beatrice de los 



TO THE 

" Believing, 
Zoridos is not forgotten, I write a few brief 
lines to tell }rou of my present comfort and 
security. I am now in the convent of St. 
Valerie, Naples — Our Lady be blessed for 
such an asylum ! You will have heard from 
Alvarez all that took place in Spain. I met 
with much kindness on my voyage ; and I 
was fortunate in having the widow of a Nea- 
politan sailor for my companion, who was 
also my guide to the Signor Pachetti. He 
mentioned your visit, and the safe arrival of 
the packet ; he told me, too, how anxious you 
were about my father — God bless you, dear 
Edward, for it ! Pachetti treated me with all 
the civility in his power: it was at his recom- 
mendation I took up my residence here. I 
am delighted with the place — the carved 
wainscot of the parlour puts me so in mind 
of our own poor old house. I hope you went 
to see the ruins. I look anxiously forward to 
my father's arrival ; till then, 1 can only offer 
those acknowledgments he will be so desirous 
to repeat. If I have not said what you like, 
pray you think for me, and believe the 
thoughts mine. With sincere expressions of 
gratitude, your indebted 

" Beatrice de los Zoridos. 

" I know not why I should blush to write 
what I would not have blushed to say; — your 
little watch has been my constant companion. 
But a long absence is before us — a thousand 
things may happen — a thousand changes oc- 
cur — I mean, you yourself may change. If 
so, do not hesitate to tell me. The weakness 
of repining — the meanness of reproach, would, 
I trust, be equally unknown to one whose me- 
mory would thenceforth be simple gratitude." 

How easy it is to be generous about the in- 
constar <jy which in our secret self we hold to 



be impossible ! The letter was despatched ; 
and Beatrice had now only to adopt the habits 
of those around her as much as possible. The 
young Spaniard had been in many situations 
of greater difficulty, but in none more irksome. 
Hitherto her life had been one of active exer- 
tion ; every day had brought its task ; the 
household duties, the care of her mother, had 
made leisure sweet, in proportion to its rarity; 
a library of extensive, but miscellaneous read- 
ing — the best in the world for a strong mind; 
a beautiful country, through which her steps 
wandered free as the wind — had made every 
evening marvel how the hours could have 
passed so quickly since morning. Now she 
had neither duties nor resources. The Bre- 
viary, or the Lives of the Saints, were very 
unattractive reading. Her naturally grave 
temper revolted from the small amusemenls 
of the nuns, who were such grown-up child- 
ren, that confidence was impossible between 
them. Fortunately, Beatrice had never been 
accustomed to that indulgence which is cer- 
tain to make the object suppose that all tastes 
and habits ought to give way to its own. 
Her early lessons of doing for the best, in cir- 
cumstances she could not control, were now 
learned under a new form. 

Her residence at St. Valerie had a soften- 
ing and subduing effect upon her character. 
As yet she had acted under some strong ex- 
citement ; she was now taught the necessity 
of action, whose reward was in its own exer- 
tion. She saw her companions happy in fri- 
volous pursuits ; she did not pretend that she 
could be happy also, but she drew from it a 
useful moral of the advantage of being em- 
ployed. Observation, with no one to whom 
it could be communicated, induced the habit 
of reflection. For the first time she was in 
society whose members were indifferent, but 
kind. Accustomed to be loved, and to love, 
this general carelessness seemed at first want 
of feeling: she soon learned to think more 
justly. We have no right to expect more 
from others than we ourselves are inclined to 
give. If we were to love every one we meet, 
the very nature of love would be destroyed. 
Convenience, not affection, is the bond of so- 
ciety. The world is often taxed with false- 
hood, when, in reality, we should blame our 
own expectations. Courtesy from our ac- 
quaintance, kindness from our friends, attach- 
ment from those who make the small circle 
we love, is all we have a right to expect — 
and in nine cases out of ten it is what we 
really experience. 

Beatrice soon made for herself a little round 
of occupations. She acquired a degree of 
musical science ; she perfected her skill in 
embroidery ; and she assisted Sister Lucie, 
her first acquaintance, in the preparation ot 
those exquisite confections which were the 
pride of her life. She also learned to lay 
aside much of her natural silence and reserve ; 
for society, to an affectionate temper like hers 
soon made her wish to be liked. It i3 a most 
unkindly nature that can rest satisfied with 
its own approval. 



ROMANCE AND REALITY 



183 



But a yet higher advantage was derived 
from her stay at St. Valerie. The many re- 
ligious observances by which she was sur- 
rounded — the folly of some, the emptiness of 
others — turned her thoughts, more than ever, 
to the sacred pages, whose perusal was now 
the chief employment of her solitude. Study 
and thought gave her religious feelings less 
of an imaginative character. She saw in reli- 
gion, not a mere refuge in the time of trouble, 
or a relief when the heart longed to pour forth 
its joy — not an expression of passionate grati- 
tude, or still more passionate sorrow; but the 
great rule of all action. Every other motive 
for good might fail, this divine one never. 
Gi actually the fear of God became more pre- 
sent to her eyes; and the religion that had 
been a strong and beautiful feeling, was soon 
a firm and active principle. The more she 
studied that small English Bible, the more she 
was penetrated by its truth, and enlightened 
with its meaning. In the convent of St. Va- 
lerie that faith whichbecame the guide and com- 
fort of her future life w T as most strengthened 
and confirmed. 

One morning, with an air of important in- 
telligence, Sister Lucie entered her cell. 

"If you will go down into the garden, you 
will see the young English nun, who has been 
so ill — she is out to-day for the first time. 
Make haste, for she will remain in the open 
air only a short while." 

Beatrice had curiosity enough to lay down 
the silk she was embroidering, and hasten to 
the convent garden. Encircled by large old 
pine trees, whose gloomy green has no sym- 
pathy with the seasons, with boughs whose 
unchanging foliage maintains a selfish triumph 
over winter, and stands, sullen and sombre, 
apart from summer, there was no outward sign 
of the garden within. It was a brig-ht spring: 
morning — a spring of the south, which only 
counts its hours by flowers. Many of the 
walks wound through thickets of myrtle, now 
putting forth its young and fragrant leaves ; 
others were bordered by straight lines of cy- 
press — those stately and graceful columns, 
like the pillars of some natural temple. In the 
midst was one immense cedar, worthy to have 
been a summer palace on Lebanon ; beneath, 
sheltered by its huge boughs from the sun, 
was a well, whose square marble walls were 
covered with the entablatures of the Roman 
days, — oval compartments of figures, sur- 
rounded by a carved wreath of the palm. 
They had probably told some mythological 
fiction, now nearly effaced. Beside the well 
head was a large stone cross, at the foot of 
which was a kneeling figure, said to be an 
ancient statue of St. Valerie. The beautiful 
bend ot the form, the finely shaped head, the 
delicate and Grecian outline of the features, and 
the flowing drapery, were suspiciously classi- 
cal in their grace. Around was an entirely 
open area, and there the nuns had small sepa- 
rate gardens, where they cultivated flowers 
and aromatic herbs. 

^ The young English nun was seated at a 
little distance ; her black robe and veil con- 



trasted strangely with the bright boughs over 
her head — it was a pomegranate tree, bent to 
the very ground by its luxuriant weight of 
blossoms — those rich red flowers which burn 
in the spring with the blushes of summer. 
She was quite alone ; and Beatrice, hastily 
taking a few early violets, which she had 
planted in her own plot of ground, went and 
offered them to the stranger in English. A 
passionate burst of tears — her first answer — 
startled her with their excess of sorrow. She 
had only just succeeded in restoring her com- 
panion to some appearance of composure, 
when the nun, her attendant, returned : seeing 
Beatrice, she said, in a good-humoured tone 
of petition, 

" You are young and idle — if the air does 
our invalid good, will you stay with her, and 
help her to return to her cell ?" 

" O, I like to be of use," replied Beatrice. 
" If not so good a nurse as yourself, I will be 
quite as careful." 

They were again alone, and the young 
Spaniard gazed with great interest on her 
companion, who, after an eager glance round, 
said, 

" You are not a nun — do you mean to take 
the veil 1" 

" Never," replied Beatrice ; "I am only 
waiting the arrival of my father." 

" Is he an Englishman, that you speak the 
language so well ?" 

" No : he is a Spaniard ; but my mother 
was a native of your country." 

" Would to God I had never left it !" and 
again the tears fell thick and fast; then, speak- 
ing with an expression of alarm, " I am so 
weak I scarce know what to say ; but surely 
I need not fear treachery from you '?" 

A sudden idea flashed across Beatrice : she 
knew the importance attached to the English 
convert; she had heard of the haste with 
which her vows had been made ; divers 
rumours had been afloat in the convent re- 
specting her. 

Perhaps restraint had been laid on her in- 
clinations ; could she render her assistance 1 
There might be danger in the attempt; but 
hers was not a temper to be daunted by 
danger. 

" Your confidence," said she, kindly, after 
a moment's hesitation, "will be best obtained 
by my own. I am here only a temporary re- 
sident — I am not even a Catholic — and look to 
England as my future home. Can I serve 
you ?" 

" Alas !" replied Emily, for we need scarce- 
ly say it was she, "you know not how weak, 
how wicked I have been. I am very wretch- 
ed, but I have brought it on myself; there is 
nothing now can be done for me ; but we may 
speak of England ; and, perhaps, when you 
go, you will bear a few kind wishes and vain 
regrets to the friends I shall see no more,"— 
and again the tears fell in large drops from 
the languid eye. 

Beatrice, who saw that the young nun's 
weakness was ill calculated to bear these 
passionate bursts of sorrow, gent'y soothed 



184 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



her, induced her to walk, and, for the present, 
avoid conversation. The fresh air, the bright 
soft sun, and still more, the relief of such a 
companion, revived Emily ; and she returned 
to her cell so much better, that she might have 
been quoted as an example in any treatise on 
the benefit of exercise. 

After this she and Beatrice took every op- 
portunity of being together. The suspicion 
which watched her .actions extended not to 
this intercourse. The abbess was perfectly 
aware that, under the influence of strong feel- 
ing and false excitement, she had been led into 
a step she- bitterly repented — this had been 
sufficiently betrayed during her fever. But 
the irrevocable vow was now taken — the con- 
vent had had its full credit for its convert — a 
very large pension was secured — her set of 
pearls had been offered to the Virgin — and St. 
Valerie might now consider her votary as quite 
safe. The superior, too, had made " assu- 
rance doubly sure," by intercepting the letters 
on both sides. A Spaniard, Beatrice's Catholic 
faith, on the other hand, as it excited no doubt, 
attracted no scrutiny — the daughter of an exile 
poor and powerless, she was an object of no 
consideration, and her actions were as little 
noticed as things of no consequence always are 
— her friendship for the English nun provoked 
not even a remark. Only those who have 
lived weeks and months in, as it were, a 
moral desert, among beings with whom they 
had not a feeling or a thought in common, 
with only a cold and comfortless knowledge 
of superiorit}' to console them for being utter- 
ly unappreciated — -who have felt words rise to 
the lip, and then checked them from a convic- 
tion that they would not be comprehended — 
they, and they alone, can enter into the plea- 
sure of speaking and being understood, and 
making conversation a medium not only to 
express wants, but ideas. 

Beatrice had lived too much in solitude not 
to be simple in her confidence. To those who 
have never been deceived, it seems so natural 
to confide in those we love. Besides, a happy 
attachment has such an enjoyment in its ex- 
pression ; and she was too young not to have 
a girl's pleasure in talking of her lover. No 
heart in early life was ever yet a sealed foun- 
tain. It is the unhappy love — the betrayed, 
or the unrequited — that shrouds itself in 
silence. But in the girl, young and affection- 
ate, out of the fulness of the heart the mouth 
speaketh. The timidity of pronouncing the 
beloved name once overcome, it is a fond in- 
dulgence to dwell on expanding hopes, or to 
express gentle fears, for the very sake of 
having them combated. When Beatrice re- 
pressed her feelings, it was from pride, not 
from suspicion ; and what pride could be roused 
by one so very sweet and gentle as Emily 
A.runde.'? — for though called Sister Agatha in 
'he convent, we shall preserve her old name. 

The first week or two passed in the mere 
exchange of general thoughts, small but en- 
dearing courtesies, and in correcting Beatrice's 
English pronunciation. But their intercourse 
grew rapidly more confidential. It is a com- 



mon thing to jest at the rapid growth and ex- 
aggeration of girlish friendships. Strange, 
how soon we forget our youth ! True, they 
do not last. What very simple, serene, and 
sincere sentiment in this world ever did ] We 
have soon scarcely affection enough for even 
our nearest and dearest. Instead of laughing 
at such early attachment, we might rather 
grieve over the loss of the unsuspicious kind- 
liness that gushed forth in feelings now gone 
from us forever. 

A purple twilight threw its soft shadows 
around as they sat together by the casement, 
a dim outline of each other's figure only visi- 
ble, when Beatrice began her history. It was 
too dark for either to distinguish the other's 
face ; and when the young Spaniard sprung 
up in dismay at seeing her companion's head 
drop heavily upon her arm, she had not the 
least idea that her insensibility was occasion- 
ed by any part of her narrative. Remedies 
and relics were equally resorted to before she 
recovered, when every cause but the right one 
was assigned for her fainting. 

Emily had thought she was accustomed to 
consider Lorraine attached to another ; but 
that vague hope which lingers so uncon- 
sciously in the human heart, or not so much 
hope as uncertainty, that had as yet given no 
tangible shape to her rival, had ill prepared 
her to find that rival in her own familiar com- 
panion. Vain regrets, sorrow as passionate 
as it was bitter, ended in a feeling that could 
live only in the heart of a woman, young, af- 
fectionate, and unworldly. Lorraine, then, 
loved the young Spaniard, and "I," thought- 
Emily, " may love her too." A patriot might 
take his best lesson of disinterestedness from 
feminine affection. 



CHAPTER LIX. 

"Often from our weaknesses our strongest principles of 
conduct are born ; and from the acorn which a breeze has 
wafted springs the oak which defies the storm." 

Devereux. 

" We understand the whole city was in a state of revo- 
lution."— Daily Paper. 

There was a singular degree of similarity 
and difference in the characters of Emily and 
Beatrice. Both had strong feelings, poetical 
imaginations — and both had lived much in 
solitude; but Emily's feelings had never 
been left to her imagination, and her solitude 
had been that of revery and idleness. Bea- 
trice's feelings, on the contrary, had been 
early taught the necessity of restraint ; her 
imagination, curbed by action, had only been 
allowed to colour, not create circumstance ; 
and her solitude had been one of constant and 
useful employment. Both had much mental 
cultivation; but Emily's was accomplishment 
— Beatrice's was information. The one 
dreamed — the other thought. The one, only 
accustomed to feel, acted from impulse — the 
other, forced to reflect, soon formed for her 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



185 



*elf a standard of principle. Emily was go- 
verned by -others — Beatrice relied on herself. 
Emily loved Lorraine as the first idol which 
her feelings had set up, an almost ideal ob- 
ject — Beatrice loved him from a high sense 
of appreciation. The English girl would 
have died beneath the first danger that threat- 
ened her lover — the Spaniard would have 
stood the very worst by his side. Both were 
sweet in temper, gentle in step and voice, and 
refined in taste. 

Emily's history was soon told, with the 
exception of a name ; and their intercourse 
continued to be equally unrestrained and af- 
fectionate, with a single mental reservation. 
Emily marvelled how one beloved by Lorraine 
could ever have endured to separate from him ; 
and Beatrice secretly wondered at the weak- 
ness which renounced faith, friends, and 
home, for a passion which seemed wholly 
founded on imagination. True it is, that we 
judge of others' actions by our own — but then 
we do not make the same allowances. 

Time passed away quickly, as time does 
when unbroken by an}*- particular event. The 
restraint and superstitious folly of the con- 
vent were becoming every day more and 
more distasteful. Beatrice, too, had opened 
another source of remorse to her companion. 
Hitherto, Emily had never considered the 
rash step she had taken in a religious point 
of view. Like too many others, religion had 
been with her matter of general acknowledg- 
ment and general observance. She repeated 
her prayers, because she had been accustomed 
so to do ; she went to church, because others 
did ; but she had never looked to her God for 
support — to her Bible for a rule of action. 
There are more practical infidels from indif- 
ference than from disbelief. 

Beatrice was at first astonished to find how 
little interest the English girl, who had been 
brought up in a faith so pure, so Christian, 
took in subjects that were to her of such vital 
importance. We ask for miracles : is not our 
own blindness a perpetual miracle ? We live 
amid the blessings that Christianity has dif- 
fused through the smallest occurrences of our 
daily life ; — we feel hourly within us that 
pining for some higher state, whose promise 
is in the gospel ; — our weakness daily forces 
us to look around for support ; — we admit the 
perfection of the Saviour's moral code ; we see 
the mighty voice of prophecy, that spoke 
aloud of old upon the mountains, working 
year by year their wonderful fulfilment; — and 
yet we believe not, or, if we believe, w T e delay 
acting upon that belief. 

Out of evil cometh good. The attention 
that might have been diverted — the conviction 
that might have been darkened in the world — 
were both given entire to the faith that dawned 
on the subdued and enlightened mind of Emi- 
ly Arundel. The Bible of Beatrice was their 
only religious book ; but it was read with 
that simple and earnest belief by which the 
lark is soonest made light, and the crooked 
path made straight. 

Beatrice saw, however, that her friend's 

Vol. 1—24 



health was rapidly declining. Almost hourly 
her slight form became more shadowy — her 
large bright eyes still brighter and larger — 
her cheek varied from a clear, cold paleness, 
to a rich but feverish crimson. Her beauty 
was like that which we image of a spirit, or 
as if it refined and became more heavenly as 
it drew nearer to its native heaven. She 
could also see that, with all the restless anx- 
iety of an invalid, she pined for her own coun- 
try. " If I could but die in England !" was 
her haunting thought ; — a vain wish indeed ; 
for Beatrice saw clearly that the victim was 
more closely v/atched than ever. She herself, 
too, was observed with something of suspi- 
cion. A note she sent to Pachetti was opened 
before her; and during an interview with him, 
an elder nun remained the whole time within 
earshot of the grating. Moreover, she had 
her own sources of anxiety. Nothing had 
been heard of her father ; and though most 
ample time had elapsed for Lorraine's return 
to Naples, she had neither seen nor heard of 
him. 

The principal events in life are generally- 
unexpected. One afternoon, when Emily's 
being very unwell had been admitted as suffi- 
cient excuse for her absence from the service, 
the friends had gone together to the convert 
garden, which garden, it is necessary to ob- 
serve, lay on the side of the hill : a flight of 
stone steps led into it, and it was separated 
from the convent by a wall and a paved court. 
Emily was too ill for any employment ; but 
Beatrice had brought her embroidery. Seated 
beneath the shadowy cedar, the hour flew ra- 
pidly, when they were startled by loud and 
uncommon noises. A heavy trampling of 
steps — clashing as if of swords — several 
rounds of musketry — screams — shouts — rose 
in the direction of the court. Each started 
from her seat; but the walls intercepted their 
sight, till light and broken masses of smoke 
ascended evidently from firearms. Faint with 
terror, Emily sunk against the tree. 

" With whom are the Neapolitans at war V 
exclaimed her companion, to whose mind the 
idea of foreign invasion naturally rose. 

The sounds grew louder — smoke became 
denser and darker. 

" Gracious heaven ! they have fired the 
convent." 

A glare of flame now threw a fearful and 
wild light against the black body of smoke 
which hung over it. The firing ceased ; — one 
loud shout rose, and then sank into silence. 
The clashing of arms was over ; but the steps 
sounded louder and more hurried ; they could 
distinguish a cry for water. 

" At least," said Beatrice, " we will move 
from the mountain." With much difficulty, 
she half supported, half carried Emily behind 
a little thicket of the broad-leaved myrtle. 
" We are here secure from instant observa- 
tion." 

Even as she spoke, a party of men dashed 

down the steps. One, who appeared theii 

leader, paused and looked round for a moment. 

His quick eye saw the well; and he an- 

q2 



186 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



proached, motioning with his hand for the ad- 
vance of his followers, who were all carrying 
what seemed to be carpets, or rather tapestry. 
Beatrice now recognised the hangings of the 
refectory. They brought them to the well ; 
and apparently obeying the directions of their 
captain, plunged them into the water, and then 
hurried back with them saturated with mois- 
ture. The chief was following when he was 
detained by a tall, dark-looking man, who ap- 
peared to speak earnestly ; but his stopping 
made him turn his face to the myrtle thicket. 
In another moment Beatrice was in the arms 
of her father. 

" Your appearance, madam," said the 
stranger, " is a most powerful argument in 
favour of my advice." 

Advice generally does require some very 
powerful argument to be taken. 



CHAPTER LX. 

"He abandoned all his schemes of policy, intent only 
upon the means of making, if possible, a handsome retreat 
from the disastrous situation into which his presumptuous 
confidence had betrayed him." — Sydenham. 

It would have been very much below Don 
Henriquez's dignity to have escaped easily 
from Spain; and it was rather disrespectful 
of fortune not to Ihrow more impediments in 
his way than she did. He was as lucky in 
missing obstacles as heroes of romance used 
to be in finding them. Many were the dis- 
guises he assumed. At one time he even me- 
ditated cutting off his mustaches ; — that would 
have been " the unkindest cut of all." How T - 
ever, after a longer period of wandering than 
he had expected, he found himself in perfect 
safety on board a little trading vessel bound 
for Naples. 

He was landed, at his own express desire, 
on a lonely part of the sea-coast; and his pre- 
caution was rewarded by being, in a most 
picturesque bend of the road, suddenl}'' seized, 
his arms pinioned, his eyes blindfolded, and 
himself hurried into the presence of our old 
acquaintance, Giulio Castelli. An old ac- 
quaintance, too, was he of Don Henriquez, 
who, during his last sojourn in Naples, had 
found him an active ai.d clever partisan. 

Zoridos was immediately released — met 
with the most polite reception — and learned 
that his friends in Naples had made their last 
speeches, some from very elevated situations. 
To this was added, that Naples was in a state 
of great discontent, and might still be consi- 
dered a very promising theatre for a man of 
brilliant talents and enlightened opinions. 

Henriquez was just now most desirous of 
learning something from Pachetti, of his 
daughter and his ducats. Giulio, since his 
matrimonial speculation, had become more 
notorious, and better known personally, than 
is quite desirable for a gentleman who was 
looking back with longing eyes to that land 
of Cockaigne, England : so, one dark night, 
attended Jjy one or two of his band, who in- 



tended leaving off business and turning lazzs,- 
roni, they all set off for Naples, which they 
found in an uproar. The truth is, the inhabit- 
ants of that languid and luxurious city w r anted 
some little variety ; and the minister (your 
great men have each their weak point) sup- 
ported a favourite actress in the range of first 
rate characters in the opera — supported hei 
against the united musical opinion of Naples. 
One night she sang worse than ever; and the 
next morning half the city rose up, demand- 
ing liberty and a new prima donna. A body 
of the lazzaroni also insisted on a lower price 
for lemonade, for the revolutionary movement 
was not serious enough for macaroni. 

At this moment Don Henriquez arrived. It 
was too tempting an opportunity to be missed. 
He placed himself at the head of a company 
of people, who were prepared to do some 
great thing, though as yet they had not deter- 
mined what. He drove back a body of sol- 
diers, who, being disturbed in their morning's 
sleep, were scarce awake — saw at once the 
commanding position of St. Valerie — prepared 
to take possession of the hill — and sent Giulio 
to Pachetti's for five hundred ducats. He met 
with some slight opposition from a few strag- 
gling troops ; but made good his post. Un- 
luckily, the porch of the doorway caught fire : 
this led to an incursion into the garden, and 
the result has already been told. Giulio, who 
had loitered somewhat on the road, was, how- 
ever, early enough to follow Henriquez into 
the garden. Even in the utmost happiness 
of surprise, Beatrice was not one to think only 
of herself: a hope of Emily's escape instantly 
suggested itself. 

" Dearest father, this w r ay !" exclaimed she, 
hurrying him to the thicket where Emily 
leant too terrified and too bewildered for 
speech. " She is English — she pines for her 
own country. Can w T e not now aid her to 

fly'?" 

" Only too happy to be so employed. Sure- 
ly, Don Henriquez, this claim upon your gal- 
lantry will be more powerful than that upon 
your patriotism — especially as the one may 
be of some avail, and the other cannot," in- 
terrupted Giulio, who attended them. 

Henriquez looked hesitatingly first at the 
convent, and then at his daughter. 

" Use your influence, lady, with your fa- 
ther ; he is too brave a man to throw away 
his life for nothing. A body of troops are 
now on their way : the rest of the city is quiet 
already. As I passed through the court, sa- 
crilege was the word, not liberty. The mo- 
ment the soldiers are seen, the people will dis- 
perse, or a few of the bravest may remain to 
pelt their leader." 

" My poor Beatrice, is this our meeting!" 
exclaimed Zoridos. 

"You see, senhor, the case is desperate as 
regards fighting, and no one can blame the 
flight which is sheer necessity. I know this 
ground very well. This won't be the first 
nun who has found my services useful. It is 
now getting dust; in half an hour it will be 
dark. By that time we shall be on the shore ; 



ROMANCE AND REALITY 



187 



and Pachetti, with his usual discretion, told 
me there is a vessel lying about a mile from 
the coast, and bound for Marseilles. Once on 
board, we are safe." 

" Well, we must just fight our way through 
the court," said Henriquez. 

" You would not fight far, with a nun on 
one side, and a novice on the other. No, no; 
follow me — and that as speedily as possible." 

So saying, he advanced to assist Emily, 
who instantly recognised the banditti chieftain. 
Faintly she sank on Beatrice's shoulder, 
scarcely able to utter her entreaties not to 
venture with such a guide. The recognition 
was mutual. 

" I don't very much wonder at her fright. 
"We have met before; but I owe her no 
grudge, and we must not wait for womanish 
fear. Don Henriquez, have I ever broken 
faith with you? Trust me now, and follow 
me at once." 

Beatrice saw the necessity for instant ac- 
tion. " Emily dear, you cannot fear my fa- 
ther" — and transferring the trembling girl to 
Zoridos, she advanced, and, accepting Giu- 
lio's offered aid, said, " I can well trust my 
father's comrade; let us lead the way." 

" By the Madonna, lady, you shall be as 
safe as myself!" 

Confidence is its own security. Henriquez, 
finding Emily too terrified or too w r eak to 
move, took her up in his arms, and carried 
her like a child. They reached a remote part 
of the garden, and, partly forcing, partly cut- 
ting a way through some thick shrubs, they 
saw a door, whose hinges soon yielded to 
their efforts. 

" I doubt," said Giulio, " whether this en- 
trance will ever be as useful again as it has 
been. Well, I do not believe any one knew 
of its existence, save myself, an old priest 
long since dead, and a young count not likely 
to say much about it. So it will not be greatly 
missed." 

It was now getting darker every minute — 
luckily their guide knew his way perfectly. 
In a very short time the sound of the waves 
breaking on the sea beach was distinctly 
heard, the trees grew together less thickly, 
when suddenly their guide paused. 

" Your dress will inevitably betray you, 
lady. We shall find a little boat waiting ; 
but, though their consciences are not very ten- 
der, I doubt whether the rowers will like 
carrying off a nun; and they will not hear of 
it on board our vessel. To aid an escape 
from the clutches of justice is a meritorious 
act; but from those of the church is quite 
another matter." 

The whole party looked at each other in 
dismay. 

" Leave me! leave me !" exclaimed Emily, 
to whom the idea of the danger she was bring- 
ing on her friends gave a momentary energy. 
" Why should three lives be sacrificed for one 
so nearly spent as mine 1 Leave me !" 

"Never!" replied Beatrice. "You had 
remained in the garden but for my persuasions. 
Quit us, my father — we can surely return to 



the convent — fright will excuse an absence, 
which, from its return, will seem uninten- 
tional." 

"And how are you to account for finding 
out the door 1 and how are you to get back \ 
I must try some better plan 1 Stay you hero 
— I shall be back in half an hour. You could 
not have a better pledge for my return than 
this" — placing on the ground a bag, which, 
both from its weight and sound, seemed fillet' 
with metal substances. "Pray to every saint 
you can think of, that the wind does not rise 
while 1 am gone." 

Before they could answer, he had disap- 
peared among the trees. The half hour pass- 
ed in the most intolerable anxiety. Every 
rustle in the leaves sounded like the beginning 
of a breeze; the slightest movement of any 
of the party filled the others with alarm ; and 
Emily sat on a fallen branch and wept bitterly. 
At length a rapid footstep was heard : it was 
Giulio. 

" I have procured other habits. You must 
dress as quickly as possible. Let the tree 
hide the light on one side, my cloak will do 
it on the other." 

So saying, he laid a packet on the ground, 
and struck a light; while the cloak, which 
hung on the boughs, served at once for a screen 
to the light and themselves. 

All the colours of the rainbow seemed in 
Giulio's bundle. He had procured two pea- 
sants' gala dresses, which shone with scarlet 
and blue. Hastily Beatrice performed both 
her own and Emily's toilette ; for, what with 
fatigue and terror, her companion was almost 
powerless : still, their celerity excited the 
praise of the ci-devant professor of the fine 
arts. 

" What a shame to cut off the nuns' hair as 
they do! No wonder they want to escape! 
Still, I think yours will soon grow again" — 
addressing Emity, whose deficiency in, as the 
Macassar advertisements have it, " woman's 
chief adornment," was, however, hidden by a 
red kerchief knitted round her temples. 

The light was extinguished, and they again 
set forth. A boat was in waiting, and they 
reached the side of the ship in safety. After 
a short parley, in which the word "ducats" 
bore a prominent part, they were admitted on 
board. 

It was a merchantman, laden with sweet 
wines. The accommodations were wretched 
enough — to Beatrice they seemed luxurious. 
A little cabin, the only one, was allotted to 
their use ; and there Giulio begged permission 
to deposit his bag. He fastened it up anew. 
Still Beatrice was right when she fancied it 
contained the gold chalice of St. Valerie's 
chapel. Before morning they were out of sight 
of Naples. For the information of all inte- 
rested in such matters, we beg leave to state 
that the insurrection ended in a proclamation, 
setting forth, that, thanks to Santo Januario, 
the lemons promised to be especially produc- 
tive, and that there was to be a display of 
fireworks in his honour at the ne^t festival. 

A Signora Rossinuola, with the face of a 



185 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



goddess, and the voice of an angel, made her 
first courtesy that evening to the Neapolitans. 
She was received with the most rapturous 
applause. Nothing was heard of next day but 
her shake and her smile. Her rival talked of 
an ungrateful public, and set off for England. 
The next year she outbid the Queen of Naples 
for a diamond necklace. 

Essa3^s are written on causes — they might 
be more pithily turned on consequences. The 
Neapolitan revolution ended in the departure 
of one actress, the debut of another, and the 
escape of a nun. Well, the importance of an 
event is to the individual. One of Beatrice's 
first acts was to give Lorraine's letter to her 
father. It was filled with expressions of the 
most generous and devoted attachment, men- 
tioned his intention of returning to Spain, 
there endeavouring to learn Don Henriquez's 
fate, and also to prevail on his daughter to 
unite her fortune with his own. 

It needed all Beatrice's exertion and sub- 
mission not to sink beneath the most agonizing 
apprehensions. Her time and attention, too, 
were occupied by the rapid and increasing ill- 
ness of Emily, who, with that pertinacity with 
which an invalid adheres to some favourite 
idea, seemed filled but with the hope of dying 
at home. Don Henriquez was sufficiently 
tired of action to look rejoicingly forward to 
the security of England ; Beatrice's heart was 
there already ; and Guilio avowed his belief 
that it was the only place in the world where 
talent was properly encouraged. 



CHAPTER LXI. 



And it's hame, hame, harae, 

I fain wad be — 
Hame, hame, hame, 

In my ain countrie." 

Allan Cunningham. 



" Mdls, mamam — mais je viens ce matin de me marier."- 
La Petite Madeleine. 



Untaken by a pirate — undisturbed by an 
interesting shipwreck just in sight of port — 
our voyagers arrived at Marseilles. Here Don 
Henriquez would gladly have made some stay ; 
but at Emily's earnest entreaty, they embark- 
ed in another vessel for England. " You know 
not," said she to Beatrice, " how I pine to be 
at home again ; every voice grates on my ear 
with a foreign sound — my eyes look round in 
vain for some accustomed object — the very air 
I breathe has an oppression in it. I feel ill ; 
but it is an illness that only asks for its cure, 
familiar faces and quiet and home." 

Beatrice tried to smile and soothe ; but her 
Eyes filled with tears, and her voice became 
inaudible, as she watched Emily's feverish 
colour die away into marble paleness, and felt 
how heavily that slight and wasted frame 
leant on her for support. " So young, so beau- 
tiful, so gentle — gifted with rank, fortune, and 
one so made to love and to be loved — and yet 



dying — and dying, too, of that carefully kept 
grief which seemed a thing in which she could 
have no part. Alas ! life — on what a frail 
tenure dost thou hold thy dearest and love- 
liest. Her heart has given its most precious 
self, and the gift has been either slighted or 
betrayed. And I," thought Beatrice — "I, 
who am so happy in the love I deem my own 
— how could I bear neglect or falsehood from 
Edward 1 ? — happiness, thou art a fearful 
thing." 

It may be questioned whether Beatrice 
found either the support or the enjoyment in 
her father's society she expected. Keen in 
her perceptions, accurate in her conclusions, 
she could not but see the hollowness of argu- 
ments whose strength was in their sound ; and 
she could not but perceive the absurdity of the 
small vanities which wore a giant's armor till 
they fancied they had a giant's power. How- 
ever, the Grecian painter's veil is as good foi 
a parent's folly as for a parent's grief, and 
Beatrice listened to some thousand and one 
plans for the regeneration of mankind ; and 
though she drew in her own mind the conclu- 
sion, that as a universal conviction had never 
yet been obtained, so it never would, — she 
nevertheless wisely kept the conclusion to 
herself; while Henriquez thought what a very 
sweet creature she was : but then women were 
so very weak. " I did expect my daughter to 
have been superior to her sex." 

One evening Emily had been prevailed on 
to try the fresh air of the deck. Like most 
invalids whose disease is on the mind, she was 
indisposed to any thing of bodily exertion; :«it, 
though she might reject Beatrice's advice, she 
could not refuse her request — and she took the 
place which had been so carefully prepared for 
her. The air was soft and warm, and she 
soon suffered the cloak in which she was 
wrapped to fall about her; when suddenly a 
passenger, whose crimson pelisse had quite 
illuminated the deck she was pacing, ap- 
proached w T ith the exclamation—" Well, now, 
Lord help this wicked world J — the lies people 
do tell ! — and no manner of gain whatsoever. 
Only for to think, miss, of meeting you here ! 
Why, they said you had been crossed in love, 
and had turned into a nun ; and instead of that, 
here we all are, sailing away for Old England. 
But, bless your pretty face! you look mighty 
ill — I hope the crossing in love part of the 
story isn't true — I know it's very disagreeable 
to young people; but, deary me, you'll soon 
get over it — it's nothing when you're used to 
it. When I was a girl, I used to sing, 

' I am in love with twenty ; 
I could adore as many more — 
There's nothing like a plenty.' 

Lord love you ! I never took on about any of 
them." 

" Now don't say so, Mrs. Higgs, " said a 
corpulent gentleman, thrusting in a face which 
looked equally wide and weak — " you know 
you'd have broke your heart if we two hadn't 
been made one." 

"Broke my heart! — no sich non-sense— 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



189 



►here were as good pig;s in the market as yours 
any day. Not that I'm noways grumbling- at 
the bargain I've had of you — though you 
weren't my first love neither. So you see, 
miss, to lose a first chance aint much." 

Beatrice did not comprehend the dialogue, 
but she saw Emily look as if ready to sink 
into the earth, and she beckoned her father to 
help her companion to the cabin — at the same 
time collecting her best English to explain 
that Miss Arundel was too ill for conversation. 
" All affectation," said Mr. Robert, who still 
resented her silence in the chapel. 

Two, however, of the passengers in the 
vessel were very agreeably employed — they 
were making love. By-the-by, what an ugly 
phrase — " making love" is — as if love were a 
dress or a pudding. Signor Giulio's fortunate 
star was in the ascendant. Miss Amelia 
Bridget Higgs was not, it is true, the beauty 
of the family; she was therefore the more 
grateful for any little polite attentions. And — 
to tell in a few words what took them a great 
many — Mr. Higgs, who had come to Mar- 
seilles to meet his family, landed his feminine 
stock with warm congratulations that they had 
not taken up with any frogeating fellow 
abroad. 

The old Greek proverb says, call no man 
happy till he dies. A week after their arrival 
in Fitzroy Square, Miss Amelia Bridget 
thought it good for her health to walk every 
morning before breakfast. "A very fine 
thing," observed Mrs. Higgs; "I am sure it 
used to be Job's own job to get her out of her 
bed." 

One morning, however, Fitzroy Square must 
have been more than usually delightful : there 
was an east wind 

"Amid whose vapours evil spirits dwell ;" 

the poor little daisies and crocuses, 

" Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red," 

seemed to implore their mother earth to receive 
them into her bosom again ; the smuts, those 
" fairy favours" from the gnome queen of coal 
fires, fell fast and thick*; and the laburnums 
looked so many practical Rousseaus, denounc- 
ing the progress of civilization. 

" Why, I declare it spits," said Mrs. Higgs, 
gazing on those watery drops of the windows, 
which indicate what the Scotch call mist, and 
the English rain. "Timothy, do go and tell 
your sister that the tea's quite cold, and we've 
eat all the prawns." 

"I'm sure, ma'," replied the boy, "you 
might send Jack — I've got my theme to do 
about being obliging, and I sha'nt have no 
time." 

"Indeed," said Jack, who was what is 
called a fine manly boy, " I sha'nt go ; my 
stomach always tells me when it's breakfast 
time — and Miss Biddy has got as good a clock 
as I have." 

" What wicked boys you are !" exclaimed 
the irritated Mrs. Higgs ; " all this comes of 
your edication." 



" I am sure," rejoined Jack, "I don't want 
to be educated — I hate going to school." 

" Ain't you ashamed of yourselves, you lit- 
tle ungrateful rascals 1 Don't you cost us a 
mint of money, that you may have the bless- 
ing edification?" 

"I don't care," returned Jack. 
" Don't care 1 you undootiful wretch, do 
you know that Don't Care came to the gal- 
lows?" 

" W r ell, ma', if its my fate to be hanged, 1 
shall never be drowned." 

"I'll be the death of you, Master Sauce- 
box!" said Mrs. Higgs, rushing wrathfully 
forward ; but the box on the ear was arrested 
by the sudden entrance of Miss Bridget Ame- 
lia and Signor Giulio Castelli. The young 
gentleman made his escape ; but Mrs. Higgs's 
store of indignation was not so instantly to be 
assuaged, even by the oil of courtesy ; though, 
by dint of eating two lozenges, getting her a 
glass of brandy during a gale, and seeing to 
the safety of a bandbox, Signor Giulio was 
rather a favourite. As to Mr. Higgs, he 
hated all those foreigneering people. 

"A pretty time this is to come in to break- 
fast. The muffins are quite cold, I can te'S 
you, Miss Higgs." 

" Not Miss Higgs, but the Countess di Cas- 
telli," said Giulio, stepping gracefully for- 
ward. 

The countess took out her handkerchief. 
" Our felicity asks but the paternal blessing 
to make it complete. Kneel, my Amelia." 

" Lord, father, don't be angry, and begin to 
swear; but I've been and got married this 
morning." 

"Not to that damned jackanapes of a 
Frenchman," cried the father. 

"Married, and got never no wedding 
clothes !" said the mother. 

"I'll lock you up on bread and water for a 
year," said Mr. Higgs. 

" To think of you going and getting married 
before your eldest sister. But you never had 
no manners," said Mrs. Higgs. 

" Miss Biddy's in for it now," whispered 
Jack. 

Signor Giulio began an eloquent speech 
about his noble blood, his country's wrongs, 
and his fair countess; and his lady began to 
cry. Tears did more than words. Neither 
Mr. nor Mrs. Higgs could ever abide the 
sight of crying : their anger melted like barley 
sugar exposed to the moist air — the young 
couple were forgiven — and the whole family 
spent the wedding-day at Greenwich. 

At dinner, a dish of stewed eels made Mr. 
Higgs a little pensive, and he remarked, 
" that the fair sex slipped through your fin- 
gers just like eels." This inuendo was, 
however, all that disturbed the enjoyment of 
the day, whose hilarity, as the newspapers 
say of a public dinner, was prolonged to a late 
hour. 

But all this in advance; and Miss Bridgef 
and the Italian professeur des varietes are lean* 
ing over the side of the vessel. At length » 



190 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



dark line appeared on the horizon — it widened 
— assumed a broken outline, like an evening- 
ridge of clouds — gradually the bold coast be- 
came defined — an element seemed restored to 
creation — and the green glad earth was visible 
to the gaze of the voyager. 

Beatrice stood at the little cabin window, 
her heart in her eyes, watching, but not for 
the beauty of the scene. No, though the 
steps of morning were even as angels on the 
sea which grew bright beneath ; — no, though 
the night had left the blush with which she 
rose from her pillow behind her on the clouds; 
— no, though the white cliffs stood out before 
her — stainless portals of earth's most glorious 
land ; — she gazed upon it because it was the 
country of Edward Lorraine. "Edward, my 
own beloved Edward !" said she in English; 
and then hid her face in her hands, as if to 
shut out every object but that now present to 
her thoughts. 

A slight noise in the cabin aroused her. 
She blushed to think how forgetful she had 
been of time. The coast was now distinctly 
visible : the town glittered in the sunshine — 
the castle reared its head proudly on the 
height — a hundred ships floated in the Downs 
— a hundred flags were rising in the breeze. 

" O, Emily, come!" exclaimed the Spanish 
girl, "and see your own beautiful country." 

Emily, whose arousing from sleep had at- 
tracted Beatrice's attention, rose from the sofa, 
and leaning on her companion's shoulder, 
shared the eabin window. Once, only once, 
she looked almost as if with envy in the Spa- 
niard's face — it was but for a moment, and she, 
too, turned to gaze eagerly on the shore. Her 
cheek coloured, her eye brightened, as she 
marked how rapidly they were approaching 
the land. Almost unconsciously, she stretched 
her arms forward, like a child to its mother. 
" Home at last—how I have pined for my 
home!" 



CHAPTER LXII. 

" Sad and deep 
Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast." 

Mrs. Hemans. 

" Many a pang of lingering tenderness, 
And manv a shuddering conscience fit." 

Montgomery's Pelican Island. 

Arlndel House was scarcely a day's jour- 
ney from the sea-port where they disembarked ; 
and the voyagers easily yielded to Emily's en- 
treaties that they would, for the present, take 
up their abode with her. 

"How very beautiful !" exclaimed Beatrice, 
as, at the end, they wound through the sha- 
dowy lane so peculiarly English. Truly, as 
the old proverb says, 

"March winds and April showers 
Had brought forth May flowers." 

The first flush of the hawthorn blossom had 
given place to the luxuriant vegetation of the 
green leaves, amid which the red shoots of 



the wild honeysuckle twined, and from which 
hung a profusion of its fragrant tubes, like 
fairy trumpets. The dog-rose was decked 
with its delicate bloom, and a hundred frai 
but most fair roses contrasted the darker 
hedge. High above stood the ash tree, its 
boughs covered with the toy-like bunches 
called " locks and keys ;" and beyond spread 
the meadows, knee deep, with the verdani 
grass. At one turning in the road, the air be- 
came suddenly fragrant : the dew of the even- 
ing was falling on a portion of the fence en- 
tirely composed of bnar, whose leaves are 
sweeter than the flowers of other piants. 

The shadows fell long and dark from the 
antique house as they entered the court-yard ; 
and an old man, candle in hand, querulously 
asserted " that the young mistress was 
abroad." 

Emily had, partly from fatigue, partly from 
thought — such thought as never yet sought 
language — been leaning back in the carriage; 
while Don Henriquez and his daughter con- 
versed in whispers. She now roused herself; 
and, looking from the open door of the chaise, 
said to an elderly woman, who had come for- 
ward, apparently to countenance her husband's 
denial, "Have you forgotten me, Mary]" 

" God bless her sweet face, it is herself! 
Our young mistress come home !" 

Little explanation was needed. The an- 
cient servants were, with the usual effect of 
pleasurable surprise, quite bewildered. With 
a strong effort, Elmily conquered whatever 
feelings might be struggling within ; and bid- 
ding her guests welcome, took Beatrice's arm 
and led her after the old housekeeper, who 
mingled her exclamations of delight at seeing 
" Miss Emily again," with lamentations at 
having been taken "all unaware:" turning 
with an apologetic tone to Beatrice, to whom, 
as the stranger, she deemed some explanation 
due for the honour of the house. " The room 
does look mighty bare and cold, but you see, 
ma'am, the curtains are taken down, and the 
chairs covered up : to-morrow you sha'n't 
know the place." 

They entered the room, and the lights fell 
full on Emily's face. "Oh, Miss Emily!" 
ejaculated the poor faithful creature, who now 
saw the alteration a few months had produced. 
A glance from Beatrice — for nothing is so 
electric as the kindness of sympathy — stopped 
the tide of bewailings that were gushing forth. 
" Poor child !" muttered the housekeeper ; 
" but it's no good telling her." 

" You must let me help you to nurse Miss 
Emily," said Beatrice: "I must resign my 
office by degrees ; but being at home will do 
wonders for her." 

" Nay," said Emily, smiling, " I shall want 
very little nursing now — I feel so well this 
evening." 

Even sorrow for " the dear child" gave way 
before the "hospitable cares" on which the 
housekeeper was " intent." A bright fire 
blazed in the grate, the arm-chairs were wheel- 
ed round, a white cloth laid on the table- - 
rather sooner than was necessary, but the de 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



191 



ight of the old domestic's heart was the da- 
mask. Sapper was brought in with apologies, 
thick and threefold as those that arrive on the 
morning of a ball when the hostess has been 
experimental in her invitations. 

"If I had but known, Miss Emily, you 
were coming — but, luckily, we killed a pig 
yesterday. But, dear, dear, you didn't use to 
eat pork; and I'm sure I know nothing of 
your foreign fashions. You'll be starved, all 
of you." 

The supper, however, was not so despica- 
ble, especially to travellers. A chicken had 
been broiled with mushrooms — mushrooms 
which had that very morning had the dew 
upon them ; pork chops the smallest of the 
small, and the whitest of the white; some 
broiled ham, and peas which Adrian had been 
out with the lantern to gather; also a cucum- 
ber, the freshest and most fragrant of salads ; 
preserved apricots, like frosted amber; a 
basket of early strawberries and cream — Nor- 
way itself, that paradise of cows, could scarce 
boast thicker or whiter. Add to this, Madeira 
which had twice ripened beneath eastern suns 
— once in the grape, and once in the wood ; 
and Port whose filmy robe of cobweb had, as 
old Adrian boasted, outlasted many a silken 
dress. Now, remembering that what was hot 
of his supper, was very hot indeed, and what 
was cold, cold as possible, it must be owned 
that travellers have fared worse. 

Don Henriquez was deeply impressed in 
favour of the English nation ; hut Beatrice 
was chiefly rejoiced to see how much being at 
the home, for which she had so pined, seemed 
to revive Emily. She had all day complained 
of severe and wearing pain; she now seemed 
not only at ease, but even comparatively 
strong. The Spaniard thought of her compa- 
nion's more happy and settled fate; rich, in 
her own land, near friends the next day would 
bring to her side — at home in the house of her 
ancestors. "Ah, Emily, you ought to be — 
you will be happy," was her silent reflec- 
tion. 

Emily not only felt that joyousness of spirits 
which is produced by relief from pain, but was 
anxious, by every exertion, to convince her 
guests of their welcome. It was the fatigue 
of her companions that first gave the signal 
for leaving the table. She leant on her old 
favourite up stairs — "I could carry you, Miss 
Emily, in my arms." 

Beatrice could not resist an exclamation of 
delight at the comfort of an English bed-room 
■ — the fire made it look so cheerful ; for though 
the days were warm and bright, the nights 
required fire. 

" To-morrow is my birth-day," said Emily; 
" how thankful I am to spend it at home ! 
Mary, be sure you send word to Mr. Morton 
to breakfast here." 

" But, Emily dear, you will tire yourself. 
If we mean," said Beatrice to the housekeeper, 
" to nurse her, Ave must oblige her to obey 
us : let us see, now, if both together have au- 
thority enough to make her silent and sleepy." 
In a few min.utes more the old woman was 



dismissed ; but Beatrice was the first asleep. 
Restless, weary, fearful of disturbing her com- 
panion, Emily found on her pillow only the 
weariness of unrest. She grew feverish and 
impatient; at last, having ascertained, by lean- 
ing over her, that Beatrice was sleeping, she 
arose, and, wrapping her cloak around her, 
softly undrew the curtain. A gleam of light 
from the lamp fell full on Beatrice's face, and 
Emily hastily turned round to ascertain that 
she still slept. The hurried glance became a 
prolonged gaze, as she marked the perfect 
beauty of the face before her. The marble 
clearness of the skin was warmed with a rich 
crimson flush; the parted lips were like chi- 
selled coral, and wore a sweet smile, as if 
their thoughts were pleasant. The long curl- 
ed eyelash rested on the cheek; and along 
the throat, where the blue veins, clear and 
azure, were filled with life, was a slight hair 
chain. Emily had often seen it — it was 
wrought by the sleeper's self, and to it hung 
the little watch given her by Edward Lor- 
raine, beating quietly as the heart beneath it. 
It was a moment's impulse that made Emily, 
as she entered the dressing room, hold the 
lamp to the glass. Earnestly she gazed on 
her own face — thin, pale, eye and cheek had 
equally lost their lustre ; her strange and hag- 
gard look startled even herself. 

" I never was so beautiful as she is — and 
now" — 

A feeling of hatred toward the young Spa- 
niard entered her heart, and she sunk back on 
the sofa, while her breath came thick with 
the hurry of evil thoughts. 

"I wish I had staid in the convent, so that 
she had staid with me. I might have turned 
her thoughts against him — told her he was 
cruel, false. Even now they might be parted." 
And Emily wished in her heart that the beau- 
tiful sleeper might never wake again. It is 
well for our weak and wicked race that our 
unrighteous wishes lack the temptation of 
power. Who dare look into the secret re- 
cesses of their soul, and number their crimes 
of thought 1 ? But Emily was too kind, too 
generous, to allow her bad nature more than a 
moment's sway. The shadow of the demon 
passed over her, but rested not. 

" My God, have pity and mercy on me ! I 
dare not think my own thoughts. I — I, who 
love him so ! how could I even think of hap- 
piness bought by his sorrow ! And Beatrice, 
who has been to me even as a sister — a watch- 
ful and affectionate sister !" 

The tears filled her eyes, and soon fell thick 
and fast ; they came with all the gentleness 
of rain, and her softened mood brought almost 
happiness with it. The imagination for a 
while drew the future as with the wand of a 
fairy; but it was the future of others — though 
a future that owed much to her affection. 
Suddenly she rose from her seat, and, draw- 
ing a little table to the fire, began writing 
eagerly. Her hand trembled, and the damp 
stood on her brow in large drops with the 
exertion; and before her task was finished 
her heart beat aloud. At length two paoe 



192 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



were completed: one she folded and put in 
her desk — " I only ask till to-morrow :" — the 
other she tried to seal, but in vain — her 
strength was utterly exhausted. Her head 
swam with a strange and heavy pain — she 
dropped her face upon her hands to still the 
throbbing- pulses — she gasped for breath — and 
on raising her face, her hands were covered 
with blood : it gave her, however, a tempo- 
rary relief; but she felt too faint to move, and 
sunk back on a sofa. A light step entered 
the room — it was Beatrice. 

" O, Emily, why did you not wake me ?" 
" Nay, I have not wanted you till now ;" 
and throwing her arm round her companion's 
neck, she kissed her : it was a silent renewal 
of affection, as if she mutely asked her for- 
giveness for having envied her happiness. 
She was soon asleep ; and Beatrice, now fully 
awakened by anxiety, watched ever her un- 
quiet slumbers as you would watch a feverish 
child. Once Emily started up — " Is my let- 



ter gone to Lady Mandevilh 



But pn Bea- 



trice's assurance that it should be sent the 
first thing in the morning, she dropped her 
head back on the pillow and slumbered again. 

The sunshine of summer, and the showers 
of spring, brought in the next day. White 
clouds wandered over the sky, like the uncer- 
tain aims of the weak and vain — and like 
them, too, often ending in darkness and tears. 
The wind stirred the leaves of the old trees 
with a sound like falling rain — a melancholy 
voice that suited well with their gloomy 
shade. But in the garden was life in all its 
glad and bright hues : the early roses and the 
late violets opened their urns, exhaling in per- 
fume the drops they caught, till every breath 
was pleasure; the laburnums, those prodigals 
of fleeting wealth, were covered with gold ; 
and the Persian lilacs waved graceful as the 
Circassian maidens, to whom they are so often 
compared with eastern song. Emily resisted 
all entreaties to remain in bed; and the^party 
had finished breakfast, before Mr. Morton ar- 
rived. The coldness and severity of his air 
vanished as he gazed on Emily, who, after a 
moment's embarrassment, requested Don Hen- 
riquez and his daughter to take Adrian as a 
guide round the grounds. 

They wandered for some time through the 
garden ; at length they repassed the window. 
Emily was rising from her knee, and Mr. 
Morton's hand rested on her head, even as a 
father would bless his child. They caught 
sight of Beatrice, and beckoned her to come 
in. Mr. Morton passed her hurriedly in the 
hall, and she saw he was struggling to subdue 
a burst of bitter emotion. The trace of tears 
was on Emily's cheek ; but she was quiet, 
composed, and less feverish. A moment after, 
Mr. Morton re-entered. But all parties con- 
versed by an effort. Beatrice was anxiously 
watching Emily's extreme exhaustion. Don 
Henriquez, having nothing else to do — and an 
English house, moreover, recalling many early 
recollections — thought he could not take a 
better opportunity of being unhappy about the 
Joss of his wife, whom, to speak the truth, he 



had never had time to regret properly. Mr 
Morton had ample matter for reflection in the 
altered looks of his early favourite; and the 
little attention Emily's increasing languor 
enabled her to bestow on anything, was given 
to watching the hands move round the face of 
Beatrice's watch. 

God of heaven ! to think what every seg 
ment of that small space involves! — how 
much of human happiness and misery — of 
breath entering into our frail tenement of mor- 
tality, and making life — or departing from it, 
and making death — are in such brief portions 
of eternity ! How much is there in one minute, 
when we reflect that that one minute extend* 
over the world ! 



CHAPTER LXIII. 

" How near I am now to a happiness 

This parth exceeds net 

Now for a welcome, 
Able to draw men's envy upon man ; 
A kiss now that will hang upon my lip 
As sweet as morning dew upon a rose, 
And full as long." 

MlDDLETON. 

Though not, perhaps, taking such perfect 
poetry of expression, a similar train of thought 
passed across Edward's mind on the morning 
that he galloped through the woods of the fair 
Spanish province where dwelt " the layde of 
his love." Leontio, in the drama, was very 
much disappointed in his reception ; so was 
Lorraine. The last dark branches which in- 
tercepted his view gave way, and he saw a 
heap of blackened ruins. Scarcely aware of 
his own actions, he sprang from his horse. A 
single glance convinced him it could harbour 
no human habitant. With the rapidity of his 
own thoughts, he flung himself on horseback 
again, and, urging the animal to its utmost 
speed, the blood was on the spur, and foam 
on the bit, when he drew bridle at Alvarez' 
cottage. 

Minora was there alone ; and the instant 
she caught sight of the young Englishman, 
j with all that tact by which a woman's feel- 
I ings enable her to read those of others, she 
waited no question, but instantly exclaimed, 
"The Donna Beatrice is safe, but at Naples !" 
Lorraine turned away his face for one mo- 
ment, towards the fresh air of the door, before 
he answered her. Alvarez entered almost im- 
mediately, and minute and many were the 
questions and answers which filled up the 
next hour. His plan was soon formed : he 
would accept their hospitality for the coming 
night, and return the next day to Naples 
During the latter part of the dialogue, Minora 
had been reducing to practice the theory of 
the French poet, 

" Mate, apres tout, il faut diner." 

The little oaken table had been placed be- 
neath the porch, w T hich the vine was beginning 
to cover with its lithe and light tendrils, and 
its small glistening green leaves opening in 






ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



193 



that short-lived and delicate perfume which 
exhales from the early blossoms of the grape. 
She had fried an omelet, fragrant with aro- 
matic herbs; and her father filled a pitcher 
with claret, of the colour of the ruby, and the 
coolness of the pearl. 

The sun set into one of those beautiful and 
purple evenings, which Langhorne has depict- 
ed as sweetly as poet well could — 

" Twilight with gentle hand did weave 
Her fairy web of night and day,"— 

when Edward bent his steps to take a last 
look at a place haunted by Beatrice's earliest 
years, and of which every record would, he 
rightly deemed, be so precious to her memory. 

Time destroys not half so ruthlessly as man. 
The roof was entirely gone — only a rude 
skeleton of the house remained in the scorch- 
ed and falling walls — a few traces of the black 
and white pavement were still left near one of 
the windows. It had been Beatrice's favourite 
seat, for the sake of a vine which had cluster- 
ed luxuriously around. Great part of the tree 
had been burnt — a few green shoots were now 
expanding, but they trailed upon the ground. 
A large oak had been entirely burnt ; and 
this, with the destruction of smaller trees, 
had laid poor Donna Margaretta's little garden 
open to view. There stood the stately ilex — 
all else was changed. The bees had deserted 
the hives, which were overgrown with thick 
creeping plants, that effectually excluded the 
air ; the fountain was choked up with rubbish ; 
and a few bright flowers mocked with their 
glad colours the desolation around. 

Edward turned mournfully homewards : the 
scene of destruction pressed heavily upon 
his spirits ; it was too nearly connected with 
what his Beatrice had suffered. He felt im- 
patient to extend towards her that security and 
protection which it is man's to give to the 
woman he loves. The distance to Naples 
seemed immeasurable; and again and again 
did he lament that he had ever been persuaded 
to leave her. The next morning the dew lay 
like silver on the leaves, when he bade Alva- 
rez and his daughter a kindly farewell. 

Minora gained by the visit — a marriage por- 
tion, which made her lover's father as polite 
to the heiress as he had been cold to the 
beauty. He had negatived the features which 
his son had most eloquently pleaded ; but he 
had nothing to say against the pistoles. 

Edward had just turned out of the village, 
and was preparing to take the road to the left, 
when his further progress was intercepted by 
two cavaliers, one of whom politely requested 
he would go to the right. He was so civilly 
arrested, that at first he was unsuspicious of 
Ihe fact. He then did what people usually do 
in such cases — complied with what he could 
not resist. 

One of the officers was tall and silent — the 
other short and communicative, and most par- 
ticularly polite in his mode of information. 
From him Lorraine learnt that he was arrest- 
ed on a. charge of treason ; and his obliging 
companion finished with observing, " I hope 

Vol. l%~—^d 



they will not hang so handsome a cavalier as 
your excellency. I would recommend letting 
you off with a few years' solitary imprison- 
ment. May I ask if the Senhor considers him- 
self lucky ? much depends on good fortune in 
such cases." 

With this encouraging remark, they stopped 
at the house of the judge of the district. Ed- 
ward, as soon as he entered, saw that his case 
was hopeless. The judge was seated in a 
large arm-chair, by which stood a little black 
boy with a huge fan of white feathers : a flask 
and a silver goblet were on a table beside him 
both empty ; and their proprietor was looking 
round with the bewildered air of one just 
awakened from sleep. The shorter officer ap 
proached, and maae some statements in a 
whisper. 

" There, there, you have spoken ; and 1 
have heard quite enough. Strange that people 
should use so many more words than their in- 
telligence needs ! Bring the prisoner !" 

Edward advanced. 

" Young man, what were you doing at Don 
Henriquez de los Zoridos' yesterday even 

With a very safe conscience Lorraine could 
reply " nothing." 

" Nothing ! that's no answer — refuses to 
reply. Who did you expect to meet there V 

"Nobody." 

" That's no answer either ! What brought 
you here 1" 

"The beauty of the country — I am travel- 
ling for amusement." 

" Ah, one of those wandering gentlemen 
who think every country better than their own 
— the very people for mischief. You saw 
Donna Beatrice when you were here before : 
where is she now *?" 

" I can scarcely be supposed to control that 
lady's actions." 

" I don't consider that any answer either. 
Where is Don Henriquez ]" 

" I do not know." 

" Young gentleman, it is a maxim of mine 
always to say as little as possible, which 
saves a great deal of. trouble. I have asked 
you all the necessary questions. Answer 
them to-day with your tongue, or to-morrow 
with your head." 

" Neither, if you please," said Lorraine, 
firmly. "lam a British subject, and have 
in no way interfered with your government. 
I cannot reply to questions of which I am ig- 
norant. I place myself under the protection 
of the British ambassador, and appeal to the 
governor of the province." 

" A great deal of unnecessary trouble. I 
take you at your word. I am sending de- 
spatches to our governor — you shall go too. 
I wish you a pleasant journey." 

Again he said a few words to the shorter 
officer, and turned in his chair with the air of 
one prepared for a luxurious nap. 

It was late in the afternoon when Lorraino 
arrived at the seaport where the govern^ 
the province resided. Don Manuel W-o ex- 
actly the poetical idea of a Spaniard : soi:^ 



194 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



thing like a portrait of Vandyke's — a clear 
olive complexion ; large dark eyes, rather 
melancholy in their expression ; coal black 
hair and mustaches; a tall and noble figure; 
and that stately courtesy, which seems to say, 
"I owe it to myself to do no wrong." 

Lorraine immediately resolved on what in- 
deed was his only plan of conduct. The 
sleepy yet shrewd judge was the antipodes to 
confidence, but to Don Manuel he felt no he- 
sitation in frankly stating his actions and their 
motives, from his first arrival in Spain to the 
present time. The governor heard him with 
the most kindly attention. 

" Truty, as a Spaniard and a gentleman, I 
can only say that at your age I should have 
acted even as yourself. My official situation 
is here at variance with my feelings. I can- 
not be blind to the advantages your detention 
may give to the pursuit of Don Henriquez. 
If I set you at liberty, you are in a condition 
to materially forward his escape. I must not 
trust you at Naples. However, all you will 
have to endure is a temporary restraint : it 
shall not be a very severe one." 

For about a fortnight he remained prisoner 
on parole in the governor's house. It would 
have been, under any other circumstances, a 
pleasant visit. One advantage was, that he 
certainly derived from it much juster views 
on the state of Spain than he would ever have 
obtained from Don Henriquez. At length a 
vessel was to sail for England, and on board 
this the governor informed him he was to 
embark. 

" I am sorry," said Don Manuel, " to put 
such delay between you and Naples ; but I 
consider it indispensable. My only consola- 
tion is, that no lady's constancy is the worse 
for being tried." 

Edward thought he would as soon not have 
tried it. Nevertheless, for England he was 
forced to embark, and in England he arrived 
without incident or impediment. 

We might sail round the world without an 
adventure now-a-days. Once in his native 
country, business obliged him to visit London ; 
and at his banker's he found several letters 
from his brother, all full of regret, affection, 
and despondency. The contents of the last 
two were such as to induce him to depart 
forthwith for Etheringhame Castle. 



CHAPTER LXIV. 

" Memories of boyhood! how crowded and thronged are 
thy images— how pleasant, how painful ! What lias be- 
come of the companions of our studies, our sports, of our 
rivalries and reconciliations, of our sudden quarrels and 
more steady friendships 1 How remain the haunts of 
those early days ? by what footsteps, and with what feel- 
ings are they trodden 1 The wood with its wild cherries — 
are the trees still there to tempt the adventurous climber? 
* * * Who now lives in the moment, and 

dreams, if ever dream come, of futurity, as of a vision of 
glorious enterprise and assured reward V'— W. Jerdan. 

It was a broken but beautiful sky — one on 
which to look was to imagine. The eye 
could scarcely dwell on the mingling light 



and darkness, the infinite variety of shadows, 
that came down from heaven to cast their 
deeper semblance on earth, without conjuring 
up in the mind those analogies by which hu- 
manity loves to link itself with inanimate na- 
ture. There were those bright gleams which 
have so often been likened unto hope — those 
depths which have been so happily compared 
to futurity — those changes to which the heart 
says, " Such are mine own." The stars 
came out, few and scattered, and from the far 
parts of the sky. W T e hold not now the be- 
lief of old : we know that in their mystic 
characters nought of our destiny is written. 
Philosophy has taught a lowly lesson to our 
pride ; and no longer do we single out some 
bright and lovely planet, and ask of it our 
fate ; till, from asking, we almost hope that 
night will send on her winds some answer, 
whose words are from the mystic scroll of our 
destiny. 

Foolishness of mortality ! to deem that the 
glorious and the lofty star, which looked not 
on us who watch its beauty, should have been 
placed in that mighty firmament to shed its 
radiance on our birth, and chronicle in its 
bright page our sin, our suffering, and our 
sorrow ! — and when have not these three 
worlds told the story of our life ] And yet 
this linking that vain life to the lofty and the 
lovely, what is it but one of the many signs 
of the spirit within us — that which day 
crushes, but kills not — that spirit which looks 
into space with the eyes of longing, which 
spurns the course it treads, and says to earth, 
" Thou art my dwelling, but not my home !" 
Night is beautiful in itself, but still more 
beautiful in its associations : it is not linked, 
as day is, with our cares and our toils, the 
business and the littleness of life. The sun- 
shine brings with it its action : we rise in the 
morning, and our task is before us ; but night 
comes, and with it rest. If we leave sleep, 
and ask not of dreams forgetfulness, our wak- 
ing is in solitude, and our employment is 
thought. Imagination has thrown her glory 
round the midnight — the orbs of heaven, the 
silence, the shadows, are steeped in poetry. 
Even in the heart of a crow-ded city, whero 
the moonlight fell but upon pavement and 
roof, the heart would be softened, and the 
mind elevated, amid the loneliness of night's 
deepest and stillest hours ; — in the country 
the effect is still more impressive. We ac- 
custom ourselves to look upon the country as 
more pure, more free, more happy, than the 
town ; and it is from the wood and the field, 
the hill and the valley, that poetry takes that 
imagery which so imperceptibly mingles with 
all our excited moods. 

The road, which wound rather round a hill 
than up it, was high and steep. On one side 
was a thick hedge, which shut out all from 
the horseman's view ; but the other was 
bounded by a pailing. Beyond it lay the 
sweep of a park, whose green was touched as 
if with snow by the moonlight, which grew 
clearer and lighter every moment, as the thick 
clouds broke away. The silvery light which 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



195 



at first only played on their ridges, gradually 
extended its dominion, like persuasion to 
pity, softening the dark heart of anger. 
The black masses melted into soft, white 
clouds, which went floating over air as if they 
rejoiced in their change. 

The park was dotted with trees, all single, 
and of an immense size; and the wind just 
stirred their leaves with a soft sound, like the 
falling of summer rain.' There is something 
melancholy in most natural sounds — the mur- 
mur of the sea — the dropping of water — the 
many voices of the wind, from that which only 
scatters a rose, to that which levels mast and 
flag with the wave; but nature has no sound 
more melancholy than that rainy tone among 
the leaves : you listen, and then look, as if 
the shower were descending; but your ex- 
tended hand catches not the drops, and the 
bough which is blown against your face leaves 
no trace of moisture behind. 

We live in an age of fact, not fiction ; — for 
every effect is assigned some simple and na- 
tural cause ; — we dream no dreams of spiritual 
visitings ; and omens are fast sinking into the 
disbelief of oracles : else what a mystical 
language is that of leaves ! No marvel that 
in the days of old, when imagination walked 
the world as its own domain, every ancient 
trunk had 

"One fair spirit for its minister." 

The hamadryades have gone, like the golden 
fancies of which they were engendered — 
morning dreams of a young world scarce 
awake, but full of freshness and beauty. Yet 
often will the thought, or rather the fancy, 
.come across me, that this wailing but most 
musical noise — heard in the dim evening, 
when every tree has a separate sound like a 
separate instrument, and every leaf a differing 
tone like the differing notes — is the piteous 
lament of some nymph pent within the gray 
and mossy trunk whence she may never more 
emerge in visible loveliness. 

Edward — for he was the rider — now turned 
from the road, and entered the park by a small 
gate, which, however, opened on no actual 
road ; but he was familiar with every old tree 
and grassy knoll, within that wide domain. 
Childhood, more than any other period, links 
its remembrance with inanimate objects, per- 
haps because its chief pleasures are derived 
from them. The hillock whose top was left 
with a flying step — the oak, to scale whose 
leafy fortress had in it something of that sense 
of danger and exertion in which even the 
earliest age delights — the broad sheet of 
water, whose smoothe surface has been so 
often skimmed and broken by the round peb- 
ble, to whose impetus the young arm lent its 
utmost vigour — how deeply are these things 
graven upon the memory! The great reason 
why the pleasures of childhood are so much 
more felt in their satisfaction, is, that they 
suffice unto themselves. The race is run 
without an eye to a prize ;— the oak is climbed 
without reference to aught that will reward the 



search ; — the stone is flung upon the waters, 
but not in the hope that, ere many days it will 
be found again. The simple exertion is its 
own exceeding great rew r ard. Hope destroys 
pleasure ;* and. as life darkens around us, the 
eye is in perpetual weariness, and the heart in 
continual fever, with gazing beyond the pre- 
sent into its results. 

Edward had now entered a grass avenue, 
over which the limes interlaced their yellow 
blossoms, pale in the moonlight, while their 
faint odour filled the air. How many kindly 
and affectionate thoughts thronged Lorraine's 
memory, as he rode slowly onwards ! Shut- 
ting out the hot sun in summer, and the cold 
wind in winter, and lying apart from any of 
the more direct roads that crossed the park, 
this avenue had been a very favourite resort 
with himself and his brother. The hours that 
in other days had been here passed away ! 
How many discourses of Algernon's freshened 
on his memory ! — discourses on which his 
rich but melancholy imagination wasted its 
strength. Then he recalled the affectionate 
interest with which Algernon ever entered into 
his plans — how he had encouraged him with 
prediction, and shared with him in hope. 
" And how little," thought Edward, bitterly 
and sadly, "how little has sufficed to put dis- 
cord and division between us ! A w r eary and 
evil experience is that of life ! But I ought 
to blame myself — I was unkind and impatient. 
We shall be the better friends for the future." 
And he put spurs to his horse, in the eager- 
ness of reconciliation. 

He were no true lover who could ride the 
green sward by moonlight without thinking 
of her "the gentle lady of his heart;" and 
from thinking how affectionately Algernon 
would listen to the history of his love, and 
Beatrice's infinite perfections, he very natu- 
rally soon thought of those perfections only. 
However, he was roused from this reverie by 
suddenly entering the drive which led direct 
to the house. Here was sufficient indication 
that he was not the only visiter expected that 
night. 

Lamp after lamp flashed through the thick 
branches of the old chestnut avenue, as the 
various carriages drove rapidly through the 
park. # 

"I can scarcely imagine 'a gay scene,' as 
the Morning Post would call it, at the old 
castle, ' O, Change, thy name is woman ! 
Nothing but a ball could have called forth 
such roses and ringlets as I have seen glanc- 

* This remark having been questioned by one to whose 
judgment I exceedingly defer, may I be permitted not to 
retract, but to defend my assertion ? Hope is like constat 
cy, the country, or solitude— all of which owe their reputa 
tion to the pretty things that have been said about them 
Hope is but the poetical name for that feverish restlessness 
which hurries over to-day for the sake of to-morrow. Who 
among us pauses upon the actual moment, to own, "Now, 
even now, am I happy?" The wisest of men has said, 
that hope deferred is sickness to the heart: yet what hope 
have we that is not deferred ? For my part, I believe that 
there are two spirits who preside over this feeling, and that 
hope, like, love, has its Eros and its Anteros. Its Eros, that 
reposes on fancy, and creates rather than calculates ; whili 
its Anteros lives on expectation, and is dissatisfied witn al. 
that is, in vain longings for what may be. 



196 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



frig through every window," said Edward 
Lorraine. 



"A signal to his 'squire he flung. 
Who instant to his stirrups sprun; 



I CT-" 



or, in less picturesque language, he beckoned 
to his groom, and asked him whether he had 
heard of way fete at the inn. 

" My lady gives a fancy ball to night," re- 
plied the man ; and in immediate confirmation, 
a carriage rolled past somewhat heavily; for 
it was large and loaded, and through its win- 
dows were seen a turban, a straw hat, and a 
glare of mingled colours, which showed the 
wearers had been left to their own devices. 

" I shall make my way to Algernon's study. 
It will be quiet there, at all events ; and I can 
easily let him know of my arrival." 

So saying, or rather thinking, he followed 
the winding path which led through the shrub- 
bery, every branch of which was loaded with 
blossom. The pink May shook its fairy fa- 
vours over him, the lilac covered him with a 
sweet and starry shower, and the red rose 
leaves fell to the ground like rain drops as he 
passed. The sounds of music came upon the 
wind — first a soft, indistinct murmur, then the 
notes more distinct, and Edward recognised a 
favourite waltz, though as yet, the branches 
closing thickly overhead, prevented his seeing 
the castle. Many sweet instruments w T ere 
blended in that gay Italian air — and yet at this 
moment it displeased the listener. The win- 
dows gleamed with light through the boughs 
— a small open space gave to view the left 
wing of the building — he could distinctly see 
the long range of illuminated apartments, 
figures moving to and fro, and the richly co- 
loured fall of the draperies. 

The path widened, and Edward hastily 
crossed the lawn to the room which he sought. 
There was light within, but the shutters were 
closed. " I must enter by the passage door." 
This had been left unfastened, and in another 
moment Edward was in the study — but it 
had been fitted up as a supper room. That 
" haunted chamber," vowed to the sad recol- 
lections of the loved and the departed — made 
sacred by the tenderest memories of sorrow- 
and remorse — a temple of the imagination — 
thus to be desecrated by the very coarsest part 
of festivity — the solemn turned to the ludi- 
crous ! There the last and loveliest likeness 
of the passionate and the beautiful — the dead 
Francisca — hung directly above white soup 
and white wine, blancmange and jelly. Truly, 
sorrow hath no more substance than a sand- 
wich. How curious it is, too, that the regrets 
which spring from sentiment grow absurd when 
the least out of keeping with circumstance ! 
Affections are as passing as the worthless life 
they redeem ; and the attempt to give them 
memory, when their existence is no more, has 
often more of laughter in it than of tears. 

Edward remembered all the melancholy as- 
sociations which had so long been connected 
with the room. Well, there were now the 



supper tables spread ; and all the advantage 
of his quiet entrance was, that he was at first 
taken for a thief, attracted by the charms of 
silver forks and spoons. Most of the servants 
were new, and this slight circumstance was a 
vexation. In an old house we look for old 
servants. Edward thought the change must 
have been a bitter as well as a sudden one, 
that had thus dismissed service made grateful 
by long habit. However, one or two knew 
him personally; and with some difficulty he 
had a message sent to his brother — an unsuc- 
cessful one though, for the earl was not to be 
found. "I dare say," said a domestic, care- 
lessly, as if the subject were of very inferior 
interest to some sweetmeats which were being 
arranged, " I dare say he is in the green room 
in the south turret ; my lord is so odd, he 
would sooner sit poking by himself than" 

What species of enjoyment was to form the 
comparison, Edward did not wait to hear; for, 
hastily taking up a lamp, he hurried towards 
the south turret. He knew it well : as a boy, 
it had been considered as his own domain. 
Perhaps something of affectionate recollection 
might have instigated Algernon's choice ; but 
Edward only thought of one passage in the 
last letter: "Daily I give up points very dear 
to me, because the pain of insisting is greater 
than the pain of refusing; and I speak now 
of mere bodily weakness." 

To reach the turret, it was necessary to 
cross a gallery filled with musicians and ser- 
vants, looking eagerly down on the festivity 
below. It commanded a view of the whole 
hall; and Edward for a moment leant over 
the balustrade. At first all was a bright and 
gay confusion — colours only seemed to strike, 
the eye — gradually the figures stood out dis- 
tinctly, and Lorraine could distinguish every 
face except the one which he especially 
wanted. Yet his eye involuntarily lingered 
on the scene ; for he had caught sight of the 
countess, who was standing in the centre of a 
little group, whose looks told their language 
was flattery ; and she herself wore that bright 
excited air which the words of the flatterer, 
even more than those of the lover, can call up 
in woman's face. Every act a coquetry, 
every look a captivation, she just realised one 
of the brilliant beauties of La Fronde, a 
Duchesse de Longueville, for whose sake 
Rochefoucault made love, war, and epigrams, 
and to whom he addressed his celebrated lines, 



Pour me>iter son coeur, pour pi aire &. ses beaux yeux, 
J'ai fait la guerre aux rois, je l'aurois faite aux dieux." 



She wore a dress of azure blue velvet, with 
a deep border of gold : her luxuriant hair was 
put back from her brow in a style which no 
face but the most perfect could have borne, 
and was then gathered in a form like that of 
an ancient helmet, every plait glittering with 
diamonds : it was peculiar, but it suited her 
"What," thought Edward, "the poet says in 
praise of one beauty, I say in dispraise of 
another : 






ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



197 



'Her eyes, like suns, the rash beholder strike, 
But, like the sun, they shine on all alike.' 

This is very well for indifference, but very 
Dad for vanity. I trust (and the lover smiled 
in scornfulness at the very idea) my Beatrice 
will be more exclusive of her smile." And 
with this wish, which, with him, took the 
shape of conviction, Edward turned into the 
gallery which led to the turret. 

It was a narrow, gloomy passage, hung 
with very old tapestry. How strange did the 
fantastic and discoloured shapes appear by 
the dim light of the single lamp ! At first 
thw sounds of music seemed like a connexion 
with the gay and bright left behind — soon the 
tones became confused — and before Edward 
had threaded two-thirds of the many turnings, 
the music was quite inaudible. 

One large room only remained to cross : it 
had, in former days, been a picture gallery, 
but now, being apart from the other suite of 
apartments, it was never used. The furniture 
was old and fa'ded, and a few worthless paint- 
ings mouldered on the walls. Among them 
was one which, in Edward's estimation, de- 
served a better place. It was the portrait of 
himself and his brother, taken years ago, 
when Algernon was a fine handsome boy, of 
about thirteen years of age, and Edward not 
quite three. The younger, a frank, bold, 
bright-eyed child, w r as mounted on a large 
Newfoundland dog, whose impatience the 
elder brother was trying to soothe. This was 
another proof how little Algernon's affections 
or recollections were considered by the Coun- 
tess Adelaide. 

Lorraine was now at the foot of the winding 
staircase which led to the turret, and he could 
not but recall his brother's luxurious habits, 
as he ascended the steep and narrow steps. 
At last he entered the chamber, and his first 
look was caught by its comfortless and unfur- 
nished aspect. There was a little table, on 
which stood a common inkstand, some scat- 
tered papers, and a candle which had burnt 
down in the socket; but the room was illu- 
mined by the moonlight, which streamed in 
from the uncurtained window. Lord Ether- 
inghame was seated with his back to the door, 
so that his visiter entered unobserved. " My 
dear Algernon, how comes it that I find you 
here, and alone !" There was no answer. 
With a vague feeling of alarm, rather than 
positive fear, Edward sprang to his brother. 
The lamp fell full upon his face — there was 
no mistaking its awful likeness. The fea- 
tures were drawn frightfully aside, and the 
open eyes looked out with that stony stare 
which says light has forsaken them for ever. 
Edward caught his hands, but they were 
death cold. Algernon had been dead some 
hours. " God of heaven ! my brother dead — 
and our parting was in anger !" 



CHAPTER LXV. 

" And impulse of deeper thought 
Have come to me in solitude." 

"Wordsworth. 

" This cell hath taught me many a hidden thing ; 
I have become acquainted with my soul 
Through midnight silence, and through lonely days 
Silent as midnight. I have found therein 
A well of waters, undisturbed and deep, 
Of sustenance, refreshment, and repose." 

u Supported by the very power of sorrow, 
And faith that comes a solemn comforter, 
Even hand in hand with death." 

Wilson. 
"Dearest Lady Mandeville, 

"If you have not already forgotten my wil- 
ful, wayward, and ungrateful conduct, I am 
persuaded it will be forgiven when I tell you, 
that I have suffered much both in mind and 
in body, and am now at home — but ill, very 
ill, and pining to see you, my kind, my al- 
most only friend. The fatigue of writing is 
great, and I will enter into no details ; but 
only tell you that I have escaped from my 
convent, in company with, and by the assist- 
ance of, Beatrice de los Zoridos. She is with 
me now in England. Every event that has 
taken place you can learn from others — my 
feelings only from myself; and if I speak 
boldly on a subject which even now brings 
the blood to my cheek, it is because you, and 
ydu only, know my secret, and because 1 
would implore you to keep silence as sacredly 
as you would a trust from the dead — it will 
soon be one. The melancholy wind is sweep- 
ing through the old trees of our garden — I 
could fancy it filled with spirit tones, which 
call me away. This is very fanciful ; but 
what has my whole life been but a vain, false 
fancy 1 I tremble to recall the past — the gifts 
I have misused — the good things that have 
found me thankless — the obstinate will that 
has rejected content, unless that content were 
after its own fashion. 

" Death sends truth before as its messenger. 
In the loneliness of my sleepless midnight — 
in the feverish restlessness of days which 
lacked strength for pleasant and useful em- 
ployment — how have I been forced on self- 
examination ! and how have my own thoughts 
witnessed against me ! Life — the sacred and 
the beautiful, how utterly have I wasted ! for 
how much discontent and ingratitude am I 
responsible! I have been self-indulged from 
my childhood upwards — I have fretted with 
imaginary sorrows, and desired imaginary 
happiness : and when my heart beat with the 
feelings of womanhood, it set up a divinity, 
and its worship was idolatrous ! 

" Sinful it was to love as I loved Edward 
Lorraine ; and truly it has had its reward. I 
loved him selfishly, engrossingly, to the ex- 
elusion of the hopes of heaven, and the affec- 
tions of earth. I knelt with the semblance 
r2 



198 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



of prayer, but an earthly image was the idol: 
I prayed but for him. I cared for no amuse- 
ment — I grew disgusted with all occupation — 
1 loved none else around me. I slept, and he 
was in my dreams — I awoke, and he was my 
very first thought. Too soon, and yet too 
late, 1 learnt to what a frail and foolish vision 
I had yielded. A storm of terrible passions 
swept over me. I loathed, I hated my near- 
est friends. My shame amounted to madness : 
fear alone kept me from suicide. I repulsed 
the love that was yet mine — I disdained the 
many blessings that my lot still possessed — 
I forgot my religion, and outraged my God, 
by kneeling at a shrine which was not sacred 
to me, and taking vows in a faith I held to be 
false. 

" A brain fever kept me to my bed for some 
weeks : I hope and pray that its influence 
was upon me before. My hand trembles so 
that I can scarcely write. 

" Beatrice came to the convent ; our inter- 
course was permitted ; she was kind, gentle, 
and affectionate to me, as if she had been my 
sister. I cannot tell you how loving her soft- 
ened my heart. At length I heard her his- 
tory. She told me of trials and hardships 
thai put my complainings to shame; and then 
I learnt that she was the beloved and be- 
trothed of Edward Lorraine. I looked in her 
beautiful face, and. then, strange as it may 
seem to say, hope, for the first time, wholly 
abandoned me. My love had been so dream- 
ing, that my imagination, even in the convent, 
was always shaping out some improbable 
reunion. 

" I was ill again. Beatrice watched me, 
soothed me, read to me from the little English 
Bible which she said had ever been, in her 
trying and lonely life, a friend and a support. 
Alas ! my heart died within me to think what 
account I should render of the talent commit- 
ted to my charge. I felt utterly lost and cast 
away. I prayed as one without hope — one 
who feels her sin is too great to be forgiven. 
But God tempers justice with mercy — a new 
life rose up within me. I said, even at the 
eleventh hour, there is hope ; I said, surely the 
Saviour of the world is mine also. I thought 
upon the grave to which I was hastening, and 
it seemed to me peaceful as the bed of a child 
— 'There the wicked cease from troubling, 
and there the weary are at rest.' I repented 
me of my worldly delusions, and strove to fix 
my thoughts above. Had I earlier made reli- 
gion the guide of my way, I might even now 
be fulfilling the duties I have neglected, and 
looking forward in patience and faith. But it 
is too late ; the last of my house, I am perish- 
ing as a leaf to which spring has denied her 
life. I have longed to die at home — to hear 
once more the words of prayer in my native 
tongue — and wonderfully has my wish been 
granted, when expectation there was none ! I 
shall sleep in the green church-yard where I 
first learnt that death was in this world ; — 
the soil will be familiar, and the air that of 
my home. 

" I am one and twenty to-morrow. Would, 



God ! that my years had been so spent as to 
have been a worthier offering ! But thy feai 
is the beginning of wisdom ; and in that fear 
is my trust, that a broken and a contrite spirit 
thou wilt not despise. 

" Will you not, my dear and kind friend, 
come and see me 1 I shall be so happy, if I 
can once tell you, that, though the orphan for 
a moment forgot your kindness, its memory 
was not effaced. I have thought of you, and 
prayed for you. You will come, dear Lady 
Mandeville. I want you to know Beatrice. 
You will love her, and your kindness may 
benefit her. She will be more grateful than 

1 have been. Will you not come to-morrow? 

" Y'our affectionate 

Emily Arundel." 

It was a curious coincidence, that this letter 
was put into Lady Mandeville's hand while 
she was making some arrangements for their 
Italian journey, and was in momentary expec- 
tation of her husband's arrival. How often 
did the tears fill her eyes as she read its con- 
tents ! " Poor dear Emily ! — but she cannot, 
must not, be so ill as she fancies. ' Will you 
not come to-morrow V Does she think I could 
hesitate 1*' 

Hastily turning from the untasted breakfast, 
she rang for the carriage : " Let them be as 
quick as possible." Never had she been so 
impatient : three times was the bell rung to 
know if it were ready. Luckily, she recol- 
lected that she must leave some reason for her 
absence, as Lord Mandeville was expected 
every moment. She scarcely liked to trust a 
message with the servants — a note would be 
more satisfactory. So down she sat, and 
wrote : — 

" Dear Henry, 

"I am sure you will rejoice to learn that 
Emily is even now at Arundel House. I know- 
nothing of the whys and wherefores : but she 
is so anxious to see me, that I have gone 
thither at once. Do you follow me. 
Yours, 

Ellen." 

Rejoicing at Emily's arrival — a very natural 
curio- Hy to hear how it had happened — an 
anxiety she was unwilling to allow even to 
herself ac "^ut her health, occupied Lady Man 
deville fully during her drive. The bright 
sun, the sweet free air, brought their own joy- 
ousness with them ; all nature seemed too glad 
for sorrow. Lady Mandeville took the sun- 
shine for an omen ; and she sprang from the 
carriage with a step to which her hopes gave 
their own lightness, and in a moment more 
was in the room where Beatrice was watching 
her young companion. 

The feverish flush with which the pleasure 
of seeing Lady Mandeville had crimsoned 
Emily's face, soon passed, and she sank back 
exhausted ; while the slight attention she 
could bestow was again rivetted on the little 
watch. Lady Mandeville's eyes kept filling 
with tears as she gazed upon her : she was 









ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



199 



altered beyond any tning she had even feared. 
Her position, loo, gave the full effect of con- 
trast. She was seated in a low old-fashioned 
arm-chair, directly below a portrait of herself, 
that had been taken just before her first visit 
to London. It had been painted after a fancy 
of her uncle's ; and she was seated in the same 
old arm-chair, and nearly in the same attitude 
as now : but there the likeness ended. In 
the picture, health coloured the loveliness of 
vouth : 

The laughing mouth 
Was like a red rose opening to the south. 

A volume of fairy tales had fallen from her 
hand ; but her head was evidently still filled 
with their fanciful creations, for the bright eyes 
w T ere raised as if following in the air some 
rainbow touched creation of their own. A 
profusion of glossy curls, auburn dashed with 
gold, seemed dancing over her face and neck; 
and whosoever had locked on that counte- 
nance, and sought to read in it an augury of 
its future, would have said, in the beautiful 
words of Scripture, " Thy ways shall be ways 
of pleasantness, and all thy paths peace." 

Beneath sat the original, her pale lips apart, 
as if to draw the heavy breath, were a task of 
weariness. The outline of the features had 
utterly lost its roundness, and would have been 
harsh but for its exceeding delicacy. The dull 
white of the skin was only relieved by the 
blue veins, which, singularly azure and trans- 
parent, seemed unnaturally conspicuous. The 
eyes were strangely large and bright, and 
much lighter than those in the picture. 

But what struck Lady Mandeville the most, 
was the extreme youthfulness of Emily's ap- 
pearance : she looked only like a sick child. 
With the restlessness so common to invalids, 
which fancies that any change must be relief, 
she had pushed away her cap, till, in the many 
alterations of position, it had entirely fallen 
back, and showed her head, from which the 
ringlets had all been so lately shorn ; the hair 
had, however, grown rapidly, and it lay in the 
short, thick, waving curls of early childhood. 

With the hope of relieving her oppression, 
the windows had all been thrown up. As if 
a sudden thought struck her, Emily arose, and 
with Beatrice's aid, walked to the one which 
opened by some garden steps. " So much for 
auguries," said Emily, pointing to a young 
geranium, which was growing in vigour below. 
"The day before I left home, I planted that 
slip, and, in idea, linked my futurity with the 
slight shrub, saying, If it flourishes, so shall 
I— if it dies, I shall die too. She how luxu- 
riantly it blooms !" 

Neither of her friends spoke : the words of 
encouragement, of its being a good omen, 
died on Lady Mandeville's lips ; and Beatrice 
led her back to the chair, finding no voice to 
urge the quiet she recommended by signs. 

"It is twelve o'clock!" exclaimed Emily; 
and at the same moment the church clock 
struck. The wind, which was setting towards 
the house, brought the hours slowly and dis- 
tinctly. She counted them as they struck ; 



and then, breathless with mingled weakness 
and eagerness, unfolded the scroll she had 
written the night before. •' I see your father 
and Mr. Morton in the garden ; just call them 
in, Beatrice. I am of age now — 1 want them 
to witness my signature." 

They came in, and, almost without assist- 
ance, Emily wrote her name : the fine clear 
characters were singularly steady. "It is 
needless for you to read this paper. I believe 
all that is necessary is for you to witness my 
signature." The two gentlemen subscribed 
it, and Emily took and refolded the paper ; but 
her hand now trembled violently. " I consign 
it to your care, Mr. Morton," said she, in a 
voice almost inaudible. 

As she was giving the packet, suddenly her 
whole frame seemed convulsed with violent 
agitation. A bright crimson flooded her face 
and neck, nay even her hand, from which, as 
she eagerly extended it, the scroll fell on the 
table. " My God ! it is his step !" The door 
opened, and in came Lord Mandeville and 
Edward Lorraine. The latter caught sight of 
Beatrice ; and, with an exclamation of wonder, 
advanced towards her. Emily made an effort 
to rise, but reeled, and fell with her head on 
Beatrice's shoulder. The unconscious Edward 
hastily supported her. She raised herself for 
a moment — gave one eager look towards him 
— a frightful convulsion passed over her fea- 
tures ; it was very transitory — for before Bea- 
trice, who sprang from her side to reach some 
essence from the table, had returned with it, 
her face was set in the fixed calm and the pale 
hues of death. 



THE LAST CHAPTER. 



" O, Jupiter ! how weary are my spirits !" 

Shakspeare. 



The winding up of a novel is like winding 
up a skain of silk, or casting up a sum — all the 
ends must be made neat, all the numbers ac- 
counted for, at last. Luckily, in the closing 
chapter a little explanation goes a great way ; 
and a character, like a rule of morality, may 
be dismissed in a sentence. 

Cecil Spenser married his cousin, Helen 
Moreland : it was very satisfactory to find 
somebody who looked up to him entirely. 
He repaired the beautiful old abbey, which 
his father had allowed to go to ruin — built a 
library and a picture gallery — threw open his 
preserves — refused to stand for the county — 
and if not happy, believed he was, and in such 
a case belief is as good as reality. He prac- 
ticed what Lord Mandeville theorised, who, 
in despite of his convictions of the excellence 
and happiness of those who are 

" Home dwellers on their father's land," 

accepted a foreign embassy to one of the most 
brilliant of the European courts, but where 
Lady Mandeville was the most brilliant and 
the most beautiful. 



200 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



There is a very accurate remark of Crowe's, 
which says, " the English rather desire to ex- 
tract a moral than a truth from experience." 
I must own they do dearly delight in a judg- 
ment ; and sorry am I that I cannot gratify 
this laudable propensity, by specifying some 
peculiar evil incurred by Mr. Delawarr's am- 
bition, or Lady Etheringhame's vanity. 

Adelaide neither lost her life by eating ice 
when warm with dancing, nor her features by 
the small-pox, the usual destiny of vain crea- 
tures in the days of moral essays : she went 
on, like Lady Macbeth, 

" For I can smile, and murder while I smile," 

till the rose and the ringlet became alike arti- 
ficial ; and she was left to that " winter of 
discontent," which shared its reproaches be- 
tween the maid who could no longer make, 
and the mirror that could no longer reflect, a 
beauty. 

Mr. Delawarr's life was spent in debates 
and dinners. Once, for a few weeks, he was 
in the opposition — caught cold, and decided 
that such a position was equally bad for his 
own and his country's constitution — resumed, 
and never after resigned his post under go- 
vernment. He died the first and last Earl of 
Delawarr. 

Mrs. Francis Boyne Sillery played cards to 
an interminable old age; and her youthful 
husband died, five years after their marriage, 
of the jaundice. There were some on dits 
afloat respecting a third marriage with a " cer- 
tain young writer," whose hymns had con- 
verted every old lady in Bath ; but it never 
took place. 

The respectable family of the Higgs's got 
on amazingly well in the world : the sons, as 
their mother was wont exultingly to state, 
were quite gentlemen, and spent, a power of 
money on their clothes. The countess, as in 
their own circle she was invariably called, 
used always to choose for her favourite topics 
the uncertainty of worldly distinctions — the 
horrors of a revolution — and the melancholy 
situation of a nobleman in a foreign land, 
where he was forced to abandon his natural 
sphere, and had only his own consciousness 
of high birth to sustain him. Signor Giulio 
rose marvellously in Mr. Higgs's esteem ; for, 
to his wife's dismay, and his father-in-law's 
delight, he set up a manufactory of macaroni, 
which answered so well, that Mr. Higgs used 
to rub his hands with great glee, and be very 
grateful to Providence, who had made even a 
foreigner turn out so well ; taking, however, 
to himself a due share of credit for the benefit 
his advice had been, as well as for the credit 
obtained by an alliance with such a 'sponsible 
family as that of the Higgs's. " I never gave 
him no credit for nothing because of his mus- 
tachers — but, Lord ! he knows a good ha'penny 
irom a bad 'un as well as me." 

We regret to state that Miss Carry went on 
to forty-five, falling, and being crossed in love. 
By-the-by, as she never got married, a fine 
moral lesson might be drawn from her fate, 
touching the Inexpediency of too many attach- 



ments. At last she took to a blonde cap with 
roses, and a flaxen wig ; became suddenly 
faithful to her first love, or rather to his me- 
mory ; and retired with her blighted affections 
into the country — that is to say, she took a 
small cottage at Islington ; a sickly looking 
passion flower was trained over the front ; a 
weeping willow, whose leaves were like " an 
gel visits" in one respect at least, for " they 
were few and far between," grew by the 
pump ; and over the parlour mantel piece was 
hung the profile of the long forgotten but now 
ever to be remembered Benjamin Stubbs. 
And there dwelt Miss Carry Constantia 
Higgs, with her sorrows, her canary, and her 
cat. 

Mrs. Smithson's laurel and olive branches 
multiplied equally ; to her last child she stood 
godmother, having gone the round of her 
friends with that honour, till none were left 
for the youngest. Her last work she pub- 
lished on her own account, not being able to 
find a bookseller ; and still the pleasure ot 
her life consists in collecting round her a lit- 
tle genteel and literary society. 

A change came o'er the spirit of Don Hen- 
riquez's dream ; from political he turned scien- 
tific; and his superabundant activity found 
ample employment in deciphering the Egyp- 
tian hieroglyphics. His pursuit soon became 
a mania; and one fine morning he set off for 
the pyramids. From them he duly despatch- 
ed an account of his discoveries to the various 
learned bodies that have a council and a char- 
ter throughout Europe. There was one agree- 
able piece of self-deception attending it — he 
called the splendid allowance which Beatrice 
was made the medium of offering him, a fine 
proof of the Hon. Mr. Lorraine's devotion to 
the interests of science. It is an excellent 
plan to generalise individual gratitude — it 
makes an obligation sit so very lightly. 

Beatrice was still as much an orphan as 
amid the lonely woods of Andalusia; but now 
she needed not the care nor the support of her 
kindred. One heart kept over her the deep 
and eternal watch of love ; and perhaps her 
own attachment to her husband was more pas- 
sionate and entire, that earth held not another 
tie to claim one thought. The world said 
that the beautiful Spaniard was cold as she 
was beautiful — too reserved and too proud for 
attraction. True it was that early habits of 
silence and reserve, and the timidity born of 
long solitude, together with a high and ideal 
creed of the sacredness of affection, made 
Beatrice shrink away from the many, to con- 
centrate her whole existence upon the one. 
Edward could scarcely love her the less, be- 
cause for him only her eye brightened, and 
her cheek flushed into crimson — that for hi:n 
only her smile softened into tenderness, or her 
words grew eloquent with feeling and thought. 
Lorraine's future destiny was a stirring and 
a brilliant one. Lord Byron says, what does 
a great man purchase by the devotion of his 
whole life but 



" A name, a wretched picture, a worse bust V 



ROMANCE AND REALITY. 



201 



Still, it is something to have a name " fami- 
liar as a household word" — a picture, the 
worst print from which is popular — and also 
an exceedingly handsome bust: all these 
were in Edward Lorraine's futurity. 

When Miss Arundel's will was opened — 
that paper which it was her last earthly act to 
sign — it was found, that, after having amply 
provided for all the old dependants of her 
house, and bequeathed a few legacies — slight 
marks of affection to friends, not one of whom 
was forgotten — Beatrice de los Zoridos was 
constituted sole heiress. One request was 
subjoined — that Arundel Hall should be pulled 
down. " I could not endure that another race 
should dwell in the house of my fathers." 
Of course the injunction was fulfilled. The 
wheat now springs up over the dwelling-place 
of the ancient house ot the Arundels. 

Vol. 1.— f 6 



In the picture gallery at Etheringhame 
Castle hangs a portrait, which bears not the 
name, and claims no affinity with the noble 
race around ; yet the spectator often pauses 
before it, to ask who is that glad and girlish- 
looking beauty 1 and the answer is, " An early 
and beloved friend of the countess's, who died 
young." There is also one other memorial 
of the departed — a small marble tablet in the 
village church, near what was once Arundel 
Hall, hangs amid the scutcheons of her house : 
it bears a brief inscription 

EMILY ARUNDEL, 

THE LAST SURVIVOR OF HER FAMILY 
AGED 21 



*HD OF ROMANCE AND REALIT* 



FRANCESCA CARRARA 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



CHAPTER I. 



The remembrance of youth is a sigh." 

Arabian Proverb. 



Toil is the portion of day, as sleep is that 
of night; but if there be one hour of the 
twenty-four which has the life of day without 
its labour, and the rest of night without its 
slumber, it is the lovely and languid hour of 
twilight. The shadows have not yet deepened 
into darkness, as yet the boughs droop not, 
and the fragrant leaves of the flower are still 
unclosed. The magnificence of the noon 
which excites, the mystery of the midnight 
which awes, are distinct from the softness of 
the evening. It is earth's brief breathing 
space, after the heat and hurry of her busier 
time ; like that repose, known only to the 
young and happy, when the nerves gradually 
compose themselves, the thoughts gather into 
some vague but delicious train, and the eyes 
are closed by languor before sleep. 

The day had been oppressively hot, but now 
a heavy dew fell, and a cool wind stirred the 
trees. The flowers raised their heads, and 
repaid the moisture by exhaling their hoarded 
sweetness ; the thrush sang a few notes, low 
and soft, like the unconscious expression of 
enjoyment; and the cypresses, whose spiral 
heads had declined in the heat, now stood up- 
right, stately and refreshed. The last hue of 
crimson had died away in the west, and the 
depth of the rich purple atmosphere was un- 
broken. 

"It is too dark," said the young sculptor, 
as he let his hand fall listlessly by his side, 
and stood gazing on the bust, as only the 
lover who looks on the face beloved, and the 
artist who looks on his own work, can gaze. 
The tenderness of the one, and the pride of the 
other, were blended in the youth's counte- 
nance. Again he resumed his seat, but not 
his employment; the lulling influence of the 
time was upon him. Sunshine, like truth, 
would have been too strong for such dreams 
as those in which he was indulging ; but they 
harmonized with the dim shades now flitting 
round. Suddenly one of those rose-edged 
clouds in which a chance sunbeam lingers to 
the last, flung, as it floated by, the full rich- 
ness of its colouring on the marble. The artist 
was recalled, by his sense of beauty, to re- 
ality. 

" O, my sister, do come and see how ex- 
quisite is this effect !" exclaimed he, with all 



that youthful eagerness which is impatient fot 
sympathy in its delight. 

Slowly the maiden came from the adjacent 
window, where she had been leaning silent 
and apart. But her reverie had been deeper 
far than his. He had dwelt on fancies — she 
on thought; and the charm of the one was 
sooner removed than the weight of the other. 

" Very beautiful, Guido !" said she, kind- 
ly; — but kindness was not enough for one 
who wanted admiration. 

Strange mystery of our nature, that those 
in whom genius developes itself in imagina- 
tion, thus taking its most ethereal form, should 
yet be the most dependent on the opinions of 
others ! Praise is their very existence ; and 
those who have the wings of the dove, with 
which they might " flee away and be at rest," 
delight rather to linger on the high road, 
forgetting that Avhere the sunshine falls, there 
too gathers the dust, and that the soil remains 
when the silver lustre has passed. Alas ! thus 
ever does the weakness of our nature rebuke 
its strength, and genius is brought to the level 
— ay, below the level — of common humanity, 
by an unquenchable thirst for its applause. 

" If she had been really my sister," thought 
Guido, " she would have entered into my 
feelings;" and he turned almost resentfully 
away. One glance at the pale cheek and 
glistening eyelashes of his cousin (for such 
she really was, though the names of brother 
and sister came familiar to their familiar inter- 
course) brought him again to her side. 

"Why do you weep, dearest FrancescaT' 
he whispered, in those low and musical tones 
which only affection can utter. 

For reply she leant her head on his 
shoulder; and as he threw his arm round her 
waist, he could feel that strong, though sup- 
pressed emotion shook the slight frame which 
he supported. He led her tenderly to the 
window, and they sat down together. Sud- 
denly a few notes of distant music arose on 
the air. Both started as if each had some pe- 
culiar interest in the sound. The flush died 
as rapidly as it came on the cheek of Fran- 
cesca : 

" It is not yet time for vespers — it is only 
the song of some boatmen." 

Guido gazed upon her earnestly. "Frances- 
ca, sister, dearest, you weep ! Can it be that 
you will leave us ?" 

The girl raised her large eyes, yet shining 
with tears. Their affectionate reproach way 
answer enough. 

S 205 



206 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" Alas !'* continued he, " we are not happy 
as we were once wont to be ; how indifferent 
are we grown to so much that we used to 
love ! how altered we are, and in such brief 
space ! No affection have we now for the 
6now white doves, or the agile squirrel, in 
which we once took such delight; we feed 
them, but it is as a duty, not as a pleasure. 
No longer do we nurse the last glimmer in the 
lamp, to pore over the enchanted page of 
Tasso. No more do we rise with the first red 
on the sky, and, hurrying to the green wood, 
call ourselves knights and enthralled prin- 
cesses, and our mimic sports adventures. I 
keenly feel how the actual is superseding our 
imaginative world. Already the weight of 
the future is upon us ; we plan and calculate, 
rather than hope. We find how little we have 
to do with our destiny, and yet, forsooth, we 
seek to direct it. Ever since that English 
stranger arrived — " 

A shrill, harsh voice from the farther ex- 
tremity of the chamber interrupted their dis- 
course. " English ! English ! — whose names 
under my roof the only word which is there 
forbidden 1 ? Talk, children, of what you list, 
but never let my old ears be startled by the 
mention of those accursed islanders !" 

The speaker was an aged man — aged he 
seemed beyond the common lot of humanity— 
and then, shrivelled, and contracted, as if the 
popular belief were true' that his life was pro- 
longed by chemical secrets, and that he won 
from subtle drugs and essences a meager and 
protracted existence. The anger of Carrara 
(for such was the old man's name) was of 
brief duration, and almost the following mo- 
ment he became immersed in his former occu- 
pation. 

It was a strange scene, the contrasts which 
met in that large but dilapidated chamber. It 
It had been the banqueting-hall in the ancient 
palace of the La Franchi, but the revelry and 
the splendour had long since passed away. 
The history of its former possessors had been 
the history of most noble families. First pomp, 
finally want — the gorgeous retinue reduced to 
the scanty train — daughter after daughter to 
convent — son after son to the wars ; one rem- 
nant of olden state vanishing after another, till 
the last of the line died a forgotten exile, in 
some obscure skirmish far away from his 
native land. One or two aged dependants 
still lingered amid the lonely walls ; they died 
too; and for years the deserted had been left 
to the bird, the insect, and the weed. The bat 
and the owl made it their home, the spider 
wove its dreary tapestry, the grass made its 
way through the tessellated floors, the moss 
grew over the untrodden pavement, and the 
ivy — the fragile and creeping ivy — was now 
the chief support of the battlements which it 
had overrun. 

Fifteen years previous to the commencement 
of this narrative, a stranger, far advanced in 
years, had suddenly arrived in the neighbour- 
hood, and had taken up his abode in the left 
wing, which part of the building was by some 
chance in a better state of preservation than 



the rest. There was none to dispute his place 
of refuge, whose principal attraction seemed 
to be a high tower yet remaining, where he 
could take his astronomical observations. It 
was soon ascertained that he subsisted on a 
moderate sum of money, lodged in the hands 
of a Lombard merchant, and that his habits 
were eccentric and unsocial to a degree that 
almost denoted an unsettled mind. 

Francisco da Carrara was in reality one of 
those visionaries whose imagination gave its 
own fascination to science ; he gazed on the 
stars with the eye of the sage but the heart 
of the poet, till he deemed that to him was 
given the key of their mysteries, and that he 
read on their bright scroll the secrets of the 
future. His life had for years been devoted 
to one mystic search — the discovery of the 
philosopher's stone — and, like most of the 
enthusiasts in that wild pursuit, he firmly be- 
lieved that every hour brought him nearer to 
an immortality upon earth, which in reality 
drew him closer and closer to the grave. En- 
during poverty — at least privation — unremit- 
ting in his toil at the furnace, or his watch 
upon the night — worn, withered, and become 
what would now be but an object of pity and 
derision — that pale alchemist was happier 
than many of those whose triumpH over 
science in our day win the gold medal, and 
the alphabet for an array to their name. He 
suffered unto himself; no mortification, that 
inevitable result of competition, embittered 
even success. 

I do believe there is no existence so content 
as that whose present is engrossed by em- 
ployment, and whose future is filled by some 
strong hope, the truth of which is never 
proved. Toil and illusion are the only secrets 
to make life tolerable, and both of these were 
his. 

He had, too, his own small sphere of use- 
fulness ; for his advice and medicines were 
eagerly sought by his neighbours, and their 
vague dread of his mysterious pursuits and 
supposed spiritual intercourse was merged in 
thankfulness for kindness and assistance. 
Two lovely companions had he in his solitude, 
his grandchildren. When he first arrived, the 
boy was five, and the girl nearly two years of 
age. They were cousins ; Guido being the 
child of Carrara's son, and Francesca of his 
daughter. More than this no one knew. 
The nurse who arrived with him died before 
she had become sufficiently confidential with 
any of the peasantry round to do more than 
hint at terrible domestic misfortunes, which 
had driven them from their dwelling in Padua. 

The old man himself never alluded to his 
former life. When he went back upon the 
past, it was to recall honours long departed, 
and the deeds of an heroic house, whose 
splendour he often vaguely hinted he was des- 
tined to revive. There was an antique parch- 
ment, illuminated with various devices illus- 
trative of the records of the Carrara family — 
there was the banner with its red fish from 
which they took their name — there was the 
celebrated Francisco, in full armour, mounted 



FRANCESCA CARRARA 



207 



on a steed whose head was covered with white 
plumes — there was the likeness of the heroic 
Madonna Tadie — and last, not least in interest, 
the gloomy dungeons of Venice, where pe- 
rished the brave and youthful chieftains of 
Padua. From this parchment, the history of 
the house of Carrara, he delighted to hear his 
young descendants read. Thus, from child- 
hood, was their imagination filled with the 
honours of the past and the hopes of the fu- 
ture — hopes the more magnificent, from the 
vague hints which at times escaped from their 
usually taciturn parent. 

The side of the Tiber on which they lived, 
was thinly inhabited ; a family of decayed 
nobility, named Mancini, and a convent of poor 
nuns, where the little Francesca acquired some 
knowledge of embroidery and of music, w T ere 
their only neighbours. Guido had been en- 
tirely educated by his grandfather, who ap- 
plied to the task by fits and starts ; and, in 
like manner, the boy had taken frequent fan- 
cies of instructing his cousin, or, as she was 
always called, his sister. Guido was twenty, 
and Francesca seventeen. The three were 
now assembled in the old banqueting-hall, 
which, from its state of better preservation, 
had become their ordinary chamber. 

The old man was seated in a large low arm- 
chair, whose rich carvings of black oak were 
almost architectural in their dimensions ; it 
was drawn close to the huge and gloomy 
chimney, where was placed a small pan of 
charcoal, whose red glare served to show 
rather than disperse the gloom around. Over 
this was simmering a preparation of herbs, 
which diffused a strong but pleasant odour. 
A single line of light wandered amid the ob- 
scurity — it came from an open door, beyond 
which a winding stair-case led to the tower 
where Carrara spent much of his time. 

Farther on, the room became lighter ; it was 
just the contrast between youth and age. 
The two oriel windows were especially ap- 
propriated by the cousins. At the one the 
day was admitted freely, and fell on the va- 
rious products of the sculptor's skill ; all 
touched with something of melancholy, which, 
in youth, seems to prophesy the fate it after- 
wards, perhaps, serves to fulfil. There were 
casts of the Gladiator — he whose native cou- 
rage struggled against the doom which was 
yet welcome — a mournful allegory of honour. 
The Niobe stricken by that inexorable destiny 
which the ancients so well knew was never 
yet shunned nor propitiated by human effort. 
The Antinoiis where death is in a face of 
youthful beauty — the shadow of the tomb 
resting upon hope and love. Below were two 
or three graceful urns, but wreathed with cy- 
press ; and a vase, but a serpent was coiled 
around it. In the midst was a nearly finished 
bust, and the sculptor might well direct the 
eye to mark the spiritual expression it wore 
in the purple shadows of evening ; so pale, 
so pure, yet so tender. Another moment, and 
that transparent cheek would surely redden 
into blushes. The hair fell in curls over the 
face, and was gathered up behind in a knot, 



from which hung some rich ringlets. These, 
however, did not conceal the haughty turn of 
the head, erect like that of a young Semira- 
mis. The features were somewhat less regu- 
lar than is usual with an Italian face, but 
their expression in the marble was full of 
sweetness. 

Over the other window an odoriferous creep- 
ing-plant had been carefully trained, and the 
slender leaves, and clusters of pale blue 
flowers were like a fretted arabesque on the 
clear and amber-hued air. A few books were 
ranged on one side ; a lute leant against the 
other, near which was a frame half hidden by 
a piece of unfinished embroidery. In the cen- 
tre was a small table, and on it was placed a 
vase filled with roses. 

The two cousins were resting on the win- 
dow-seat. The family likeness between them 
was slight, though it might be traced in the 
Greek nose and short upper lip. The youth 
had the clear olive skin of the south, but 
warmed with that flushed and variable crim- 
son which is the outward sign of the feverish 
and sensitive temperament — while the large 
dark eyes were strangely mournful for one 
whose years and sorrows had been so few. 
The girl was without a tinge of colour, but 
very fair ; the soft white of the Parian marble 
strongly contrasted with hair of the most ebon 
black — at first, the long and shadowy lashes 
made the downcast eye seem also dark, but 
when raised it was of that intense and violet 
blue, so rarely seen but in children, or in April 
skies. There was more energy, and there- 
fore, more hope, in her face, than that of Gui- 
do. The mind depends more on the body 
than we like to admit — and Francesca's child- 
hood had been unbroken by the weakness and 
pain which had so often stretched Guido on a 
bed of sickness, beside which only affection 
could have hoped — affection that believes not 
in death, until it be present in the house. 

It is as truly as it is beautifully said, that 
"perfect love casteth out fear" even in our 
frail nature ; and the love between those two 
orphans was as perfect as human love could 
be. At no sacrifice for the one could the 
other have hesitated, and no sacrifice would it 
have seemed — the most entire devotion would 
have appeared a simple act of their ordinary 
affection. Guido knew that the image of 
another was graven on the inmost heart of 
each. With that knowledge came no cold- 
ness — no distrust — but firmer reliance and 
deeper confidence. 

Again music rose on the air ; this time they 
really heard the convent chimes. Francesca 
rose from her seat, and took her veil. 

" Shall I go with you, dearest 1 

" Not now; I will tell you all to-morrow," 
was the almost inaudible reply. Both turned- 
from the door, though each took a different path. 

At first, Guido's step was slow, and he 
walked as one absorbed in mournful thought; 
but at a turn in his path, which commanded 
the country below, his face brightened, and he 
sprung on his way, as if every moment of his 
time were precious. He soon arrived at the 



208 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



villa of the Mancini, where his evenings were 
usually spent ; how much more cheerful was 
t than his own home! 

The Marchese was, as usual, closeted in 
his own chamber, where, since his wife's 
death at least, he enjoyed that indolent quiet 
in which he delighted. His daughters were 
assembled in a large hall opening on the gar- 
den ; the two younger were seated by a cage 
of rare foreign birds from the golden isles of 
Canary, half-caressing, half-teasing them — 
the two elder were standing beneath the ve- 
randah, seemingly in earnest discourse. It 
was easy to recognise in the tallest, the origi- 
nal of the bust ; but either the look she bent 
on the young sculptor was not such as she 
often wore, or else he had given its softness 
from his own heart, for scorn was native to 
those features, and disdain familiar to her 
keen and falcon-like eyes. 

"Ah, no!" said her sister, a fair, timid- 
looking girl, who though in reality the elder 
by two years, yet appeared the junior; "I 
should like a home like a nest, in some quiet 
valley. Do you remember the fairy tale of 
the two lovers, who, surrounded by enemies, 
were saved from the terrible giant who pur- 
sued the princess, by being turned into doves] 
How happily must they have dwelt in the 
greenwood together !" 

" Yes; hunting for worms or barleycorns, 
hatching their eggs, and trembling at every 
school-boy that came near. Give me the vest 
glittering with jewels; the high place at the 
tournament, the gaze of every knight turned 
upon me, till even he who fought against the 
one wearing my colours, felt, as he laid lance 
in rest, that the strife was vain ; how could 
he combat in honour of that beauty which his 
own eyes saw was far surpassed 1 ?" 

" And he who wore your colours ?" 

"That five hundred should be proud to do ; 
the best and proudest of the land. Pity it 
were for starry eyes not to emulate the stars, 
and shine on many. I own one lover is dif- 
ficult to manage ; for to one lover you may 
have yielded more of your heart than I care to 
surrender of mine. But the many — why, I 
should hold them as Ave do yonder branch of 
roses — we like their general effect, and care 
not if one drop off, so that another supply its 
place. Fancy now a lighted hall, and a group 
of white-plumed cavaliers ; I would have a 
smile for one, a sigh for a second, a frown for 
a third." 

" And in the meantime, till these honours 
arrive, you have me to rehearse with, and 
Guido Carrara to practise upon." 

" Nonsense !" 

" Yes, to you, who have no stronger motive 
than amusement — no deeper feeling than va- 
nity; but, Marie, you are cruel to trifle with 
a love so earnest, so devoted — " 

"That you would like to be its object. 
Pray take him — you are very welcome; ah, 
yonder he comes ! now I will be disinterested, 
confide to him the passion he has inspired, 



protest against being your rival, and gene- 
rously resign him." 

" The sacrifice would be too great, for there 
is no one here to supply his place," interrupted 
her sister, somewhat more angrily than the 
occasion required: but at this moment Guido 
ascended the steps which led to the little ter- 
race where they now stood. 

" We have been expecting you some time," 
said Henrietta, kindly. 

" I saw you in eager discourse, as I ap- 
proached." 

" We were," replied Marie, " employed in 
aerial architecture — the future for our ground- 
work; I was fancying a lover for myself." 

" A lover !" answered Guido, in a low and 
altered voice. 

" Ay, such a lover as these degenerate times 
are little likely to produce ; one who, as the 
princely Medici, or the gallant Doria, were 
the glory of their cities, would be the glory of 
his. One to whom superiority was a birth- 
right, and success a comrade; brave, gene- 
rous, aspiring; one to whom nothing could' 
seem impossible." 

"And what," exclaimed the youth, gazing 
upon her, " could be impossible with such in- 
spiration ] Love lends its own strength to 
the effort it excites. I have ever deemed it 
was for love's sweet sake, that Columbus 
sought and found the bright world so long 
parted from her paler sister, that even tradition 
had forgotten the cause. What but some de- 
licious dream, whose hues rose only dazzling 
upon solitude, made him linger on the twi- 
light coast? When he marked the waves 
swallow up the leaf and bough that floated 
upon them — what looked he on the waters to 
see, but one beloved face mirrored by his 
fancy] Deem you not, in after-years, his 
glorious triumph brought a dearer joy than 
pride — was not that sunny hemisphere a 
worthy offering to the proudest beauty in Cas- 
tile]" 

Henrietta had left her sister's side, whose 
eyes sank beneath those of Guido — and she 
now wore the look of the exquisite marble he 
had fashioned into softness. There are some 
moments, the hues of which are like those on 
the wing of a butterfly — a touch brushes them 
away. There are words to paint the misery 
of love, but none to paint its happiness ; that 
childish, glad, and confiding time to which 
youth gave its buoyancy, and hope its colours. 
Its language repeated, ever seems exagge- 
rated or foolish ; albeit there are none who 
have not thought such sounds "honey-sweet" 
in their time. The truth is, we never make 
for others the allowance we make for our- 
selves; and we should deny even our own 
words, could we hear them spoken by another. 
We will, therefore, leave the young Italian to 
paint the future as the imagination ever paints. 
Troth but it was fitting speech of the moon 
light: moonlight, the bright and clear, but the 
cold — which, unlike the sun, opens no flowers, 
and ripens no fruit. 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



209 



CHAPTER II. 

"Farewell ! 
for in that word— that fatal word— howe'er 
We promise, hope, believe— there breathes despair." 

Byron. 

The history of a minute — why it would 
give a bird's-eye view of every possible va- 
riety in human existence. Wonderful the 
many events that are happening together — life 
and death; joy and sorrow; the great and the 
mean; the common and the rare; good and 
evil ; are all in the record of that brief seg- 
ment of time. 

We left the moonlight shining on the bright 
eye and the crimsoning blush — we proceed to 
where it fell on the glittering lash and the pale 
and tearful cheek. There was something 
cheerful in the scene which we have just left 
— the window opening into the garden-room 
filled with many gladdening signs of daily 
amusement and occupation, and the silence 
broken by the light laugh and mirthful tones 
of the children who were watching the birds. 
But here all was mournful and desolate — for 
nothing is more mournful than man's work, 
and man's skill going to ruin for want of 
man's care — and nothing is more desolate than 
the moss and the green weed choking the foun- 
tain, and half hiding the fallen column. 

The silver waters of the spring had long 
since disappeared, but there still were left a 
few of the Corinthian pillars, some stretched 
on the ground and overgrown with creeping- 
plants, while two or three yet remained erect, 
and showed how graceful the whole must 
have been.- There was a fragment, too, of 
broken wall, on which were seated Francesca 
and a young cavalier, one whose long fair hair 
and clear blue eye spoke of a more northern 
clime than her own. 

" Let my father once see you," urged the 
youth, "and I am sure of his consent; we 
will then return hither, where you will be the 
dearer for your brief absence ; your grandfather 
will renounce his strange antipathy to my 
country in witnessing your happiness — and — 
for the stars shine as brightly on Evelyn Ab- 
bey as they do on yonder old tower — who 
knows but the philosopher's stone may be dis- 
covered in England ]" 

Francesca let him speak on ; she was happy 
at least while she listened ; but silence, was 
no answer, for here, at least, it gave no con- 
sent. 

" You forget the other side," said she ; 
" what if Sir Robert Evelyn refuse to receive 
for his daughter the unknown and portionless 
Italian ; how shall I brook to be the first cause 
of difference between a father and son, to 
whom the averted look and the harsh word 
have been hitherto unknown ]" 

The young Englishman gazed for a moment 
tenderly on her beautiful face. 

"The averted look, the harsh word, such 
are not for you, Francesca!" 

"Methinks," returned the Italian, "they 
would be but my fitting reward. How could 
vour father expect a daughter's love from one 

Vol. I.— -27 



who had left her own in his old age ; left him, 
too, without his blessing ; nay, without his 
knowledge ; his solitude embittered by anx- 
iety for one who had no pity on his age, no 
memory for his care. I have heard, Evelyn, 
and have often read, in the tales of my own 
land, how, for her strange and sudden passion, 
a maiden has left home and parents, forgetting 
how her infancy was watched, and her youth 
cherished. So could not I. Few and feeble 
are the steps which my father must measure 
toward the grave ; but during these few, I 
must be at his side, Evelyn. How holy the 
claim, when age asks from youth but a little 
time, and a little tendance to smooth the pas- 
sage to the tomb !" 

Both were silent — a pause which was 
broken by the convent clock striking nine. 

" It is late !" exclaimed Francesca, forcing 
a smile. I must not stay here, talking of duty 
— and all my household ones awaiting me ; 
you do not know what an important person I 
am at home!" but the effort was too much, 
and dropping her head on Evelyn's arm, she 
gave way to a burst of weeping. 

"Look up, love," at length said her com- 
panion ; " I would fain link the memory of 
our parting with something less earthly than 
word or gift. Do you see yonder large clear star 
near the moon, — it shines here as I have seen 
it shine a thousand times in my own island — 
let it be a token between us. When, dim 
and cloudy, its place is not seen in the sky — 
we will be sorrowful, and think even so are 
we far away and hidden from each other ; but 
when it looks forth rejoicing and glorious, it 
shall be unto us as a sign and as a hope, and 
we will believe in a bright future and a fair 
destiny." 

" I .shall watch it to-morrow night," whis 
pered Francesca. 

A few more hurried words — blessings 
scarce noted at the time, but dearly remem- 
bered afterwards, and they parted. The ilex 
boughs closed behind the light form of the 
maiden, while the young Englishman sprang 
rapidly down the narrow path leading to the 
inn whence he was to start on the morrow by 
daybreak. 

It matters little to trace the rapidity of the 
land journey, or the monotony of the sea voy, 
age — alike unmarked by adventure. Robert 
Evelyn landed at Southampton, and immedi- 
ately procured horses for himself and two 
servants ; for his father's house lay some 
twenty miles inland. 

" I would have you look to your pistols, 
young gentleman," said the landlord. Robert 
stared at such advice in England; but the 
many suspicious-looking individuals and 
groups that he passed, made him rejoice at 
having followed it. It was obvious that their 
bold and prepared bearing kept more than one 
party at bay. 

Well known as every inch of the country 
was to Evelyn, he paused more than once to 
gaze upon its unfamiliar appearance. Fields 
which he remembered yellow with the waving 
corn, lay fallow, though the month was June'- 



210 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



and one or two that bore signs of a luxuriant 
crop, were trampled down, and the wheat was 
rotting on the ground. The hedges were full 
of gaps, made in the most reckless manner ; 
and the meadows, which had evidently not 
been mown, were either quite bare, or covered 
Avith irregular patches of rank, coarse grass, 
whose vegetation was exhausting itself. 
Many of the cottages were deserted, and the 
thatch blackening with neglect and damp ; 
the lattices gone from their frames, the pear- 
trees loosened from the walls, and their 
branches, gray with moss, and heavy with 
leaves, not fruit, trailing upon the grass-grown 
walks, told that the desolation was no work 
of yesterday. A few dwellings of the very 
lowest order were yet inhabited, but at the 
riders' approach, the doors were hastily closed, 
and not a creature could be seen, even at the 
windows. "And yet this is market-day!" 
and the traveller remembered what a cheerful 
scene the road used to present — from the sub- 
stantial yeoman on his good brown cob, to the 
peasant girls, with baskets and red cloaks, 
whose voices and laughter were heard long 
before themselves were seen. Now the chief 
occupiers of the path were a few meager 
cows, picking up a scanty subsistence. 

A sudden turn in the road brought them 
opposite a spot where Robert had passed 
many a happy day. Involuntarily he drew 
his horse to a stand, and remained gazing 
with speechless dismay on the scene before 
him. The house had been burned to the 
ground : the mouldering walls of the lower 
floor, and huge heap of ashes, from which the 
weeds were beginning to spring up, were all 
that remained of the former hospitable dwell- 
ing. The garden, which sloped down to the 
highway, was utterly destroyed, and the ske- 
letons of two large trees stood charred and 
blackened from the effects of fire. Robert 
was roused from his trance by a hand rudely 
laid on his bridle-rein, while a hoarse voice 
exclaimed, 

" So, my young cavalier, — regaling your- 
self with a sight of the ruin you and yours 
have wrought. Speak, — your name and bu- 
siness here '?" 

Evelyn had been so lost in contemplation 
of the melancholy scene before him, that he 
had not observed the approach of a detach- 
ment of cavalry, by whom he and his attend- 
ants were now surrounded. He looked upon 
the officer whose hand was yet upon his rein ; 
but the idea which presented itself was too 
improbable. " The son of Sir Robert Eve- 
lyn," said he, after a moment, " cannot be an 
intruder in these parts !" 

" Sir Robert Evelyn is a good man and 
true : his son is welcome — let him pass !" 

The voice — harsh, changed as it was — con- 
firmed Robert's first suspicion ; though he 
might well hesitate to recognise the cheerful, 
cordial friend of yore, in the cold, pale, and 
stern-looking horseman before him. " Surely 
you will not let me pass," said the youth, 
" without some token of remembrance, Mr. 
Johnstonn'!" 



" Call me not," exclaimed the officer 
fiercely, " by the appellations of the ungodly ! 
My name is now, ' Vengeance is mine, saith 
the Lord : I will repay !' and am not I His 
instrument on earth 1 Ride on, ride on, 
young man — spare neither whip nor spur; for 
the aged is even now in the valley of the sha- 
dow of death. Robert Evelyn," added he, 
in a softened and kinder tone, " must be sorely 
changed, if he speed not, that his father may 
bless him ere he die." 

Evelyn waited no answer, but rode on ; 
and the clang of heavy horse tramp was faint 
in the distance before his companion recovered 
from his surprise. " My father ill !" thought 
he, — " he hinted not at this in his letter : — ah, 
he knew the wish he expressed for my return 
was enough, and he was fain to spare my 
anxiety. Ill — dying, and I not there !"' 

His horse was urged to its utmost speed, 
and in one hour arrived, covered with foam, 
at the abbey gate. It was barred, and he 
could hear within the measured step of the 
sentinel ; his challenge was, however, in- 
stantly answered, and the court-yard was 
filled with domestics, all eager with words of 
welcome. 

4; My father V exclaimed he. 

" Better — much better," was the steward's 
reply. 

Robert's eyes swam with tears; and he 
could only wave with his hand an answer to 
the many greetings around. He ran forward 
to the library, and in another moment was in 
his father's arms. 



CHAPTER III. 

" So we began to set every thing to rights."— Ordinary 
Plans. 

" Changes, many, indeed, and sad changes," 
said Sir Robert Evelyn, " have chanced since 
you left us. I have seen our peaceful Eng- 
land, on whose shore warfare had become but 
a dark tradition, or a gallant hope to the 
young and adventurous spirits who sought for 
honour abroad — I have seen it become the 
field of deadly battle, wher^e the father raised 
his hand against the son, and the son against 
the father. I have seen the beacon blazing 
instead of the Christmas hearth; and the 
ivy, which for more than a century had 
wreathed undisturbed round these old battle- 
ments, has been pretty well cut away by the 
musketry during the last siege." 

" Siege, my father ! and I not at your side !" 
exclaimed Robert reproachfully. 

" In truth, dear child, I wished not for you. 
My lot has been cast in troubled times, and 
glad should I have been to have saved you 
from the responsibility of that decision which 
I have found a heavy burden. In private 
conduct you are called upon to act according 
to your conscience, and your guide is infalli- 
ble. In public you act according to you? 
ability, and, God knows ! that is often insuf 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



211 



ficient to decide amid conflicting events. 
How differently, at different times, do we 
view the same things ! Now, who can ad- 
mit this, yet not distrust his judgment] I 
had hoped that our troubles being ended, you 
might on your return to England have seen 
no cause for hesitation; but such is the un- 
settled state of affairs, that, alas! expediency 
seems now your mean but only guide." 

" Methinks, my father, I need do little but 
follow in your steps, and ask for your ad- 
vice."' 

" Alas, Robert ! it is for the aged, they say, 
to give advice; the aged, who, perforce, must 
know its inefficiency — for advice to be useful, 
it must suit the circumstances ; and when do 
circumstances fall out according to expecta- 
tion 1 When 1 stood by the side of Hamp- 
den, contending against a heavy oppression, 
and for an undeniable right, who could have 
thought that his refusal to pay that twenty 
shillings ship-money would be the first act of 
a resistance that was destined to arouse a 
whole nation, and kindle civil war from one 
end of our island to the other ]" 

"Yet, surely," interrupted his listener, 
" you do not repent of one of the noblest acts 
to which patriotism ever stimulated an indivi- 
dual?" 

"Never! during the many troubles that 
followed the scenes of bloodshed that ensued, 
I have looked back to the pure and honourable 
motives, and to the enlightened views with 
which our resistance commenced, in a spirit 
of great consolation and the perfect conviction 
of its necessity. I have never doubted for a 
moment, but that we acted for the best. The 
benefit has not, as yet, been equal to the evil ; 
we have not yet succeeded to our hope — liberty 
is still insecure, and England is still rent by 
small factions, distracted by foolish bigotries, 
and now at the will of one man ; yet the good 
seed has been sown. We have shown what 
opposition may effect, and what individual ex- 
ertions may achieve. We have awakened 
men to the knowledge of their rights ; and 
though for awhile, the energy of this nation 
may sleep after its* fierce struggle, a lesson 
has been given which may never be forgotten. 
The great names of our day will long be the 
watchwords of England's freedom. We have 
left behind us a legacy of right, which will 
accumulate. Still, I look around with disap- 
pointment. Judiciously avoiding the name 
of king, Cromwell rules us with a power 
far exceeding that of the monarch we de- 
throned." 

" But why," asked the younger Evelyn, 
"yield to Cromwell, when you resisted 
Charles]" 

"From exhaustion, and the force of indivi- 
dual character. Cromwell is the master- 
spirit of his age ; he has the bodily courage 
which inspires in the field, and the moral cou- 
rage which sways in the council. Deeply 
imbued with the prevailing fanaticism, what 
would be to another an obstacle, is to him a 
motive. He is not deterred by its absurdity, 



for he perceives it not ; he is not disgusted by 
its pretensions, for they are his own. Like 
all great leaders in political convulsions, he 
has reached its high places by flinging him- 
self, with all the force of powerful talents, 
into the errors, the passions, and the prejudices 
of his time. But, however his power may 
have been won, all must allow that it is most 
worthily worn. During the brief period of 
his vigorous administration, how altered is the 
position of England ! Security at home, and 
respect abroad, these are the first fruits of 
Cromwell's sway. The miserable state of 
the country round, the consequence of the late 
rising, sufficient^ shows its folly." 

" Was Mr. Johnstone's house then de 
stroyed ?" 

"No, long before; that was the cause of 
my taking up arms. It is foolishness to say, 
that no private feelings shall actuate us in a 
public cause. I had resolved on a neutral po- 
sition ; 1 deemed that what influence I might 
possess would be best exerted in meditation : 
but this outrage put aside all my cooler plans. 
Johnstone's relatives were more puritanically 
given than himself ; and one of them, a preach- 
er, was residing with him, when a detachment 
of Goring's dragoon's demanded, or rather 
took shelter there for the night. Their profane 
jesting and loud oaths called forth a rebuke 
from the saint, which was received with the 
utmost contumely. Johnstone deemed he was 
called upon to resent the insults offered to his 
guest ; one word led to others ; swords were 
drawn, and a fierce contest ensued. Ere 
morning, his house was burnt to the ground ; 
his two children perished in the flames, and 
his own life was only preserved by the fidelity 
of a servant, who bore him insensible to a 
hovel near. The next day he was brought 
hither, and that very evening I, too, was fa- 
voured with a visit from the same regiment. 
But they found the closed gate and the loaded 
gun ; and their attack was beaten off with 
considerable loss. Since then my military 
career has been tolerably active." 

" And I not at your side ! said Robert, bit- 
terly. 

"Nay, my child," replied his father, in a 
sad and earnest tone ; " never lament that you 
have had no part in civil war; it is terrible to 
be asked for quarter in your native tongue, 
and yet spare not. To know that the corn- 
field over which you hurry in pursuit of a fly- 
ing enemy has been sown by your near neigh- 
bour — to see the sky redden at midnight, and 
fear lest the crimson blaze arise from your own 
home — to watch the desolation of familiar 
things — to become acquainted with waste and 
want, and worse, with the crime and reckless- 
ness, their inevitable consequences — and then 
remember how brief a period has elapsed 
since such things seemed impossible in the 
land." 

" But must the blessing ever be bought by 
the curse] Is civil war, then, the fearful sa« 
crifice demanded by liberty]" 

" Not so," replied Sir Robert ; " England's 



212 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



next struggle will be bloodless. We have 
ieft one great experience, that the struggle 
which is to be decided by the sword will 
bring repentance for the strife. Surely men 
will learn from the events of our time, how 
much to dread excitement, and to eschew pas- 
sion. Opinion should guide in public affairs, 
not feeling. Opinion is grounded on circum- 
stance, on observation, and on reflection. Feel- 
ing acts from impulse, which sees but half. 
Excitement leads to enthusiasm, that moral 
intoxication, whose effects seemed incredible 
to the sober, while the influence which pro- 
duces the extravagance appears more extraor- 
dinary than the act itself. The demon of fa- 
naticism was the shape which it took with us ; 
and verily, what with religious republicans, 
harmonists, quakers, fifth monarchy men, 
presbyterians, and the reign of the saints upon 
earth, it needs the strong hand of a Cromwell 
to reduce the spiritual chaos to any sort of 
order." 

The conversation which had been continued 
in the soft dimness of a summer evening, was 
now interrupted by the appearance of supper. 
Evelyn was struck with the alteration in his 
father's habits ; it had been so constant a rule 
for the household to sup together. " It keeps 
np that feeling of attachment which is the 
best bond of society, a humane and frequent 
intercourse," was Avorit to be a frequent ex- 
clamation; " may the rich and the poor never 
dwell so far apart as to be in equal ignorance 
of each other's real condition !" But as the 
light fell on Sir Robert's emaciated figure, 
and wan though still fine face, no longer ani- 
mated by the joy of his son's return, the 
ravage of disease became visible ; and it 
was no marvel that bodily weakness shunned 
exertion. v 

" To-morrow," said the invalid, " you shall 
take my place at the board ; to-night I cannot 
spare you." 

Perhaps there is no moment when beloved 
objects are so much beloved, as on the return 
from a long absence. When the thousand 
fears for their health, their safety, and their 
welfare, have all been proved to be in vain ; 
while the reaction from their depression is so 
exhilarating. When the many merits which 
fancy has added to their own, are all' warm 
from the thought; all fresh, too, with the 
gloss of novelty, untarnished with recent dif- 
ferences, and unworn by daily use. How 
pleasant the hurry of their arrival, and the 
many preparations to receive them ! In winter, 
the warmest seat by the fire ; in summer, the 
coolest by the open lattice. Then the supper, 
where all former likings are so carefully re- 
membered ; the cheerful flutter of spirits, the 
disposition to talk, the still greater desire to 
listen, the flushed cheek, the eager, yet glis- 
tening eye ; and — for the future will ever in- 
trude upon the mortal present — the delight of 
Ihinking " we shall still be together to-mor- 
row." Assuredly, meeting after absence, is 
one of-— an, no ! — it is life's most delicious 
feeling. 



CHAPTER IV. 

" Look on this picture, and on this — 
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers." 

Hamlet. 

It is wonderful how some words ever wera 
invented, for they express what does not exist 
— confidence is among the number ; confidence 
is what no human being ever really had in 
another. Robert Evelyn felt his heart swell, 
and the tears swim in his eyes, at the touch- 
ing tenderness with which his father received 
him; and yet he could not force himself to 
rely on that tenderness as a guarantee 'for con- 
sent to a marriage — now the horizon which 
bounded his future of happiness. He shrank 
from mentioning his pledge to Francesca. I' 
is a painful thing both to parent and child, 
when the one must own, and the other must 
hear, the avowal of a love which is dearer 
than all old ties, and all former affection. 
There was as much delicacy as distrust in his 
hesitation. He wandered thoughtfully in the 
plaisance adjoining the house, planning, as we 
all plan, circumstances which never arrive; 
and framing speeches which, when the time 
comes, we never make. His musings w r ere 
interrupted by a summons from Sir Robert, 
whom he found seated in a small oratory that 
had been his mother's favourite room. It was 
pannelled in black oak, but on each pannel the 
arms of the family were painted in bright 
colours. The mantel-piece was of great rarity, 
being pure white marble, like an arch, wreath- 
ed round with palm branches ; and above it 
was a Venetian mirror, set in a silver frame, 
and surmounted by a dove with outspread 
wings. A large picture hung opposite the fire- 
place; it represented Sir Robert and Lady 
Evelyn, and had been painted soon after their 
marriage. He was dressed in a rich suit of 
purple velvet, a short cloak laced with gold, 
and his hair flowing down in waving curls, 
with a brow open as the morning; a firm, 
compressed lip, and an eye full of spirit and 
intelligence. The robe of the lady was of 
pearl-white satin, and her bright golden tresses 
played in small corkscrew ringlets round her 
face. Her hands, remarkable for their delicate 
size and colour, were filled with flowers, her 
fondness for which amounted to a passion — if 
that feverish word may be applied to a love so 
gentle and innocent. The portrait was fai 
more like the young cavalier just entering the 
chamber than the original who sat opposite, 
watching his once resemblance with a fixed 
and mournful gaze. 

" My youth is renewed," said the old man, 
taking his son's hand; "but draw near your 
seat, for my voice is weak, and I have yet 
much to say." Robert placed a low stool be- 
side, but his heart was too full to speak; for 
daylight showed more forcibly than ever the 
alteration in his parent. " Your brother is 
my last and my greatest sorrow. He was to 
have joined you in Oermany, but he loitered 
at Paris, and my first letter from my forgetful 



FRANC ESC A CARRARA. 



213 



child was a confession of heavy debts in- 
curred at the gaming-table. My remittance 
and ray remonstrance were alike unanswered ; 
and I heard no more of Francis, till some 
prisoners, dragoons in Goring's regiment, 
were brought hither — he was one of them. 
Great God ! but that my arm was then dis- 
abled, we should have met face to face in the 
battle ; and who may say on whose head the 
sin of blood might have rested \ With some 
difficulty I obtained a pardon ; but weary of 
the restraint which circumstances rendered 
inevitable, he again left my roof; and at this 
moment I know not how to find my wilful 
child, even though the summons were to my 
death-bed." 

Robert's first impulse was to frame excuses 
for his brother; but what could he say, he 
who, from childhood, had so well know his 
reckless and selfish temper ] We talk of the 
influence of education — in what does it con- 
sist] Here were two with the same blood 
flowing in their veins, born under the same 
roof, nursed by the same mother, playmates in 
the same nursery, surrounded by the same 
scenes, pursuing the same studies, subject to 
the same rules, rewarded by the same indul- 
gences — never till the age of eighteen having 
been parted for a day ; and yet were these two 
as opposite as if they had never known one 
circumstance in common. Robert was grave, 
thoughtful, and affectionate ; with the shyness 
always attendant on deep feeling, and the 
sensitiveness which is ever the best guard 
against wounding that of others — such have 
known the suffering too well to inflict it;— 
enthusiastic in his admirations, imaginative in 
his tastes, and therefore, solitary in his habits. 

Frank had made love to all the pretty girls 
in the neighbourhood, while Robert was 
dreaming, in the summer glades of the New 
Forest, of the ideal mistress, whose perfection 
was poetry. High toned in all his sentiments, 
from native generosity of disposition ; he was 
strict in principle, from habit ; he was too good 
and too honourable himself not to appreciate 
the uprightness and sincerity of his father. 
Francis, on the contrary, was lively, false, and 
uncertain ; his own pleasure, interest, or even 
ease, were ever uppermost in his mind. It 
was not that he would not be kind, but it 
seldom came into his head to be so. That 
certain sign of intense selfishness — he never 
gave any one credit for a good motive, for he 
believed no one better than himself. He had 
ar. exaggerated opinion of his own talents ; but 
nis idea of ability was deceit. As there are 
some naturally deficient in the power of com- 
putation, others in an ear for harmony, so 
Francis Evelyn was utterly devoid of truth — 
he neither understood its moral beauty nor its 
actual utility. He felt no shame at detection 
— he only envied the discoverer's shrewdness, 
or his luck in finding a clew. He would 
neglect your wishes, wound your feelings, — 
partly, though, from very ignorance of their 
existence; while be would do even mean 
hings to win a momentary applause. Robert 
was proud, but of extraneous circumstances — 



of his ancient lineage, his noble father : w'ni.e 
the vanity of Francis centred in himself — he 
was vain of his person, his dress, or any thing 
that was his. He would have felt none of his 
brother's sensitiveness in revealing the dearest 
and deepest secret of his heart; none of his 
remorseful fear of giving pain to his father. 

" Who has not observed in the daily inter- 
course of domestic life, that the very subject 
we have been striving to avoid, or planning 
to disclose, is sure to defeat our best laid 
scheme, and start up before us when least 
expected 1 Thus it happened in the present 
case. f 

"I had hoped," said Sir Robert, turning 
suddenly from the window which commanded 
one of those wide panoramic views where 
hill and dale, dwelling, heath, and road, 
mingle together, " to have drawn our old alli- 
ance with yonder house yet closer; but indi- 
vidual hatreds are the legacies left by civL 
war — strange how public can be stronger than 
private feeling ! The playmate of my boy- 
hood, the companion of my first campaign in 
the Low Countries, he who wedded with my 
sister, is now worse than a stranger ; we meet 
in the highway, and each passes on the other 
side. The present is embittered, not softened, 
by the memories of the past. Lord Maltravers 
has maintained an ostensibly neutral position; 
but all his predilections are in favour of the 
cavaliers. The consciousness that he has not 
himself acted upon his principles, must create 
an invidious sentiment towards those who 
have. Alas, what, slight cause will suffice tc 
break up the friendship of years ! First came 
the disputed opinion, next the angry, then the 
cold word. Gradually we sought to avoid 
meeting, silence became habitual, and the epi- 
thets 'fanatic' and 'malignant' took the place 
of friend and brother. Yet, though the faces 
of his children are turned away when we meet, 
I see how very fair they are. I never look to 
the turrets of Avonleigh Abbey without some- 
what of the kindliness of former days ; and I 
yet cling, Robert, to the thought of a union be- 
tween one of those blue-eyed girls and your- 
self." 

"Not so, my father," replied the youth; 
and he hurriedly commenced his avowal. His 
voice grew firmer as he proceeded, he remem- 
bered the worthiness of the Italian maiden, 
and was encouraged by the affectionate inte- 
rest with which his father listened to the narra- 
tive, which was only interrupted by a gentle 
sign of attention, or a kind look. A feeling 
of disappointment might arise in Sir Robert's 
mind as he heard this unexpected confession, 
but he was not one to weigh ambition against 
affection. He knew how, in his own case, the 
united heart had made the happy home ; and 
he was sufficiently aware of the strength and 
depth of his son's character to know that his 
would be no transitory attachment. What, 
then, remained but pardon and approval 1 both 
of which were instantly given. 

" I lament that your Francesca should be a 
Catholic, chiefly from the circumstances which 
surround us. I have long since known that it 



214 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



s the faith, not the crted, which imports in 
religious belief. But in these days of fana- 
ticism, that harsh and violent spirit is abroad, 
when men clothe their own angry passions in 
the garb of righteousness, and call persecution 
vindicating the honour of God. Alas! what 
must be their idea of the Almighty power, 
when they deem it needs assistance from the 
arm of flesh ?" 

But his son was too happy to heed aught 
but the present: to a naturally sincere person, 
the oppression of concealment is intolerable. 

" My dearest father, you then forgive me ?" 

" What, my sage brother suing for forgive- 
ness 1 — the very time for me to plead as 
well." And a young cavalier, who had en- 
tered unperceived, dropt on one knee beside. 

" Francis !" they both exclaimed in equal 
surprise at the change, and the suddenness of 
his appearance. He had ever affected great 
gayety and richness of apparel, to mark his 
disdain of the Roundheads, whose custom 
was the* reverse ; and his bright auburn hair 
had been carefully trained in long love-locks. 
Now he wore a sad-coloured cloak and a dark 
gray suit, and his hair clipped close to the 
head, still, however, showing a most unor- 
thodox tendency to curl ; but his whole attire 
and bearing was in strict conformity with the 
severe and grave fashion of the period. 

" Nay, I will increase your wonder," said 
he, laughing at their evident surprise; "I 
come from Whitehall, and trust, my dear fa- 
ther, you will approve of my conversion as 
much as if it had been your own work instead 
of Sir Harry Vane's, with whom I came over 
from Paris. He desired me to greet you well 
in the name of the Lord," added he, in a snuf- 
fling tone. 

"I understand this disguise, for such I can- 
not but consider it, as little as I approve of 
this mockery." 

"Nay, dearest father," returned the youth, 
caressingly, " blame me not that I have seen 
the folly" of leaguing with your enemies, and 
that a little experience has taught me the ne- 
cessity of conforming to general usage; and 
surely to my partial parent I may indulge in 
the relief of a laugh at the solemn sanctity 
which I know- he h#nself holds but lightly. 
You drew your sword for higher motives than 
that hats should be worn without feathers, and 
sermons preached without surplices." 

Sir Robert might have said, that if there be 
one habit more than another, the dry-rot of all 
that is high and generous in youth, it is the 
habit of ridicule. The lip ever ready with 
the sneer, the eye ever on the watch for the 
ludicrous, must always dwell upon the exter- 
nal; and most of what is good and great ever 
lies below the surface. But, rejoiced at his 
child's return, he had little inclination to mo- 
ralize ; he was now again under his own roof, 
and he trusted, as affection ever trusts, that 
the future would make him all he could wish. 
Ah, the future ! the dreaming, the deceiving 
future, which Domises every thing, and per- 
forms nothing — what would the present be 
without it] 



CHAPTER V. 

" And Love, that leaves where'er he lishts 
A burned or broken heart behind." 

Moore, 

Both the brothers were early risers, foi 
Robert longed to wander through the old fa- 
miliar scenes, and Francis had so many plans 
to carry into execution, that it was impossible 
to begin them too soon. Breakfast was hurried 
over, for the day was too bright for in-doors 
discourse ; the elastic spirits, born of the glad 
clear atmosphere, required motion, and the 
look wandered after the sunshine. At first 
they walked rapidly ; the glorious morning 
caused, as it were, its own neglect — they ra- 
ther felt than saw the beauty around them ; but 
the buoyant step, the breath drawn lightly, and 
the freshness of eye and colour, showed its 
influences were upon them. 

It was now the first week in June. And a 
late spring had kept its beauty till all but 
merged in summer. The steep and narrow 
path which they were threading, wound down 
the side of a sloping heath, covered with the 
furze, now in full "blossom — a sea of gold, 
with wave-like shadows, as the wind bent 
them to and fro. The golden expanse was 
only varied by knots of the green snake-grass, 
with its slender and ' feathery leaves — the 
most graceful of herbs. A peculiar perfume 
— for the scent of the furze when first in 
bloom, 

" Might vie 
With fabled sweets from purple Araby,"— 

was on the air ; while every now and then the 
yellow butterflies rose upon the wing, till then 
confounded with the glittering buds on which 
they rested. The silence would have been 
profound, had it not been broken by a low but 
perpetual murmur, like rippling water, which 
told that the fragrant artisans of summer, the 
bees, were busy gathering in their honey-har- 
vest — at once labourers and manufacturers. 
Far in the distance lay the mighty forest, 
gloomy and solid, as if some dark mountain 
girdling in the valley. The sunshine went 
sweeping rapidly from the foreground to the 
utmost extent of the horizon ; the shadow 
coiled up before it; gradually the breaks 
among the wood became distinct, the dense 
blackness vanished, and the green woods 
shone out in the transparent atmosphere. The 
furze now became broken with patches of 
grass, and with occasional trees, and clumps 
of firs, whose sombre and wiry foliage had 
nothing in common with the cheerful aspect 
of their companions. 

I cannot love evergreens — they are the mi- 
santhropes of nature. To them the spring 
brings no promise, the autumn no decline; 
they are cut off from the sweetest of all ties 
with their kind — sympathy. They have no 
hopes in common, but stand apart — very em- 
blems for the fortunate and worldly man, 
whose harsh temper has been unsoftened by par- 
ticipating in general suffering, existing alone 
in his unshared and sullen prosperity. I will 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



215 



have no evergreens in my garden ; when the 
inevitable winter comes, every beloved plant 
and favourite tree shall drop together — no so- 
litary fir left to triumph over the companion- 
ship of decay. 

Far as the boundaries of the forest spread 
v:\ either side, it yet lay just below the heath ; 
a few more windings of the little path brought 
them directly into one of its glades. The 
first indication was a change of the perfumed 
air; the furze blossom was merged in the de- 
licious breath of the may, now in full bloom 
— the most aromatic of English flowers. The 
extreme stillness, relieved rather than inter- 
rupted by the bees plying their sounding 
wings, existed no longer. Every branch was 
musical with birds, whose perpetual chirpings 
served as chorus to the rich and prolonged ca- 
dences of the black-bird ; while the least stir, 
not of their own making, filled the air with 
fluttering pinions, which let in a shower of 
sunshine through the leaves. 

One characteristic of the New Forest is its 
freedom from underwood ; hence the height 
of the stately trees is undiminished, and the 
sweep of the open place unbroken. Archi- 
tecture, the first of sciences, took in our 
northern world, its earlier lessons in the fo- 
rest — the Gothic aisle and arch were found 
amid the beach and oak. The foliage was in 
the utmost variety of expanded spring; the 
leaves of the beach, though destined to a deep- 
er shade, wore already their polished green; 
but the oak had yet put forth little more than 
those pale primrose-tinted buds, the first pro- 
mise of its future spreading shade. Here and 
there a shining holly reared its fairy ' ; clump 
of spears," and round many a leafless trunk 
the slender English ivy twined its graceful 
wreaths in such profusion as to mimic the tree 
on whose life it had fed. But the beauty of 
the glades was the hawthorn, in full luxu- 
riance. The slightest motion brought down 
a shower of white blossoms, and the sweet 
air grew yet sweeter as the brothers approached 
the more sequestered parts. The deer gazed 
on them for a moment with their large, tremu- 
lous eyes, and then bounded off, gradually 
slackening their graceful speed when a tree or 
a growth of fern served as a barrier; while 
here and there a pair of antlers were tossed 
up, glancing like ivory in the sun. 

" Every thing here is the very same as the 
morning I went away," said Robert Evelyn ; 
" but, good heavens, the change in the country 
around ! The house deserted, the field uncul- 
tivated, the peasant starting with a look of 
fear at the sound of your horse's hoofs, have 
little, in common, with the England which I 
left. But here I feel at home again ; I could 
almost dream that not a flower had faded, and 
not a leaf fallen these three years." 

" Now," returned Francis, "begin to mo- 
ralize according to your mood. Rob Cowley 
of some quaint phrase touching the mutability 
of man, and the immutability of nature. But 
here, where these old oaks look too respecta- 
ble to enact the part of evesdroppers, I shall 
nther say. Out on the fanatic knaves that 



brought the country to this pass, with their 
seeing of visions, and dreaming of dreams ! 
_By the eyes of our beautiful queen, I hate to 
look on their serge cloaks and close-cropped 
browns." 

" And yet, methinks," answered the other, 
" I could as ill have brooked the hypocrisy 
and the oppression, more delicately clad in 
cloth of silver and embroidery of gold." 

" Why, one would suppose you thought 
my father was listening," interrupted his 
brother. "Loyalty may well be an old song 
in England, when a young cavalier like your- 
self wears a sheathed rapier and a grave brow, 
and talk sagely of oppression !" 

" I have lived long enough in Italy to loathe 
the tyranny of old prescription. What, there, 
is the result of the exclusive privilege of one 
class, and the hereditary bondage of another, 
and the ignorance of both — what but cruelty, 
indolence, and debasing superstition 1 I 
stayed at Venice, and even in that gay city 
my blood ran cold to retrace the crime and 
craft which are the staple of her annals. And 
yet her people were once free and bold, win- 
ning adventurous wealth from the sea, which 
they mastered. Now, to what a state of crip- 
pled slavery are they reduced ! and by what, 
but the depression of a gradual and secret de- 
spotism % Ah ! my brother, we do well to 
watch our birthright jealously; the least in- 
vasion on the meanest peasant, the slightest 
encroachment of the powerful, are not matters 
to he neglected — such are the first steps of 
tyranny. Wo betide the people who allow 
such invasion on their freedom to gain courage 
from endurance, or strength from time !" 

" Out, out upon this oration, or homily I 
should rather call it, to suit the spirit of the 
time ! I have heard too much of the bless- 
ings of liberty not to hate their very name. 
I own to you I cannot force myself to care for 
the fancied rights of low-born churls whom I 
despise. Mankind have, from all antiquity, 
been divided into two classes — the ruling and 
the ruled ; why should we attempt to set all 
experience at defiance] I see no cause for 
reversing the good old plan, provided I can 
manage to be one of the rulers. I will leave 
you a few noble sentiments (I hope you like 
the phrase) for our worthy father's especial 
service ; but trust your practice will suit more 
with my own." % 

" I should, if you please, rather prefer my 
practice and my theory going together." 

" Mere matter of taste. But surely I know 
that solid iron-gray horse, and its still more 
solid rider, Major Johnstone! take his enter- 
tainment on yourself." 

" Nay !" exclaimed Robert, detaining him; 
11 it will not task your courtesy much, for we 
can leave him in a few minutes — and I have 
so much to say to you." 

" Why, to tell the truth," resumed Francis, 
"I have my own reasons for wishing to avoid 
an encounter with yonder sullen fanatic. As 
ill luck would have it, I was with Goring's 
dracroons the night his house was burnt. Do 
not look so reproachfully ; we did but entef 



216 



MISS LANJjON'S WORKS 



his hall for Cue joke of forcing the old Pres- 
byterian into hospitality, when his refusal to 
drink the king's health led to high words, 
and thence to hard blows. I did not draw 
till Edward Stukeley was killed by my side. 
I then cut down his opponent, who was John- 
stone's only son — I myself received a wound" 
— pointing to a slight scar on the temple — 
-• i from his father. We were then separated ; 
but I hear he vows eternal vengeance against 
me. Now I care for his threats as little as I 
care for his anger; but, come down, as I am, 
on my good behaviour, a broil is the last thing 
in the world that I desire — so I shall judi- 
ciously retreat. W T e shall meet again, if you 
will go home, whither I shall direct my 
steps." 

So saying, he turned into a narrow path, 
and soon left the stern horseman and his bro- 
ther far behind. 

Suddenly the way terminated in a little 
lonely glade, through which a small clear 
brook ran with a sweet low song, a perpetual 
and musical murmur, as the waves rippled 
over the white and blue pebbles which lay 
glittering below. On either side spread the 
moss thick and soft, and starred with a thou- 
sand coloured particles, red, gold, and purple, 
Nature's own delicate broidery. There was 
nothing of that luxuriance of blossom which 
had hitherto clothe'd the wood, for there were 
no hawthorns ; but the bog-myrtle imparted 
its tender fragrance, and the caressing honey- 
suckle wound round many an ancient trunk, 
odours exhaling from every fairy-like tube — 
fit trumpets for the heralds of Titania. 

Bending down beside the brook, from 
whose bank she was gathering the moss, the 
slender outline of her form mirrored darkly 
on the stream, was a girl, lovely enough even 
for the lovely scene around. The gray stuff 
dress, the white cap, whose border was drawn 
close round the face, were such as a peasant 
would wear ; but there was about her not only 
that grace which nature and beauty give, but 
that softness and refinement which belong, if 
not to gentle blood, yet to gentle breeding. 
The pure white of her skin had known no 
exposure to the Aveather, and the fair and deli- 
cate hands had obviously known no ruder 
task than their present employment. She did 
not look above eighteen, and yet the first 
bloom of youth was past; it was the com- 
plexion to which colour would naturally be- 
long, and yet her cheek was pale, and the 
deep blue eyes had an expression of melan- 
■ choly, fixed, but still not seeming to be their 
native expression. 

Francis gazed for a moment on the exqui- 
site profile, which was all he could see, and 
hesitated; it was an interview he had half 
resolved not to seek — but Lucy Aylmer looked 
more lovely than ever ; and he sprang across 
the brook. 

" Are you gathering moss for the linnet's 
cage ?" asked he, aware that the bird had 
been his own gift. 

Lucy started from her bending attitude — a 
flush of beautiful delight upon her face. In a 



moment the most beloved voice went to hei 
heart, her head sunk on his shoulder; and 
for a few minutes she had no thought, no 
feeling, but the intense happiness of seeing 
him again. Could he, could any one, be in- 
sensible to tenderness so guileless and yet so 
deep 1 Perhaps, too, the very consciousness 
of how little it w T as deserved, quickened affec- 
tion with remorse ; and at that instant Francis 
felt the love which had been weakened by 
absence, and forgotten in change, spring up 
again with all the fervour of a new impulse. 

Lucy Aylmer was the only child of a fa- 
vourite attendant of Lady Evelyn's, and left 
an orphan when but three years' old. Lady 
Evelyn had always wished for a daughter, 
and she adopted as her own the beautiful 
little girl, whose docility and affection more 
than repaid the debt of gratitude for what, 
alas ! was not kindness. Poor Lucy was 
only accustomed, not elevated to another 
sphere. Refinement of feeling belongs equally 
to every station, but refinement of taste must 
be matter of education. Every year, when 
she went to pay her annual visit to her father 
and grandmother, she found more and more 
how wide was the gulf between them. They 
had not a habit or an idea in common ; their 
pleasures were not her pleasures, and their 
hopes were not her hopes. 

But it was not till Francis Evelyn came 
home that she felt the full wretchedness of 
her position. Robert, brought up under the 
same roof, was, as a brother, associated in 
her mind only with the pains and pleasures 
of childhood. Not so the young and hand- 
some cavalier, who had for two years entirely 
resided with a distant relative who died, be- 
queathing to him the wreck of a once princely 
fortune. Sir Robert bitterly reproached him- 
self for having consigned his child to another, 
when he saw the effect of too early initiation 
into profligacy, or, as Francis called it, know 
ledge of the world. 

Frankness and confidence belong to youth ; 
and where experience comes too soon, it 
brings but half knowledge. The conviction 
of much evil in the heart should be learned at 
a later period, when we shall be aware also 
of much good. The worldly wisdom of the 
young is always of a harsh and bitter nature, 
making no allowance, and forgiving nothing — 
ever ready to attribute the ill motive, and 
holding suspicion to be penetration. More- 
over, he was pained to perceive that the youth 
had no higher rule of action than worldly ho 
nour — honour which makes so many excep- 
tions in favour of its pleasures. Principle 
was in his eyes but prejudice — and where he 
could not reason the right way, he ridiculed it. 

Still he was so handsome, so graceful, so 
lively, that Sir Robert, making more excuses 
than he could well justify to himself, believed 
in the improvement he wished, and hoped 
every thing from the future. 

And what was the impression produced on 
the innocent Lucy ] — only that Francis Evelyn 
was the realization of those dreams which had 
of late cast a deeper tenderness over the pagft 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



217 



ef the poet, and given a keener interest to the 
creation of the romance. Her creed of love 
was taken from Sir Philip Sidney's "Arca- 
dia," and its real life grew out of the gentle 
tenderness native to her naturally melancholy 
temper — the result, perhaps, of a very solitary 
existence, and of health uncertain, if not posi- 
tively weak. 

Francis at first sought only amusement, 
and made love to her as he would to any other 
pretty girl, for he belonged to a school who 
considered gallantry as something between a 
relaxation and a science. It was, however, 
impossible for his feelings not to become in- 
terested — something of the truth and poetry 
of her nature communicated themselves to his 
own. Not that he was prepared to make one 
sacrifice for her sake, but then she expected 
none; her presence was a delight, and he left, 
the future to chance. And Lucy, she, too, was 
happy ; she hoped for nothing — she wished 
for nothing. To see him every day, to listen 
to him, to dwell with trembling joy on the 
slightest instance of preference, was enough 
to rill up the circle of her charmed existence. 

But Lady Evelyn soon penetrated into her 
heart, and with a sorrow allied to anger. Alas 
for the weakness of human pride ! Lady Eve- 
lyn was a jusr, ay, and a kind woman ; yet 
she would sooner have seen the lovely and 
gentle creature — who had grown up at her 
knees, whose watchful love had been for years 
the daily solace of a life broken by sickness 
— in the grave, than the bride of her son. She 
spoke to her, and harshly, while Lucy only 
wept, and felt the most guilty thing in the 
wide world. From that hour, love to the one 
seemed ingratitude to the other; the disparity 
of their conditions haunted her perpetually. 
She was wretched and restless when Francis 
was away, but still more wretched when with 
him; for the thought of his mother haunted 
her with all the bitterness of remorse. 

Francis was enraged at the interference, 
and opposition made him more in earnest; but 
just at this time, the civil war, which had 
hitherto left their part of the country compa- 
ratively quiet, arose with great virulence in 
their immediate vicinity. Early friends, and 
the superior gayety of their camp, soon led the 
younger Evelyn to join the royalists; and the 
burning of Major Johnstone's house compelled 
him to leave the neighbourhood. Perhaps, as 
bitter medicines strengthened the weakened 
system, it would have given force to Lucy's 
efforts at resignation could she have known 
how seldom did her image arise in her lover's 
memory. His indifference was the only sor- 
row which her anxious fancy never conjured 
ap. She felt more for what she believed must 
be his regret than for her own. 

Lady Evelyn's death led to her leaving the 
hall for a home more than ever distasteful; 
true, she was independent, even rich, for her 
station; but for it she was utterly unfit. She 
was too gentle, too unselfish, not to be be- 
loved ; and though her father sometimes wish- 
ed that she w r ere more active, and her grand- 
mother that she were less sad, still they were 

Vol. I.— 28 



both proud and fond of her. They coon would 
have sorely missed the fairy hand whose birds 
and flowers gave a new cheerfulness to the 
house, and the sweet voice ever ready to sing 
their favourite old songs, or to read the sacred 
page, which, to use the poor old woman's 
words, " she did like an angel." But for her- 
self the hope of life was gone. Every hour 
that she could, she passed in solitude, dreary, 
unoccupied, mournful solitude; — what won- 
der was it that the colour left a cheek so often 
washed with tears 1 

But the crimson just now was radiant 
enough. Recovering from the first almost 
shock of delight, she clasped her hands in 
mute thankfulness to heaven. She, whose 
timid eyes drooped at his least look, now 
gazed on his countenance as if she feared to 
lose that most beloved face, nor did she turn 
for one moment away. Scarcely could she 
believe in the reality. 

" You are lovelier than ever, my Lucy," 
said Francis. 

He was about to have added, that he had 
come forth on purpose to seek her, but the 
flattering falsehood died on his lips — for his 
life he could not, at that moment, have deceived 
her even in a trifle. 

"Ah, Francis! your mother!" exclaimed 
she, turning pale ; " I must leave you." 

This was easy to say ; but where the heart 
is reluctant, the steps linger. . What needs it 
to repeat that gentle discourse which all can 
either imagine or remember 1 Their inter- 
view was, however, brief; for Francis was 
little desirous of a discovery, and he knew he 
was expected by both father and brother. It 
was long before Lucy left that little lonely 
dell ; and when she did, it was with a sensa- 
tion of passionate happiness beating at her 
heart which no fear for the future, no con- 
sciousness of disparity, could restrain. Ah, 
how little suffices to make earth a paradise in 
the young and eager eyes of eaily and unsus- 
picious love ! 

Francis was met by his brother just at the 
entrance of the wood; for Robert was too full 
of enjoyment in visiting all his early haunts 
not to desire a companion who would, at least, 
listen to the buoyant overflow of pleasant re- 
membrances. 

"Whenever the scene of a narrative changes, 
it has been a custom, venerable from its anti- 
quity, to leave the hero in some danger or 
dilemma. With all our respect for good old 
rules, we must here reverse the practice, and 
leave ours both in content and security, while 
we return to Italy and Francesca, whom we 
left to that drear absence whose passive lone- 
liness is ever the lot ofwon^w 



CHAPTER VI. 

"Get rich— honestly, if you can -but, at any rate, ?et 
rich." — Useful Advice. 

"Oh! Francesca, such news !" exclaimed 
Marie Mancini, bounding into the old hall 



218 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



and followed, though at a slower pace, by her 
sister; "come, put aside your embroidery, 
and congratulate us. My father's scruples 
have yielded to my uncle's wishes, nay, com- 
mands, and we depart at once for France." 

"Alas!" replied Francesca, "you can 
scarce expect me to rejoice over an event 
which will part us so utterly !" 

" Not so," interrupted the gentle voice of 
Henrietta; "you must join us; the Cardinal's 
letters are full of kindness — he seems anxious 
to indulge our least wishes — surely he will 
not deny us our earliest and dearest friend. 
Think, too, what his patronage may effect for 
Guido!" 

" And what the young nobles of France 
may say to your dark eyes !" added Marie. 

" Is it true," said Guido, who had just en- 
tered, "that you are about to leave Italy — 
and us ?" 

" Yes," answered Marie, " we are like the 
knights of old, about to go forth and con- 
quer." 

She paused, for she felt rebuked by the 
earnest and melancholy gaze of the young 
sculptor. Marie loved him as much as it was 
in her nature to love — more than she suspect- 
ed herself. It was with a flushed cheek and 
glittering eye that she let him draw her 
towards the window, while she listened to a 
passion pleaded with all the fervour of the 
south, and made beautiful by an imagination 
which turned all it touched to poetry. True 
it is that the innate buoyancy of the as yet un- 
broken spirit, soon rebounds from the pressure 
of sorrow; nevertheless, it is in youth that 
sorrow is most keenly felt. Time, of which 
so little has been measured, seems so very 
long — we soon learn the worldly lesson, that 
friends are easily replaced, and still more 
easily forgotten. We become accustomed to 
change — we grow hardened to regret — and in 
after-years look back with surprise, nay, even 
disdain, at the poignant grief with which we 
first parted from our early companions. We 
never again form those open, eager, and con- 
fiding attachments. 

It was late in the autumn when the Man- 
cinis departed; and drearily did the ensuing 
months pass with Francesca and Guido. The 
season, too, added its gloom. In our northern 
climes we have comfort and even gayety with 
winter; there the cheerful fireside and the 
hospitality of Christmas make that period a 
sort of rallying point for the year. But where 
summer forms so large a portion of the enjoy- 
ment of the people — where all the habits are 
those of a warm climate — where all ordinary 
avocations of life are carried on in the open 
air, a long and severe winter is tedious indeed. 
The first letter they received was from Marie; 
their next was from Henrietta, w 7 ho earnestly 
advised their coming to Paris. This was ren- 
dered impossible by the fixed attachment of 
their grandfather to his present residence, 
whose habits of seclusion were become more 
engrossing than ever. 

"I sometimes believe," said Guido, as one 
cold, raw evening they sat beside the hearth, 



illumined by the red glare of the burning 
pine boughs, " that the thing we call happi- 
ness, exists not. Its desire is implanted in 
our hearts, its promise dazzles our eyes ; but 
its reality is unknown. I look back to each 
moment I have experienced of enjoyment — 
how was it ever mingled with fever and with 
fear ! I remember hearing, that in the east 
the clear and azure waters seem to flow before 
the weary and parched traveller ; yet a little 
further, and on he urges his weary w T ay, but 
in vain — the fair stream is a delusion. Even 
thus happiness is the mirage which leads us 
over the desert of life, ever fated to end in 
deceit and disappointment. Young, beautiful, 
and innocent, are you happy, Francesca"?" 

She turned her face towards him, silently 
— it was glittering with tears. 

" And what is it that you want ] Wealth !" 
continued the youth; "had I possessed but a 
portion of my house's heritage, I should not 
be forced to picture to myself Marie but as 
surrounded by the gay flatterers of a foreign 
court. And you, Francesca — need you have 
feared the English noble's denial, could the 
bride have brought gold instead of a true and 
loving heart]" 

"You are right!" exclaimed the aged 
Carrara, who had, unperceived, been a wit- 
ness to their discourse ; " gold is the earthly 
deity, to whom is entrusted the destinies of 
humanity. It is pow r er, it is pleasure, it is 
love ; for even affection may be bought by 
gratitude. What can a king give to his bravest 
but w T ealth 1 How can the lover surround the 
loved with the lovely but with wealth 1 Nay, 
will it not," added he, with a scarce percepti- 
ble sneer, " buy even salvation from our holy 
church? There is only one thing on earth 
more glorious, and that is science ; science, 
which can master the subtle spirit, and force it 
to enter even the most worthless substances. 
It is now before me ; the toil of a life is near 
its completion ; how mightily will one moment 
repay the vigils of years ! Ay, my children, 
be wild, be uncurbed in your wishes; little 
dream ye how near you are to their fulfil- 
ment !" 

The old man's pale face gleamed with ex- 
citement, his wan cheek was flushed, his eyes 
kindled with fire, and his step was buoyant, 
like that of youth, as he ascended the winding 
staircase which led to his solitary tower. The 
young are easily carried away by whatevei 
appeals to their imagination ; and the cousins 
now began to build golden and aerial castles, 
with a vivacity the reaction of their previous 
despondency. 

" Holy mother ! what is that?" ejaculated 
Francesca, as an explosion, like a clap of 
thunder bursting directly over the palace, 
shook the very ground beneath their feet. 
Both sprang to the door; but the night, 
though cold, was clear, the moon shone large 
and bright in the deep blue sky ; and all again 
was profound silence, w r hen Guido ex- 
claimed — 

" Surely that is a mostunusuil light from 
the turret '" 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



219 



The windows of the tower w T ere illuminated 
with a sudden blaze, where usually glimmer- 
ed but one solitary spark. Both rushed to- 
wards the staircase, down which, like waves, 
rolled the eddying smoke ; fortunately, there 
were large gaps in the dilapidated walls, or 
they never could have made their way. The 
last flight of steps was lighted from the open 
door which the shock had forced from its 
hinges. A large clear flame, but evidently 
subsiding, arose on the hearth; various ves- 
sels and instruments, mostly broken, were 
scattered round ; and thrown, with his face on 
the floor, lay their grandfather. Guido caught 
him up in his arms, and bore him to the lower 
chamber, where the noise had assembled their 
two servants. The features still wore their 
expression of eagerness and triumph — but set 
and rigid, for life had departed from them 
forever. 

The danger of the palace was too imminent 
for neglect; and leaving the body, beside 
which Francesca was kneeling, Guido again 
ascended the steps of the tower; but the 
smoke had nearly dispersed, the blaze on the 
hearth was flickering and faint, while the pale 
moonlight shone quietly into that room of 
disappointment and death, as it had a thou- 
sand times shone on its lonely and deluding 
pursuits. Again he descended ; and the same 
reddening pine-boughs that had lit his own 
and Francesca's countenance, in all the ani- 
mation of their late discourse, now lighted the 
ghastly features of the dead. 



CHAPTER VII. 



1 The future, that sweet world which is hope's own, 
Lay fair before." — Anon. 



France now became the land of promise to 
the Carraras ; their -youthful connexion with 
the nieces of Cardinal Mazarin might have 
encouraged the most ambitious hopes ; but 
they knew too little of the world to be world- 
ly ; Guido dwelt only on the thought that he 
should again see Marie Mancini ; and Fran- 
cesca remembered that it was so much nearer 
England. Her expectations were, however, 
of a more subdued kind — the very depth of a 
woman's affection casts its own shadow, and 
love and fear are with her twin-born. With a 
natural sensitiveness, she exaggerated dangers, 
and with natural timidity mistrusted the ef- 
fects of absence. Months had passed awa} 1- , 
and she had heard nothing of Evelyn. 'Alas ! 
how many old stories had she been told of 
change and falsehood ! But her spirit was 
firm as gentle. She had been, from childhood, 
less her grandfather's favourite than her cousin, 
and from the very earliest age, all the house- 
hold cares had fallen to her share. Thus, 
habits of thought and activity were forced 
upon her; she soon acquired that self-reliance, 
which exertion ever brings ; and at the age of 



seventeen she united a sweet seriousness, a 
mild energy, with all the guileless simplicity 
of youth. 

Impassioned and imaginative, living in an 
ideal world, little broken in upon by the smaL 
sacrifices of daily life, Guido was far less 
fitted for the ordinary struggle of existence; 
he possessed genius in the highest sense of 
the word — inherent, spiritual, and creative. 
In hand, heart, and mind, he was alike a poet. 
But, alas ! those who are heirs of the future, 
destined to fill the earth with the immortal 
and the beautiful, what is their share in the 
present ] the sad and the weary path — the 
bowed-down and broken heart ! Look at the 
golden list of the few who have left behind 
them the bright picture, the godlike statue, 
the inspired scroll, to whom we yet owe — ay, 
and now pay our debt of gratitude — what was 
each life but a long and terrible sacrifice to 
futurity ] But the young look to the goal, not 
to the road ; and well it is for them so to do : 
they would never reach it but for such onward 
gaze. 

Their few arrangements were soon made, 
hastened by. a letter from Henriette, now Du- 
chesse de Mercosur ; and they found them- 
selves in possession of a degree of wealth, 
which, however moderate, was sufficient to 
preclude any thing like dependence. It was 
a bright morning when they embarked at the 
port of Leghorn. The blue sea spread far 
away, till lost, as it w T ere, in light; the shore 
lay glittering behind, and the sunshine seem- 
ed to fall like a blessing around. The buoyant 
atmosphere gives its own lightness to the 
spirits ; and our young voyagers felt as if the 
beautiful day were the augury of the future. 

Yet, at that very time, the power of their 
expected patron seemed on the verge of final 
overthrow. Cardinal Mazarin had, for the 
second time, been forced into exile by the 
Fronde, and Paris was in a state of equal con- 
fusion and excitement — excitement, that pecu- 
liarly Parisian word. The disturbances had 
commenced, like those of England, in the re 
fusal of the parliament to sanction an obnox- 
ious tax; but here all resemblance ended. 
The position of the two countries was, indeed, 
entirely opposite. In the English parliament 
the tax was refused on great and general prin- 
ciples ; in the French, in consequence of its 
immediate pressure and hardship. In France 
the parliament soon became a mere engine in 
the hands of a few high-born and ambitious 
men, who had nothing in common with its 
interests, which were those of the people. 
In England the House of Commons was a 
powerful body, sufficing to itself, and whose 
members had. common cause in the privileges 
for which they contended. The truth is, our 
island had far preceded her Gallic neighboui 
in knowledge and liberality. The great body 
of Englishmen were far better educated than 
their compeers on the other side of the chan- 
nel. The reformation had thrown open the 
rich extent of classic literature ; the age had 
been fertile in those great men who give their 
own impetus to the national mind ; and habits 



220 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



of religious led also to political discussion. 
Moreover, one greatest advantage in all ques- 
tions of government, the spring of action was 
no vain love of change, but a just desire of 
confirming olden privileges. The claimants 
went back upon what they believed to be their 
rights. Perhaps a more able and intelligent 
body of men were never collected together — 
strong in conviction and ability — than that 
which presented the memorable petition of 
rights. 

But that hope is the most enduring of mor- 
tal feelings ; what profound discouragement 
would it throw on the noblest and most pro- 
mising efforts of humanity, to think that men 
so intellectual and so upright could be sway- 
ed, in the long run, by the thirst of dominion ; 
and, carried away from all sober sense by the 
wildest and most fanatic enthusiasm, that a 
spirit of fierce and narrow religious persecu- 
tion should be one of the chief legacies which 
they bequeathed to posterity ! 

But neither with the just sense of right with 
which our struggle was commenced, nor with 
the mad fanaticism with which it continued, 
had the division of the Fronde any thing in 
common. The parliament refused to register 
the royal edict because the tax was a present 
grievance, a hardship immediately felt. But 
they had not that only material for resistance 
— a strong and rising middle class — a class 
whose prosperity must ever grow out of com- 
merce. Their opposition became armed re- 
bellion, because upheld and stimulated by 
those to whom they gave all they wanted — a 
sanction and a name. 

The wars of La Fronde were in reality the 
struggle of Cardinal de Retz for the post of 
Cardinal Mazarin. The coadjutor — for so he 
was then entitled — was the extraordinary man 
of his time. Disliking the clerical profession, 
which his family obliged him to adopt, he 
was as unprincipled as those necessarily must 
be upon whom hypocrisy is forced. It is dif- 
ficult to imagine a more thoroughly bad per- 
son. Profligate, selfish, false, and profane, 
his moral character had but one excuse — that 
of circumstance. His hypocrisy was matter 
of necessity, and his faults were those of his 
day; but his talents — perhaps the surest 
mark of talents — were eminently suited to the 
times which called them forth. Ready-witted, 
he had a resource for every emergency ; and 
whatever was his purpose, he perceived in- 
tuitively the best methods of effecting it. He 
was both eloquent and persuasive, and few 
men ever better understood the delicate science 
of flattery. A temper originally violent was 
kspt under by the strong curb of interest; 
though what it naturally was when uncheck- 
ed by the all-potent fear — that of consequences 
— may be inferred by an anecdote. 

The Princess de Guimenee deserted Paris 
on the first breaking out of the disturbances. 
])e Retz's connexion with her had been of 
long continuance; her timidity savoured, 
therefore, of treachery. On her return, he 
himself states, " I was so transported with 
rage, that I caught her by the throat !" 



What must have been his self-control, 
when, amid all the thwarting and vexatious 
affairs by which he was surrounded, in scarce 
a single instance did passion hurry him be- 
yond the bounds of prudence ! La Fronde 
was equally of his fomenting and his continu- 
ing. With the parliament for his pretext, 
and some prince of the blood for his puppet, 
he twice drove his rival into exile, governed 
a violent party, and made his way to power 
by the sole force of his own genius. 

Nothing more sensibly shows the> venera- 
tion and the obedience of the French 'for the 
royal authority, than that a foreigner, obnox- 
ious to all ranks, and mediocre in talent, was 
supported by it against all opposition. Well 
might De Retz exclaim, " Give me but the 
king on my side for a single day !" Another 
striking difference between the two countries 
was the nullity of female influence in the one, 
and its extreme importance in the other. True 
that, in London, a brewer's wife headed a god- 
ly company of her sex, and presented a peti- 
tion against popery, and that Mr. Pym com- 
mended their anxiety, and voted them the 
thanks of the house. True, also, that in Scot- 
land the old women showed much activity in 
pelting the ungodly with the stools whereon 
they sat at meeting. But these absurdities 
were of no real consequence. In France the 
dames of La Fronde were equal^ active with 
its cavaliers; every intrigue passed through 
their hands, and the Duchesse de Longue- 
ville's part in the drama, was quite as effective 
as that of the Prince of Conde, her brother. 
The results of this feminine interference were 
inevitable — vacillation, absurdity, and profli- 
gacy. The northern and southern hemi- 
spheres are not more divided than those allot- 
ted to man and woman — public and private 
life. 

There is no period of history which records 
the authority of the gentler sex without also 
recording its injurious effects. Leaving out 
the darker shades of the picture, are not im- 
pulse and sentiment the two mainsprings of 
all female action 1 and can ought be more mis- 
chievous in matters of politics or business ] 
A king, the history of whose youth is that of 
a few insipid flirtations — a queen, weak, bigot- 
ed, and obstinate — a court rent by petty fac- 
tions — a detested minister — a capital in a 
state of insurrection, and suffering both from 
inundation and famine ; — such was the coun- 
try, and such the state of affairs, where on: 
young Italians expected to find all the rain- 
bow dreamings of youth and hope realized. 
Something of this, however, they heard in the 
progress of their voyage, during which their 
principal companion was a little French 
painter called Bournonville. 

If self-content form happiness, Corregio 
Bournonville was the happiest of men. Per- 
fectly convinced that miniature-painting was 
the most important pursuit in life, he was 
equally pursuaded that he was the finest minia- 
ture painter in the world; Character, he had 
none ; for he was simple as a child — expe- 
rience taught him nothing, being one of those 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



221 



l.i whom the faculty of comprehension is ut- 
terly wanting. His only remaining- charac- 
teristic was an extravagant deference to rank, 
mingled, too, with an odd sort of patronage. 
"I to whom the court will owe its immorta- 
lity !" was with him a common phrase. For 
hours he would dilate, with an enthusiasm 
only broken in upon by emotion, how he had 
relieved the monotony of colouring in Anne 
of Austria's picture (taken during the second 
year of her widowhood, when she wore a suit 
of entire gray silk) by painting her as Juno, 
and introducing a peacock. He was touched 
even to tears when he mentioned that her ma- 
jesty graciously condescended to resume the 
use of powder for that occasion expressly, she 
not having worn it since the death of the king. 
" Yes, her grace had her hair frizzed and 
powdered entirely on my account!" Neither 
was he less animated in describing the young 
monarch whom he had represented as Jupiter, 
dressed in purple velvet broidered in gold, 
a flaxen periwig floating over his shoulders, 
an eagle by his side, and a thunderbolt in his 
hand. 

Guido's ideas of these personifications were 
somewhat at variance with Monsieur Corre- 
gio Bournonville's ; but, naturally shy and 
silent, he was little ^inclined to dispute the 
point; and long before the voyage was over, 
they were the best possible friends. The ig- 
norance of the young Italians was their best 
recommendation ; it gave the Frenchman an 
agreeable feeling of superiority, and, by a 
very ordinary process, he liked them because 
he was useful to them. Thus, when on their 
arrival in France, they found that Mazarin 
had a second time been forced into exile by 
the Fronde, he insisted on their making his 
house at least their temporary home. Dreary, 
indeed, was their journey to Paris; want and 
desolation appalled them on every side. In 
addition to the distress occasioned by intes- 
tine troubles, the severity of the season, and 
the scarcity of provisions, the Seine had re- 
cently overflowed its banks, and the horrors 
of inundation were added to those of war and 
famine. Groups of shivering wretches sat by 
the road side, and more than one unburied 
corpse show r ed what inroads distress had made 
on humanity. So strongly is sympathy with 
the dead implanted in our nature, that when 
those last sad offices of affection and decency 
are neglected, life indeed is in its last despair. 

It was mid-day when they arrived in Paris ; 
and though Bournonville's house was near the 
Barrier de Sergens, they saw enough to show 
them what excitement prevailed through the 
city. Groups of citizens (armed apparently 
with the heirlooms of the wars of the league, 
so heavy were some of the two-handled 
swords, and so antiquated were the long and 
lumbering pikes) were scattered round ; and 
if they were to be as violent in action as they 
were in gesture and discourse, the future 
might well be matter of apprehension. But 
Bournonville, who had witnessed the day of 
the barricades in the first La Fronde, looked 
on with great composure. " They will dis- 



perse," said he, " about four o' Jock ; no. 
bans bourgeois ne s'en desheurcrant jamais 
They must go home to their soup, coute qui 
coute." 

A shrill sound of childish voices rose upon 
the air; and whether from the folly or the 
carelessness of their parents, some of the cla- 
mourers actually carried daggers ; and what 
appeared to them a holydajr, had its enjoyment 
increased by a sort of self-importance. Last 
of all, crying " Point de Mazarin."'' with the 
whole power of his voice, and dragging after 
hirn a huge spear, whose weight greatly im- 
peded his progress, came a boy of some five 
or six years old. Alas ! the young patriot 
was soon taught a wholesome lesson of sub- 
mission to the powers that be ; for, from a cor- 
ner house out came his mother, a slight, ac- 
tive, viragoish-looking woman. She seized 
the juvenile Gracchus, with a sharp question 
of "Petit vaurien ! what do you do in the 
streets ?-" and having duly enforced her words 
with a box on the ear, dragged the child 
home, still tenaciously clinging to his spear. 

The travellers were welcomed to Bournon- 
ville's house by the gouvernante Madelon, a 
bustling, good-natured Normande, whose py- 
ramidal white cap and large gold ear-rings 
were the delight of her heart; next came the 
house, and after that her master; — all objects 
of a most deep and unfeigned attachment. 

Bournonville's first step was to ask Made- 
lon a few questions, and then hurry to his 
painting room. "Every thing has changed 
since I left, and I must change every thing 
too. The beauties of La Fronde will soon 
ask of me chains for posterity, and they must 
not encounter their rivals." 

The first objects that caught the Italians' 
attention were portraits of Henriette and Ma- 
rie Mancini. 

" How T she is improved !" exclaimed Guido, 
gazing on the face of the last. 

Francesca almost unconsciously asked her- 
self how much of this improvement might be 
owing to the courtly flattery of the painter. 

Bournonville allowed them no time for re- 
mark. Hastily he turned their faces to the 
wall, and placed before them two others — one 
whose large melancholy blue eyes and lan- 
guid fairness bespoke the Duchess de Longue- 
ville, while the other had the perfect features 
and dark oriental orbs of Mademoiselle de 
Ohevreuse. These two heroines of La Fronde 
being placed in the most conspicuous lights, 
the artist proceeded to other arrangements. 

" The king may remain," muttered he, 
brushing the dust from the periwig of the 
royal Jupiter; " the queen is just as well in 
the shade— this sketch of Mademoiselle will 
partially hide her. Now, a few nobodies and 
messieurs of La Fronde may come as soon as 
they please. And so, my children, for some 
dinner !" 

And the man who had just been engaged 
in the most time-serving neglect of former 
and a most cringing anticipation of new pa 
trons, became forthwith the kind and hospita 
ble host of strangers who had no claim up 
t2 



222 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



him beyond their own isolated situation. Con- 
sistency is a human word, but it certainly ex- 
presses nothing human. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

" "lis he— what doth he here ?"— Lara. 

The following- evening, Bournonville and 
his guest were seated round the large old- 
fashioned hearth, whose wooden chimney- 
piece represented the death of St. Louis, rude- 
ly carved in the same material, and once 
painted white, now brown with smoke and 
time. Madelon sat in the corner with her 
eyes closed ; but her hands moved, as if tell- 
ing her large oaken beads were a mechanical 
effort. Guido and Francesca were in atti- 
tudes at least of attention, though the thoughts 
of each were far away; and the painter was 
dilating on the fair beauty of Mademoiselle de 
Longueville, and the dark beauty of Made- 
moiselle de Chevreuse, at both of whose 
portraits he had been assiduously employed 
during the day. Henriette and Marie de 
Mancini, his former inexhaustible themes, 
seemed to have entirely escaped his memory. 

Suddenly the whole party were alarmed by 
a violent knocking at the door. The sound 
of armed men with their heavy footsteps and 
clanging swords, mingled with oath and threat, 
were distinctly heard ; and the bolt was 
scarcely withdrawn, before in rushed a party 
of about twenty, who appeared both prepared 
and determined to take possession of the 
place. Guido drew the slight rapier that 
hung by his side ; but his guard was instantly 
beaten down by the leader of the band, who, 
however, in so doing, dropped the cloak from 
his face. 

" M. D'Argenteuil !" exclaimed Bournon- 
ville, " surely this is not the respect you show 
to the fine arts. Even during the ferocious 
siege of Rhodes, Demetrius honoured the 
house of Protogenes the painter. Will you, 
a Christian and a gentleman, allow yourself 
to be outdone in courtesy by a heathen !" 

D'Argenteuil laughed. " Not so, my prince 
of colours. I knew npt of your return; and 
this house commands the barrier which we 
have some reason to expect will be attacked 
to-night. Most of my men will disperse as 
sentinels ; and you must find room by your 
fireside for myself and a friend or so." 

Bournonville was profuse in politeness and 
protestations. " I have yet left a flask or two 
of fine old Burgundy; and I think I know 
what fair saint will best honour the health," 
added he, with a most insinuating smile. 

But in the mean time a far different scene 
had been going on in the chamber. Francesca, 
as the door opened, had shrunk to the side of 
Madelon, when her attention, as the tumult 
c eased, was caught by a young cavalier, who 
»vas gazing earnestly upon her. The light 
fell more fully on his face — she could not be 
deceived — she sprang forward, and, laying 



her hand on his arm, exclaimed in English 
" Evelyn, dearest Evelyn ! have you forgotten 
Francesca Carrara?" 

"Mr. Evelyn!" exclaimed Guido, at the 
same moment. 

Lost in delight and surprise, the youno- 
Englishman stood for an instant, motionless; 
when, recovering from his astonishment, he 
caught the beautiful hand extended towards 
him, and, kissing it, eagerly whispered, "Fran- 
cesca, the lovely Francesca, I am too happy!" 

Turning to Guido, he expressed his' plea- 
sure at meeting him also ; and then, address- 
ing a few words in a low voice to D'Argen- 
teuil, took his place by the fire. 

The soldiers were dismissed, the Burgundy 
produced, and, despite their forcible entry, 
the new arrivals were as much disposed to its 
cheerful enjoyment as if they had been old 
friends bidden to a festival; Evelyn, Fran- 
cesca and Guido, occupying a little nook to 
themselves. 

" I will not tell you to-night," said the young 
Englishman, " of the disappointment and dif- 
ficulty which awaited my arrival at home ; 
suffice it to say" — looking towards Francesca 
" that henceforth I shall look but to myself 
for happiness. I am now engaged in an affair 
which, if it succeed, will enable me to mak 
my own terms." 

" W T hy do you not speak in Italian I" said 
Francesca, who was something chilled by the 
over- frankness with which her lover alluded 
to feelings which, with her, were so sacred and 
silent. 

"In good sooth, my sweet saint,*- my stay 
in England and here has somewhat roughened 
my tongue for the words of the soft south. I 
must learn them again from you." 

Francesca sighed, and thought how little 
she had forgotten the English she had learned 
for his sake. 

Evelyn proceeded to narrate his business in 
Paris. " Only that the majority of people 
are idiots, and prefer their fancies to their in- 
terests, these cavalier and roundhead differ- 
ences might soon be settled. My plan is per- 
fect, on the old principle that ks extremes 
touchent. I propose to unite the opposites, and 
conclude our civil wars like a comedy— with 
a marriage : Charles Stuart and Frances 
Cromwell !" 

" So degrading a connexion !" interrupted 
Guido. 

"The daughter of his father's murderer!" 
exclaimed Francesca. 

"Ay, ay, prejudice and fine feelings, the 
old Scylla and Charybdis of action," returned 
Evelyn, with something between a smile and 
a sneer; " if the brewer's daughter has not 
the blood of the Stuarts and Plantagenets 
mingling in her veins, she is but the more enno- 
bled by an alliance with him who has. As 
for ' his father's murderer,' such harsh ex- 
pressions are never used, beautiful Frances- 
ca! We must talk of the force of circum- 
stances, of imperative necessity, and find 
fault with the cruel horoscope which ordained 
such a fate. Charles Stuart will suddenly have 



FRANCESCA CARRARA 



;23 



een the errors of his royal father. Cromwell's 
fconscience will equally suddenly be touched 
with the desire of reparation. He will per- 
ceive that the innocent should not suffer for 
the guilty. The converted king's return will 
be another crowning mercy; and Frances 
Cromwell will bring three kingdoms for her 
dower. I much misdoubt me if our royal 
master would not take her for but the revenues 
of one of them.' 

" Well arranged," said D'Argenteuil, join- 
ing in their conversation; " but a man's cir- 
cumstances must be desperate before he at- 
tempt to mend them by marriage. Why, 
your prince has already three alliances in agi- 
tation. There is his mother trying flattery in 
every shape to win for him the good graces 
and fair domains of our princess, Mademoiselle 
de Montpensier." 

" If it be true what I hear," said the Che- 
valier de Joinville, the other remaining cava- 
lier, she had better take him. When she 
ordered the cannon of the Bastile to be turned 
on the royal troop, at the sound of the first 

fun, Cardinal Mazarin only remarked, 'Ah! 
Iademoiselle has killed her husband.' Gal- 
lantly as he has played it, De Retz has a 
losing game: the Conde is against him, and 
his reliance on Orleans — we all know what 
that is." 

" Your young monarch," continued D'Ar- 
genteuil, " must then resume his devoirs to 
one of Mazarin's nieces." 

" They say," returned Joinville, " that our 
own Louis is his rival there. t Ma foi, the 
subtle Italian knows w r ell how to weave his 
net. If the fair Mancini manages the son as 
her uncle has managed the mother, France is 
but a heirloom to the Mazarins." 

" If we were but as civilized as those Turks 
— who, but that we zealous ones consider 
your papists as the more pressing danger, 
would doubtless ere this have been the objects 
of another crusade — all these marriages would 
be easily arranged. Charles Stuart might 
have one wife for money — your own Mont- 
pensier, for example ; another for his home 
interests — my Frances Cromwell ; a third, the 
Mancini — for a foreign alliance ; while let the 
fourth be chosen for love, unless there be any 
other advantage to be gained." 

" Mr. Evelyn never makes unnecessary dif- 
ficulties," replied D'Argenteuil, in a sarcastic 
tone. " But the night is far advanced ; I think 
we need now dread no attack; so I drink my 
farewell, and thanks to Monsieur Corregio 
Bournonville for his hospitality." 

D'Argenteuil set down the cup, and, bend- 
ing courteously to the strangers, withdrew. 

Evelyn lingered for a moment, took from 
Francesca a few early violets — Madelon's gift, 
the first of their small garden— and, placing 
them beside the little bunch of straw which 
hung from his buttonhole, "They will be 
scarce withered ere I am again at your feet," 
ind followed his companions. 

" Why, Evelyn," exclaimed Joinville, " in 
what profound mystery you had enveloped 
your beautiful Italian! Remember I am not 



on honour, and shall do my utmost to riva 
you." • 

" I pity all who take fruitless trouble," said 
Evelyn, carelessly. 

" I understand now," added D'Argenteuil, 
" what made our volunteer so ready to accom- 
pany us. I believe, however, Mr. Evelyn 
usually has some reasons for his actions." 

" Could I give a fairer one 1 ?" laughingly re- 
plied Evelyn. 

D'Argenteuil was, however, wrong in his 
supposition. The young Englishman had 
only joined his party from mere love of adven- 
ture, for he was recklessly brave ; and Fran- 
cesca's arrival in Paris was as little known to 
him as to the rest of the party. 

The heavy door had scarcely closed, when 
Francesca, leaning her head on Guido's 
shoulder, burst into a passion of tears. 

" Is he not altered !" asked she, in an almost 
inaudible voice. 

" You must make allowances," said her 
cousin, soothingly, " for the different manner 
of the countries; he has been talking careless- 
ly, and before others." But he thought not 
what he said, and both retired to a sad and 
reflective pillow. 

So much for anticipation in this life ! Had 
Francesca been asked that morning what 
would give her the most perfect happiness, 
she would unhesitatingly have replied, her 
meeting with Evelyn. They had met, and 
she was sorrowful even to weeping. Ah ! 
hope fulfilled is but a gentler word for disap- 
pointment. 



CHAPTER IX. 



" History is but a tiresome thing in itself— it becomes the 
more agreeable the more romance is mixed up with it."— 
Crotchet Castle. 

" Children and fools speak truth," mutter- 
ed Evelyn, as he parted that night from Join- 
ville, and meditated on the return of Mazarin, 
which the other had so lightly prophesied. 
" If so, I am paying court in the wrong 
quarter; and the promises made by De Retz 
of assistance to our cause, when he becomes 
minister, are as vain as promises usually are. 
Well ? I will attend the meeting at the Duke 
of Orleans' to-morrow, and the gales of La 
Fronde must blow fairer than they do now for 
me to sail by. The safe way will be to leave 
Paris ; — but then that lovely Francesca ! I 
am much mistaken if the least hint, backed 
by that high-sounding word duty, will not bo 
sufficient excuse for absence ; and if Mazarin 
returns, her connexion with his nieces may be 
useful." 

The next morning, Joinville was the hist 
person he encountered in the antechamber of 
Monsieur. 

"Have you heard the news?" exclaimed 
he, eagerly; "the Prince of Conde has left 
Paris, and the twenty-first is talked of as being 



224 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



the day fixed for the king's entrance. The 
troops *re advancing- every hour, and Mazarin 
is omnipotent with Turenne." And the young- 
Important, in his delight at being the first to 
"ommunicate a piece of intelligence, seemed 
to forget that it was the utter ruin of his party 
that he was announcing. 

Evelyn made his way to the inner room, 
where an assembled group were already en- 
gaged in conference ; but the voices were 
languid, and the speakers hesitated ; each 
seemed waiting for the other's opinion before 
he would venture his own. Gaston of Orleans 
was seated in a fauteuil, wrapped in a loose 
dressing-gown, every thing about him betoken- 
ing an indolent love of ease. He had that 
striking likeness which characterises all the 
Bourbons — and his first appearance was dig- 
nified; but when he spoke or moved, this 
dignity, at least on ordinary occasions, was 
entirely lost. He had a peculiarity in speak- 
ing, strikingly indicative of his character. He 
began in a clear voice and a decided tone, but 
before he arrived at the end of a sentence, his 
voice sunk so low as to be almost inaudible, 
and the meaning became as confused as the 
sound. Never was there a man less calcu- 
lated for the chief of a party ; rash in his com- 
mencements, he was never prepared for their 
consequences. He had no confidence in 
others ; how could he, when he had none in 
himself] Without judgment to foretell, or 
nerve to meet, the dangers his impetuosity 
had provoked, he never saw tilings as they 
actually were — but usually took the view sug- 
gested by any one at his elbow, to whom 
habit, or even chance contact, gave a passing 
authority. 

Marguerite of Lorraine was seated at his 
side. Thin, pale, with that worn look which 
indicates the broken spirit, or the habit of 
bodily suffering, save in the still fine outline 
of feature, there was slight remains of the 
beauty for which her husband had dared so 
much, and yet endured so little. She leant 
back feebly in her chair, like a confirmed in- 
valid ; but there was a feverish flush upon her 
cheek, and a sparkle in her eye, that betoken- 
°d the keenest interest in what was going on. 
_<^ ^avo, quiet, and elderly man, the president, 
De JBellicore, stood near; and between him 
and Monsieur was the coadjutor. 

De Retz was now in the prime of life, and 
his heavy ecclesiastical dress could not dis- 
guise his light and even elegant figure, while 
his feet and hands were of feminine size and 
delicacy ; but here ended his personal advan- 
tages. His face was plain, his brow was 
dark and knit, while the clear gray eye was 
deep-seated, stern, and piercing ; his com- 
plexion was sallow 7 , and the lines of his coun- 
tenance at once harsh and worn. Monsieur 
w T as speaking when they entered, with much 
animation : 

" War rests w r ith myself — I have but to 
give • the signal, and we shall fight with 
greater spirit than ever. Ask the cardinal." 

"Doubtlessly," said De Retz, bowing with 
the most passive politeness. 



" The people are with me V f 

"Yes." 

" M. Le Prince would return at my re 
quest." 

" Your wish would be his law." 

"The Spanish army await but my bidding 
to advance." 

" So we have every reason to suppose," re- 
plied the cardinal, in the same uninterested 
tone of mere and necessary acquiescence to 
the assertion of a superior. 

The duke, who was quite unprepared for 
these unlimited affirmatives, paused; for he 
had expected difficulties to have been raised 
and obstacles to have been confessed, to which 
he might have yielded with something of a 
grace. But now r , that none denied the power 
to which he laid claim, it seemed inevitable 
that he must propose acting upon it. Madame 
could restrain herself no longer: 

"Out upon it, Gaston!" exclaimed she; 
" we are not playing Italian comedy. This 
is just like Trivelin reproaching Scaramouch, 
' What fine things I should have said, if you 
had but had the sense to contradict me !' It 
matters little what you can do, the question 
is, what 3 r ou will do V 

The coadjutor turned towards her, his whole 
face changed by its altered expression. It 
was impossible to imagine any thing more 
sweet, more winning, than his smile ; it had 
all the effect of sudden sunshine. Still he 
remained silent — when monsieur, turning to 
wards him somewhat sullenly, " Well, what 
do you sayj is there any safety in treating 
with the court V 

"None; unless your highness make your 
own security," he replied, with an energy the 
very reverse of his former manner. 

" But you told me the king would not re- 
turn to Paris without compromising with me." 

" I told you such was the queen's asser- 
tion ; but I also gave you my reasons for 
doubting that such was the intention." 

"I know Anne of Austria's smooth-lipped 
falsehoods of old. All women are false 
enough — but she has dissimulation for a whole 
sex. Verily there must now be some sur- 
passingly honest, for she has engrossed the 
portion of deceit allotted, to many. Why, I 
had a letter this morning from her, filled with 
professions of forgiveness and of friendship." 

"Your grace best knows, from experience, 
what weight to attach to the queen's honeyed 
words," observed De Retz, who needed no 
further clue to Monsieur's present irresolu- 
tion. 

"Does it not," asked the president, De 
Bellicore, " touch his grace's honour to ensure 
some safety to the city and to the adherents 
who have risked so much in his cause 1 ?" 

" What would you advise 1" exclaimed 
the duke, directing his question to the coad 
jutor. 

" I venture not on advice," replied De Retz ; 
"but I will venture on laying before mon 
sieur the bearings of his present position. Oui 
difficulty is to avoid being blamed as a fac- 
tion, willing to draw out the civil war to al 1 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



225 



eternity, or stigmatized as traitors, ready to 
betray their party for their own advantage. 
We have to advise yon between peace and 
war; but with yourself the choice must rest. 
If peace, you must submit at once to the 
queen, and allow the unconditional return of 
the court, involving that of Mazarin — with all 
Paris at his mercy. He, however, will not 
be vindictive ; punishment suits neither with 
his temper nor his interest. But you know 
Anne of Austria, and may guess how her na- 
tive bitterness will be excited by the violence 
of Servien, the harshness of Tettier, the impe- 
tuosity of Fouquet, and the foolishness of Ou- 
dedey. And all this, it will be said, the Duke 
of Orleans might have prevented by an effect- 
ive treaty, securing an act of indemnity." 

"But how am I to obtain such treaty]" 
asked Monsieur, in a querulous tone. 

" By active and defensive measures ; which 
brings us to the second question of war. If 
war there be, it must be made as if there was 
no such thing as peace. You must arouse 
the good city of Paris by a personal appeal — 
recall the Prince de Conde, and act together 
in strict unity. You must confirm your 
treaty with the Spaniard; and, my life on the 
issue, you dictate your own terms. But }^ou 
must act at once. Permit me to conclude 
with the old legend of the English friar, who 
framed unto himself a brazen head, endowed 
with all sorts of magical properties. . In the 
course of time, this head was to speak ; and 
when the hour of its finding a voice came, it 
was to communicate every thing in the world. 
The appointed moment arrived — the image 
spoke, and said, ' Time was — time is' — but, 
alas ! the friar was sleeping at that precise 
instant. ' Time is past !' said the voice ; and 
the head was shivered into a thousand pieces, 
leaving the luckless maker nothing but regret 
for having thus wasted the labours of a life. 
Now T , decision is our brazen image — the time 
is, and is also rapidly passing away ; in a 
short while we shall be broken up and dis- 
persed, even like the fragments of the brazen 
head." 

" Still," replied Monsieur, who had listened 
with evident impatience, " if the king has re- 
solved on his return, it is not my duty to op- 
pose it. I must regret my inability at Blois : 
truly, quiet and retirement will be very ac- 
ceptable, after all my fatigue and anxiety." 

" Man bon dieu!" exclaimed madame; " is 
this language for a prince of France 1 But if 
it come to this, had we not better go with a 
good grace to meet the king halfway ?" 

"And where the devil should I go?" eja- 
culated the duke — and rising impetuously, 
went into an inner apartment. 

The dutchess followed him, but returned 
a minute after — " His highness is at present 
disinclined for farther conference ; but begs 
me to offer his thanks for your zeal in his 
cause." Saluting the company, she again 
withdrew ; and for a moment there was a pro- 
found silence. 

" It is vain, mon ami," said the president, 
De Bellicore : " however strong the arm, it 

Vol. I.— 29 



cannot cut down a forest with a broken 
axe." 

" Well," returned De Retz, " let the worst 
come to the worst; lam still cardinal, and 
archbishop of Paris — a temporary absence 
may be requisite, but that will be spent at 
Rome — I have made my reputation, and look 
to the future for its fruits." 

" And I must retire into my shell," replied 
the president; " I have done with activity." 

"The council broke up; and Evelyn pur- 
sued his way to Bournonville's, fully resolved 
on leaving Paris. He found Francesca some- 
what pale, but beautiful even as a painter's 
dream of beauty. Her picturesque costume, 
too, increased the effect, for she had as yet 
had no time either to observe or follow the 
fashion of the French. She wore neither the 
rouge, the powder, nor the frizzed hair, so 
universal at this period; but her rich dark 
tresses were bound with classical simplicity 
round a head, small like that of a greyhound ; 
and she wore a black silk dress close up to 
the throat, with loose sleeves, like the garb 
of the novices of the convent where she had 
been partly educated. 

Her manner was at first constrained, but it 
gradually became kind, as if she reproached 
herself for her involuntary coldness; while 
Evelyn expressed his regret at his being 
obliged so soon to leave her, and enlarged 
upon the necessity of stating to Charles the 
turn in affairs. 

" My father blames the part I have taken 
in the Stuart cause ; and perhaps I had stu- 
died our interest more" — and here a gentle 
stress was laid on the words — " had I dis- 
guised my feelings. But, methinks, every 
spark of generosity and spirit must arouse foi 
the exiled and the unfortunate. I loathe the 
canting Roundheads, from their straight hair 
to their long sermons; and pant for the hour 
when, instead of the low-bred hypocrite who 
now holds sway in England, the throne will 
be filled by our young, free, and gallant 
prince." 

"You were not such an advocate of the 
Stuarts in Italy," said Francesca. 

"Forsooth, my beauty," replied her lover, 
laughing, "I had not then seen how all the 
pretty faces in England are being spoilt by 
their straight caps and close coifs. I should 
renounce the Puritans, were it but for the sake 
of those glossy tresses. And now, sweetest, 
keep your chamber closely till I return. I 
love not that gay gallants of Paris should 
hawk round my dovecot." 

" Your caution seems to me most needless," 
replied the Italian, the haughty blood of her 
race rushing to her brow. 

" Nay, I meant not to offend ; but who can 
have a miser's treasure, and not guard it with 
a miser's care? And now, farewell ; I leave 
my fetters on you !" So saying-, he flung over 
her neck a small Venetian chain of delicately 
wrought gold : " So light, yet so firm, are tho 
links which bind my heart !" 

Francesca leant by the window after ho 
was gone, and, almost unaware, watched his 



226 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



graceful figure recede from her sight ; and it 
seemed like a relief when she could see him 
no more. 

"And this, then," thought she, "is incon- 
stancy — that inconstancy of which the tales 
of my native land are so full. It no longer 
excites my wonder, for I feel myself how in- 
voluntary is change. I may control my words, 
tutor my looks, nay, curb my very thoughts ; 
but my feelings are beyond my power. Can 
I force myself to rejoice, as I once rejoiced, in 
the least look of Evelyn? Can I bid my 
heart beat with delight at but the echo of his 
step] Can I persuade myself, that only to 
breathe the very air he breathes is happiness, 
when I know that his presenee revolts and 
chills me 1 I may be faithful to the letter, 
but, ah! not to the spirit of my vow. False 
and ungrateful that I am, I do not love him 
now ! Holy Madonna ! must it be in myself 
thatl first find that want of true affection which 
we are warned to expect in the world 1 or is 
it the heartlessness of this great city which 
thus affects me?" 

She looked down, and marked where her 
large tears had fallen, like rain-drops, on her 
black dress. 

"Alas !" exclaimed she, " I have cause to 
weep — I must weep over my own ehangeful- 
ness, and over the sweetest illusions of my 
youth. I feel suddenly grown old. Never 
more will the flowers seem so lovely, or the 
stars so bright. Never more shall I dwell on 
Ermima's deep and enduring love for the un- 
happy Tancred, and think that I too could so 
have loved. Ah ! in what now can I believe, 
when I may not trust even my own heart]" 

Ay, love teaches many lessons to a woman; 
but its last and worst must be when she learns 
to know that it is not eternal — that it can de- 
part, and leave a scar never to be effaced, and 
a void never to be filled. 



CHAPTER X. 

" There seemed to me no achievement of which I was 
not capable, and of which [ was not ambitious. In imagi- 
nation I shook thrones and founded empires."— Contarini 
Fleming. 

Our inexperienced travellers could scarcely 
believe, the next day, that Paris was the same 
city which they had seen on their first arrival 
— full of barricades, armed groups, defiance, 
and discontents. 

A. bright sunny morning ushered the public 
entrance of the king, triumphant as if La 
Fronde had never existed. White flags waved 
from the windows; flowers were flung down 
in profusion ; not a voice was raised but in 
huzzas — not a hand but in applause. Preced- 
ed by the richly caparisoned guards, care had 
been taken to give them the appearance of an 
escort necessary to dignity — but not to secu- 
rity. Mounted on a snow-white horse, whose 
trappings of scarlet and gold swept the ground, 
and whose curvettings served but to show the 
graceful management of the rider; his purple 



velvet cloak fastened with jewels, and his 
whole garb glittering with worked silver, the 
young monarch might well win and fix the 
eye. Never was king more skilled in the 
science of his high place than Louis; he was 
well aware of the power of the pomp that 
dazzles, and the state that awes — well did he 
know how to excite the enthusiasm which he 
only seemed to permit. He acknowledged 
the acclamations of the multitude, now by a 
wave of the hand scarce amounting to a sign, 
and now by a slight inclination of the head, 
which just bent the light plumes of his hat. 
But when he passed the statue of Henri Qua- 
tre he uncovered, and the sun shone full on 
his bright and falling curls, which fell like 
light on each side of his young but grave and 
noble countenance. 

The people rent the air with their shouts — 
it was as if he thus publicly pledged himself 
to follow the example of his popular prede- 
cessor. He passed on, followed by a br lliant 
train; and, long before'night, old grievances, 
parliaments, Mazarin, and all, were merged in 
eulogiums on the young sovereign. Events 
followed each other rapidly : Be Retz — the 
popular, the beloved — was arrested, without 
so much as a crowd in the streets ; and thus 
ended the celebrated league his ambition had 
fomented, his spirit animated, and his genius 
maintained. Years of exile and privation fol- 
lowed ere the return of the bold agitator was 
permitted. To those who have sympathized 
in the energy and daring of his earlier life, it 
seems marvellous to hear bim mentioned in 
the gentle language of one of Madame de Se- 
vigne's letters, where he is spoken of as a pe- 
culiarly mild and gentlemanlike old man, espe- 
cially kind to the young, whose society he 
seemed to enjoy. 

Mazarin immediately resumed his former 
power; and Bournonville early one morning 
announced, not only the return of Madame de 
Mercosur to Paris, but also that he had conv 
municated to her who were his guests. Al- 
most before he had delivered his message, the 
Duchesse's carriage arrived, with a brief but 
affectionate note, entreating the immediate 
presence of her earliest friends. They soon 
reached the hotel, whose thronged court-yard 
told how many were the courtiers to the mini- 
ster's nieces. 

Francesca and Guido, accustomed to be 
their own heralds in the lonely Italian palace, 
were startled by the sudden contrast of the 
many domestics and the numberless visiters 
who choked up the passages and the ante- 
room. The chamber into which they were 
ushered was filled with people; but both the 
Duchesse and Marie came forward and re- 
ceived them with every mark of kindness and 
affection. But Francesca's eye was quick to 
remark that Mademoiselle Mancini's manner 
to Guido was wholly changed. Some emo- 
tion was perceptible — a hurried voice, a slight 
tremour, a heightened colour; but these signs 
were instantly checked, and her air indicated 
a degree of superiority, even patronage, very 
different to the simple and warm welcome of 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



227 



her sister. So many guests thronged the | 
apartment, that exclusive attention to any was | 
out of the question ; and after a hasty presen- 
tation to the Due de Mercceur, the strangers 
were inevitably left much to themselves. 

Francesca gazed round, as we gaze in some 
half-waking dream, of whose illusion we seem 
aware, and yet partake. The glittering crowd, 
whose high-sounding names ever and anon 
reached her ear — the magnificent room — the 
splendour of the dresses — the diamonds shin- 
ing amid the elaborately curled tresses she 
had been accustomed to see in their native 
darkness, their summer ornament the half- 
bloom rose, and their winter wreath the myr- 
tle branch — all oppressed her with the sense 
of change. She saw at once how wide a gulf 
had opened between herself and her early 
friends, and she felt that they never again 
could be what they had been to each other. 
There might be benefit on one side, and obli- 
gation on the other ; but their reciprocity of 
affection, their mutual exchange of small 
kindnesses — those strongest rivets of common 
attachment — were no more. 

Guido's thoughts were very different to his 
cousin's : he partook not in her depression — 
his eye was caught by the scene before him, 
its novelty excited his imagination, and he 
was wrapt in the happiness of again seeing 
Marie. He was strong, too, in the conscious 
superiority of talent — that first hope of genius, 
as yet unchecked by circumstances, and un- 
broken by experience. He leaned by the win- 
dow, half alive to the gorgeous picture which 
moved around him, and half lost in delicious 
dreams of all the splendid impossibilities 
which he was to achieve. 

Nothing at first frames such false estimates 
as an imaginative temperament. It finds the 
power of creation so easy, the path it fashions 
so actual, that no marvel for a time hope is its 
own security, and the fancied world appears 
the true copy of the real. How much of dis- 
appointment — what a bitter draining of the 
cup of mortification to the dregs — does it take, 
to sober down the ardour, and chain the wing- 
ed thoughts of a mind so constituted ! Let 
any, now perhaps staid with care, and grave 
with many sorrows, but who once indulged 
in the romance born of enthusiasm and igno- 
rance — let them recall the visions in which 
their youth delighted, while they smile at 
their folly, or sigh over their sweetness. 
Moreover, the lover and the friend ask very 
different foundations for their confidence. The 
one invests all things with the poetry with 
which himself is imbued; the other, of neces- 
sity, examines into their truth. Again — love 
cares not for distinctions ; but friendship can- 
not exist without equality. 

Francesca, too, was suffering under the em- 
barrassment of singularity. Alive only to the 
happiness of again meeting her friends, she 
had not thought of her own appearance; and j 
she was painfully aware that her Italian cos- 
tume was a complete contrast to the garb of 
the other ladies present. She caught many 
looks directed towards her, but all of curi- 



osity — none of interest. She heard the groups 
laughing and talking around, but not one 
voice addressed to her. Good heavens ! the 
isolation of a crowd — that bitter blending of 
solitude and shame, when you fancy every 
one that passes casts on you an invidious or 
scornful glance, and yet are perfectly aware 
that they do not care — scarcely know — whe- 
ther you are a human being like themselves! 
It is in vain to say this is oversensitiveness ; 
weakness though it be, it is very universal. 

Francesca would have rejoiced only to see 
a face she had ever seen before — when, as if 
to show the folly of wishes, one appeared. It 
was the Chevalier de Joinville, the cavalier 
who accompanied D'Argenteuil the night 
when forcible possession was taken of Bour- 
nonville's house. He remained for some mi- 
nutes opposite the young Italian, with that 
fixed yet impertinent gaze which it is equally 
impossible to escape or to endure. Her evi- 
dent annoyance, however, appeared to produce 
no other effect upon him than a desire to in- 
crease it by addressing her : 

" I am happy to see," said he, approaching 
her, " that the bloom of la signora is not affect- 
ed by her late vigil." 

Now, if there be one thing in the world 
more provokingly insolent than another, it is 
a personal compliment from a stranger, whom 
you consider to have not even the right of 
speaking to you. Francesca was too new to 
society to possess the art of seeming neither 
to hear, see, nor understand, excepting what 
it is your own good pleasure so to do ; she, 
therefore, replied by a slight bend and a 
deepened blush. 

" Our English cavalier has left Paris on a 
bootless errand ; for the news arrived this 
morning that the daughter of the pious regi- 
cide is married to some young nobleman, 
whose name I have forgotten. Has Mr. Eve- 
lyn your permission for any length of ab- 
sence]" 

Now, this was really too much : Francesca 
felt at once enraged and powerless. How is 
that impertinence to be checked, to which 
silence is no rebuke; and which, yet, is your 
only method of marking your displeasure] 

But a thoroughly unselfish temper is singu- 
larly alive to the feelings of others. While 
Marie Mancini, engrossed by the amusement 
of the minute, had no attention to give beyond 
the gay converse of the group around her, 
Madame de Mercceur had never quite lost 
sight of the stranger. She had observed the 
whole of De Joinville's manner. Perhaps, 
too, a little pride might blend with her kind- 
ness : she had been too much accustomed to 
homage to tolerate for a moment the young 
courtier's supercilious manner to one whom 
she protected. Advancing to where Frances- 
ca stood, she took her arm, and said, in a tone 
of affectionate familiarity, " Cara arnica mia, 
— I love to speak to you in our native lan- 
guage, though, do you know, I have some- 
what lost its°practice — how have you formed 
acquaintance with one so dangerous as the 
Chevalier de Joinville — are you aware that 



228 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



you have risked your peace of mind for 
ever?" 

"Nay," replied Francesca, laughing ; for, 
like a true woman, she saw her vantage- 
ground, and instantly took it, "it were hard 
that misfortune should be punished like a 
fault. Never was there a more involuntary 
acquaintance — it was made by force of arms. 
Monsieur was one of the party who entered 
M. Bournonville's house the night my brother 
and myself arrived." 

" Ah ! our little Corregio," answered the 
duchesse, " told us somewhat of this ; but, 
with his usual prudence, would not name the 
cavaliers. Now, Monsieur Le Frondeur, 
what faith may we place in the devotion you 
have just been professing to my sister and to 
myself]" 

Joinville bit his lip ; but instantly recover- 
ing himself, replied, " Pardon me if the feel- 
ing born of your presence did not exist pre- 
vious to such influence; and, as a pledge of 
forgiveness, introduce me to your friend, who 
seems rather to resent than appreciate the 
ready memory of admiration." 

The chevalier's manner was now complete- 
ly altered ; and Francesca wondered within 
herself that he could be so amusing, as he 
exerted himself to describe the various visiters 
who flitted to and fro. And yet, when he 
withdrew, she blamed herself for being amused 
—so completely had it been at the expense of 
others. But ill-nature is inevitable in those 
who " season their discourse with personal 
talk." De Joinville only aimed at being en- 
tertaining ; and what is there entertaining 
about people in general, but their faults, 
follies, and peculiarities, served up with the 
sauce piquant of epigrammatic epithet and of 
ludicrous inference 1 

At length the crowded apartment gradually 
cleared. Drawing Francesca's arm within 
her own, the duchesse gave orders that no 
more visiters were to be admitted ; and the 
little party adjourned to sup in an adjacent 
room. 



CHAPTER XI. 



for 



ft is a difficult thin? to paint the pleasures of youth ; 
after all, the real enjoyment is in being young." 



The duchesse's boudoir was fitted up in a 
style of luxury utterly different from any thing 
before familiar to the Carraras. They had 
been accustomed to the extensive halls, the 
large pictures, the mosaic floors, the marble 
pillars, whose romantic magnificence belong- 
ed to other times. Here the splendour was 
more adapted to the actual enjoyments of the 
present day. The walls were hung with blue 
silk, edged with silver fringe; and the closely 
drawn blue velvet curtains swept the ground. 
On one side was a dressing table covered with 
white satin, whose border of flowers, wrought 
in rich and natural colours, emulated those of 
April. On it stood a mirror in a frame of cu- 



riously cut crystal and silver ; and scattered 
round lay half-open boxes, w r hose glittering 
contents were equally precious and fanciful ; 
and flung down carelessly, as if in thoughtless 
haste, was a diamond carcanet, whose rich 
gems reflected in every angle the blaze of the 
two large waxen tapers placed in branches ex- 
tending from the mirror. Near were two cu- 
riously carved cabinets, one in ebony, the 
other in ivory, from each of which exhaled a 
delicious perfume. An immense Venetian 
glass occupied the farther end of the room, 
and, just opposite, hung a picture of the king. 
The couches and fauteuils were of crimson 
damask; and drawn towards the fire was the 
supper table. The domestics being dismiss- 
ed, all gathered round, and Guido's place was 
beside Mademoiselle Mancini. 

"Do," said she, smiling, "let me give you 
some of these diminutive mushrooms ; with 
what a feeling of triumph I enjoy them! 
When Mademoiselle was enacting the part 
of the modern Maid of Orleans, that town sup- 
plied the court with provisions; and, a some- 
what unheroic employ for the fair Thalestris, 
she commanded that our future breakfasts, 
dinners, suppers, &c. should be brought her; 
among other articles she found some mush- 
rooms, seizing upon which, she threw them 
aside — ' They are too delicate,' exclaimed the 
Montpensier; 'I will not have the cardinal 
eat them !' " 

" A very feminine little bit of a spite," said 
the Due de Mercoeur. 

" Now why do you say feminine ?" ex- 
claimed Francesca ; " I think I could remem- 
ber many small instances of masculine ven- 
geance." 

"I observe," rejoined Marie, "we are al- 
ways blamed; but, after all, Mademoiselle's 
revenge told. For my part, if 1 had a lover, 
I should give him all sorts of nice things to 
eat. I believe the pleasures of childhood, 
being translated, means the comfits and con- 
fections with which we were regaled. As for 
myself, I candidly own to being greedy." 

" Did not the king," said Madame de Mer- 
cceur, " admire your pretty fingers while 
stripping the grapes the other day ?" 

" I think," replied Marie, laughing, " that 
great science, the science of grace, which I 
consider one of the fine arts, may be displayed 
in eating a bunch of grapes. First, there is 
the stalk to be poised in one hand, then the 
small fingers are to be put in motion while 
picking the berries of the purple fruit one by 
one ; then a pretty eagerness may be evinced, 
and a half smile shows at once your teeth and 
your dimples ; and all this without that con- 
stant suspicion of display which attends your 
bending over a lute." 

" We must send a fleet to Lisbon on pur- 
pose for grapes, my pretty sister," said the 
duke. 

" Have you heard," continued Marie, " the 

new version M. de Rochefoucault has given 

of his celebrated epigram on Madame de Lon- 

I gueville T' Joinville was telling it to me to- 

! day." 



FRANCEbCA CARRARA 



229 



"And he told me," added the duchesse, 
u that the lady, since the death of the Due de 
Xemours, has taken to la haute devotion. By- 
the-by, this is the second lover she has lost 
in a due! ; her first, Coligni, was killed by the 
Due de Guise." 

"Her face," said Guido, "has all the 
mournful loveliness of one of Coreggio's 
Magdalens." 

" Hush, hush !" said Marie, " we do not 
allow her beauty ; I forewarn you against ad- 
mitting that a single trace remains." 

" You will see the court to great advantage 
to-morrow," said the duchesse, addressing 
Francesca. " We are on the eve of a most 
delightful fete — we are going to put Amadis 
of Gaul into rehearsal ; the king and the prin- 
cipal nobles will ride at the ring to-morrow. 
The king himself leads the first band, the Due 
de Guise the second, the Due de Candale — " 
"The Due de Guise," said Mercceur, "is 
quite my beau ideal of a hero of the days of 
chivalry. His adventures, whether of love 
or war, seem like the old Provencal ballads ; 
my only marvel is, where in these days he 
finds his romantic material. 

" In himself," returned Marie; "but I do 
wonder you can mention him with the Due de 
Candale — there is le vrai hcros de roman. I 
admire him, if it were only for his spirited 
rejection of my cousin Martinozzi's hand." 

" She will have cause to thank him," said 
Mercceur gravety, " if it be true that it is now 
asked by the Prince de Conti." 

"The Prince de Conti'?" exclaimed she, in 
reply, "impossible! I laugh at the very idea." 
" Time will show," said the duchesse, evi- 
dently wishing to change the conversation. 
" De Joinville tells me — " 

" It is quite singular," interrupted her hus- 
band, " I seem never to hear a piece of news 
but it is prefaced with 'De Joinville tells 
me!"' 

"Well," continued Madame de Mercceur, 
" his present intelligence is, that the colours 
of the Due de Guise are blue and white, those 
of the Due de Candale green and white; but 
that those worn by his majesty remain a pro- 
found secret." 

" Ah !" exclaimed Marie, brightening up 
from a somewhat sullen silence, " you have 
not seen my new dress : it is perfect. It 
ought so to be, for I had his grace's advice 
upon the subject." 

At this moment a noise was heard, as if of 
coming guests. 

" How is this ?" said the duchesse. " I 
had given orders that no one should be ad- 
mitted." 

"But we," replied the tallest of the two 
cavaliers who entered muffled up in cloaks, 
" would only take a denial from your own 
lips." 

"Ah, your grace," exclaimed Madame de 
Mercceur, "how easy it is to command when 
the command ean only be obeyed with plea- 
sure !" 

"Are you," said the king — for the visiters 
Were Louis himself, and his brother, the 
Vol. I. 



Comte d'Artois — and addressing himself more 
especially to Mademoiselle Mancini, " pre- 
paring for the fatigues of to-morrow ?" 

"Mot so," she replied; "but we were 
closeted to talk over old times with old 
friends." 

Francesca smiled : for it could not but 03- 
cur to her how little these said old times had 
been mentioned, the whole conversation hav* 
ing turned exclusively on present topics. 

Again, she felt there was nothing in com- 
mon between them; and how painful it is to 
discover this, when our attachment seems to 
ourselves a thing of course 1 This, however, 
was but a passing thought; for, naturally 
enough, her whole attention was fixed upon 
their illustrious visiter. Smilingly repeating 
his declaration that he was incog., — a wan- 
dering cavalier, who merely sought to sun 
himself in their bright eyes, and then to de- 
part, — still, while waving the observances of 
his rank, he y r et permitted them to be paid. 
All knelt as they kissed his hand, and all re- 
mained standing while he seated himself in 
the fauteuil from which the duchesse had just 
risen. Discovering, with the quick eye of 
those accustomed to watch every shade of 
manner, that Louis, transient as was the 
glance he flung round, had observed the Ita- 
lians, Madame de Mercceur said, " We will 
not intrude upon your grace our childish re- 
miniscences, but — " 

"Nay," interrupted the king very gracious- 
ly, for he had noted the singular beauty of 
Francesca, " I will not allow one of the party 
to be disturbed, not even little Mignon," pat- 
ting a small snow-white dog that belonged to 
Mademoiselle Mancini, whose eyes flashed 
as she thought that it was her favourite that 
was thus honoured by the royal notice. She 
knelt down to caress it, thus, as if by chance, 
kneeling beside Louis's chair. 

There was a slight family likeness between 
the brothers, but the resemblance extended 
no farther. The Comte d'Artois had neither 
the dignified nor the manly air of his brother — 
he rather appeared like a prett} T -looking girl, 
so effeminate was he and fair. He had more, 
too, of the lively bearing of youth, and in- 
dulged in a reckless and even noisy ga) T ety, 
the very reverse of the other's grave compo- 
sure. 

It was rather odd that those former remi- 
niscences, to which allusion had been made, 
should in reality become the subject of dis- 
course from the questions of a stranger ; yet 
so it was. Partly from that courtesy which, 
when it interfered not with his enjoyment, 
was Louis's great characteristic, he immedi- 
ately turned the conversation to what he sup- 
posed had been the preceding dialogue. There 
was some curiosity, too, in it , for those who 
depend much on others for their amusement 
are always curious, especially when conver- 
sation is a great staple of entertainment. 
People are apt to mistake this, and fancy the 
attention given to their details is a proof of 
the interest taken in themselves ; it is merely 
that their auditors are attracted by novelty 
U 



230 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Louis had the topics of the hour twisted into 
every possible shape to amuse him ; but he 
had never thought about his favourites, the 
Mancinis, having even lived before he knew 
them : their existence, in his memory, w r as 
dated from their arrival in France. Their 
early days were, therefore, quite delightful, 
because quite new. 

" Ruel," exclaimed the youthful monarch, 
interrupting their description of how, in the 
myrtle and ilex woods, they used to recite 
Tasso and act his scenes, "Ruel will be the 
very place for it ; we must get up a ballet 
there, with characters from your favourite 
poet; I 'will be Rinaldo, de Guise shall be 
Tancred, you," turning to Mademoiselle Man- 
cini, "Armida, and — " 

" We will keep Clorinda for the northern 
Amazon about to visit us," interrupted his 
brother ; " she will understand the character." 

"Nay," replied Louis, with a half smile, 
"but the ballet shall be one of the fetes w T e 
meditate in her honour. Demi-savage as the 
Swede is, of course royalty must be royally 
entertained." 

"Such a description," said Marie, "as I 
heard to-day! I understand that she wears a 
sword, and a buff waistcoat for a boddice — 
military hat, boots, and sash — gloves she dis- 
dains ; and that her peruke would do honour 
to Marshal Turenne himself." 

" I hear," added Madame de Mercosur, 
" that she is awfully clever, speaks eight 
languages, and would put the Academy and 
the Sorbonne united to shame." 

"Ah!" exclaimed the Comte d' Artois, 
who had been sitting for some minutes appa- 
rently quite absorbed in meditation, " I have 
imagined such an exquisite costume for Tan- 
cred ! No, no ; you shall not anticipate my 
intention." 

" But w r e are forgetting, in our future plans, 
the fete of to-morrow. Mercceur," said the 
king, " summon the page who waits in the 
antechamber." 

The boy was called, and, dropping on his 
knee, presented a small coffer, which, as it 
opened, diffused, a strong but delicious fra- 
grance. It contained those delicate gloves for 
which Spain was then so famous. 

" Will you not wear these to-morrow ?" 
said the king, offering one pair to Madame de 
Mercceur ; then, turning to her sister, he 
added, U I only hope yours are small enough 
for those mignon hands." 

Francesca observed that the gloves given to 
to the duchesse were embroidered in white 
and silver ; but those of Mademoiselle Man- 
cini were worked with scarlet and gold, and 
fastened by a scarlet cord, round the wrist. 
The party immediately broke up, as all were 
to rise early the following morning. 

It was long before Francesca slept ; we are 
so much the creatures of habit, that any great 
change has the effect of a moral chill. We 
dread the future, unless it comes upon us im- 
perceptibly ; — whenever we anticipate, unless 
under some strong excitement of joy, we al- 
ways fear. There are so many dangers, so 



many disappointments, and so many sorrows, 
ready to beset the human path, that w r e cannot 
but expect some at least to fall to our lot, 
The truth is, the young Italian was in a state 
of the utmost depression; and those subtle 
emotions we call being in good or bad spirits, 
are utterly beyond our control. The weight 
of one sad thought pressed upon every other; 
she at once saw the hopelessness of Guido's 
attachment, and fancied she understood Marie's 
inconstancy by her own altered feelings. She, 
who knew him with the entire knowledge of 
perfect affection, knew well what the effect 
would be — wretchedness, the most complete, 
the most lasting, and the most irrevocable. 
Could it be the Mancinis — the impoverished 
and forgotten inhabitants of the desolate 
palace by the pine wood — who were now the 
glittering idols of a court, favourites of Eu- 
rope's most powerful monarch, and whose 
intercourse with them was one of the most 
unrestrained familiarity 1 — witness his visit of 
that very evening. Again and again she mar- 
velled what w r ere Marie Mancini's expecta- 
tions — unbounded, she could well suppose. 
Generally speaking, we are incredulous of the 
good fortune of our friends, and, even though 
loving them, undervalue their qualities; the 
success of our greatest intimates takes us by 
surprise. But this w r as a singular instance ; 
the change in her former companion's position 
had burst so suddenly upon Francesca, that 
she was more inclined to exaggerate than to 
diminish its extent. The very difference she 
felt between herself and them — she a stranger, 
friendless but for their kindness, in a foreign 
land made the contrast more forcible; and she 
at last fell asleep, with the vision before her 
eyes of the cardinal's triumphant niece — a 
crowned queen ! 



CHAPTER XII. 

" Incessant in the games your strength display; 
Contest, ye brave"! the honours of the day." 

Odyssey. 

It was a boast of Napoleon, that the very 
weather owned the influence of his auspicious 
star, — his triumphal entry, his precession, or 
his fete, w*ere always marked by sunshine. 
The clouds were equally complimentary to 
Louis XIV. ; no sky could be brighter than 
that of the morning which ushered in the fes- 
tival ; and wiien Francesca took her place on 
a temporary gallery erected for the occasion, 
the coup oV mil more than realized the descrip- 
tions in the old romances. The ground ap- 
pointed for the course was the open space 
between the Palais Royal and the dwelling of 
the English queen; a palisade marked the 
career; and at one end, just below the gallery 
where Francesca sat, hung the ring, suspended 
from an arch ornamented with laurel, and in 
the centre the royal arms of France. Beside 
stood seneschals, the appointed witnesses of 
the ensuing games. At the other extremity 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



231 



were the gardens, now in the full beauty of 
summer foliage; and from Francesca's seat 
being at the extremity, and the gallery being 
a little curved, she commanded a panoramic 
sweep of the whole scene. 

Windows, balconies were alike crowded ; 
but the most striking group was on the terrace 
in the centre. Seated in an arm-chair, co- 
vered with cloth of gold, was the queen ; her 
robe was of black velvet, edged with the rich- 
est sable ; and the diadem at the back of her 
head confined the folds of a long black Cyprus 
veil. Her mourning now was but a ceremo- 
nious habit; nay, some said it was persevered 
in for the contrast, so becoming, of the dark 
garment with her still dazzlingly fair skin and 
bright hair — yet it caught the eye mournfully; 
thos3 sombre robes were the only indications 
that life had one loss, one sorrow, or one 
change. Madame de Mercoeur and her sister 
stood on either side ; and, leaning on the back 
of the chair, was the cardinal, looking both 
inattentive and weary, and taking no part in 
the conversation going on around him. Be- 
hind was a brilliant group of ladies and nobles. 

Suddenly a flourish of trumpets rose upon 
the air ; and, emerging from the middle ave- 
nue, came a gallant company, to borrow a 
phrase from those old romances whose pictu- 
resque descriptions the present actors were 
emulating. Two stately elms formed a natu- 
ral arch, from beneath whose waving boughs 
swept the band belonging to the king. 

Francesca marked at the first glance that 
their colours were white and scarlet ; and then 
she noted that Marie Mancini wore a dress of 
white damask, looped up and garnished with 
scarlet ribands. " The embroidery on the 
gloves," thought she, " was no chance selec- 
tion." 

The gay procession advanced. First came 
fourteen pages, wearing fanciful costumes of 
silver tissue and scarlet ; they bore the long 
lances, and the devices of the knights who 
followed them. Then came six trumpeters, 
blowing a brave challenge, each note swelling 
more proudly than its predecessor. Then 
came the squire, who marshalled the king's 
own pages, twelve in number, the last two of 
whom carried the royal lance, and the royal 
scutcheon, on which was emblazoned a rising 
sun, with the motto, — 

"Ne piu, ne pari." 
No superior, nor yet an equal. 

Next rode the camp marshal, unmasked, and 
in his usual costume. Then followed the 
young monarch and his chevaliers, dressed 
after the Roman fashion — the cuirass of gold, 
ihe robes of frosted silver, the brodequins 
wrought with gold and silver mixed ; and the 
casques were of silver, with white plumes 
tipped with scarlet. All were masked ; but 
the king was easily distinguished by his snowy 
charger, whose mane was fantastically knitted 
with scarlet ribands. Together they rode 
round the circle, bending as they passed the 
queen till the feathers swept the shining necks 
of their steeds. Again came the bold chal- 



lenge of the trumpets, and the troop of the 
Due de Guise appeared, marshalled in the 
same order, but garbed in blue and silver. 
Their leader's romantic temperature showed 
itself in one peculiarity ; his horse, black as 
night when the summer's tempest is on the 
sky, was led behind by two gigantic Moors, 
who, by sign and word, subdued the beautiful 
and fiery animal to the slow step of the pro- 
cession. Trappings and housings there were 
none ; and the slight silken bridle, which 
looked like a fragile thread, needed indeed a 
skilful hand, if meant to control the noble 
creature. A page of singular, almost feminine 
beauty, whose delicate complexion suited well 
the delicate colours of his azure cap and 
plume, bore the graceful flattery of the duke's 
ingenious device. It represented a funeral 
pile, from whose embers a phcEnix was rising, 
animated by the sun, whose light was its life. 
Beneath was inscribed in golden letters, — 

" Qu' importa que matou, se resucitan ?" 
What matters his destroying, if he revives? 

All took the courtly insinuation, for the 
Guise had but lately been restored to royal 
favour. A third call of the trumpets an- 
nounced the approach of the "Due de Candale 
from the avenue on the left. The livery of 
his company was forest green and gold ; but 
perhaps he himself most attracted Francesca's 
attention. He had not yet put on his plumed 
casque, which a page on foot at his side car- 
ried ; and he held his mask in his hand. It 
was one of those faces — so pale, yet so beau- 
tiful, with large melancholy blue eyes, and 
profusion of fair golden hair — with that ethe- 
real seeming, whose associations are not of 
this earth — one of those that we unconsciously 
connect with early death. The presage here 
was prophecy; — a little while, and that youth- 
ful and brilliant head found its pillow in the 
grave. After riding round the circle, ths 
three companies drew up in a line before the 
narrow space which led to the point where 
the ring hung. 

' ; Ah !" exclaimed Madame de Brie, the 
old lady to whose care Francesca had been 
especially consigned by Madame de Mercceur, 
" these troubles of La Fronde have sadly 
scattered the beauties which surrounded the 
throne. You should have seen the court ten 
years ago." 

" To me," replied Francesca, " the scene 
appears as if it could not be surpassed ; but, 
then, I have seen nothing of the kind before." 

" True, true, my dear ; experience is every 
thing — you are no judge till you begin to 
compare. You, if it had been only to form 
your taste, should have seen the beauties of 
the earlier period of the regency. There was 
the queen herself ; fifteen years had somewhat 
palled the red and white of a complexion 
which in its day was unparalleled. Then 
there was the Duchesse de Longueville, whose 
languid loveliness was that of the lily — the 
flower sacred to her house; Madame de Mont- 
bazou, stately and dark-eyed like Juno, con- 
juring every heart by one look of her splendid 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



face; or Madame de Chatillion, the very- 
queen of smiles, and with a fascination even 
beyond her beauty. They might at least re- 
call Mademoiselle de Montpensier — proud, 
but so fair, like the young queen of Palmyra." 

Madame de Brie had quite forgotten that 
fifteen years ago, she had been equally elo- 
quent in favour of fifteen years before. Well, 
memory is a very comfortable thing, usually 
adapting itself to the prejudices of the present. 

Fortunately, the commencement of the 
games prevented Francesca from being quite 
overpowered by the envy of beauties that had 
been. It was a commencement worth the 
chivalric magnificence of Louis's after-reign — 
the scene in those gardens ! The fine old 
trees in the distance, so rich in shadow, while 
the foreground was in broad sunshine — the 
long green alleys, along which rode an occa- 
sional horseman, breathing his courser — the 
terraces, crowded with the young, the gorge- 
ously arrayed, and the beautiful — the youthful 
cavaliers, darting at full gallop down the nar- 
row palisade — the burst from the trumpets, 
that noblest of music, as each competitor 
dashed at the ring, — altogether formed a pa- 
geant in which Amadis of Gaul might have 
taken a part before the eyes of the peerless 
Oriana. 

As yet none had been successful, and now 
the three leaders were all that remained. 
Their precedence had been determined by lot, 
and the Due de Candale was the first. He 
dashed forward — his long lance touched the 
ring — it trembled ; but at that very moment 
his horse started- — he passed, and the quiver- 
ing ring remained swinging to and fro. Fran- 
cesca, whose position enabled her to discern 
the slightest movement, could not divest her- 
self of a suspicion that the start of the horse 
had been provoked by the rider. The Due 
de Guise came next ; he made but one bound 
from the slender palfrey on which he rode at 
first, to the noble charger that stood beside, 
pawing the ground, as if disdainful of rest. 
On he darted with the speed of hope, and his 
lance bore the ring off triumphantly ; but 
while turning to salute the fair spectators on 
his right, the prize, carelessly balanced, fell 
to the ground; and again Francesca thought 
that the failure was intentional. The 3 T oung 
king now clapped spurs to his white steed, 
which had stood champing with impatience 
till his bit was covered with foam. A loud 
yhout arose from the spectators — Louis had 
carried off the ring; and, balancing it grace- 
fully on his lance, he rode round the circle ; 
the second time he stopped befoie the queen, 
and laid the prize at her feet. Two pages 
advanced ; one took the spear, the other laid 
hand on the bridle, and Louis sprang to the 
ground ; then, ascending to where Anne of 
Austria was seated, knelt before her. At the 
signal, Marie de Mancini took his casque, and 
his mother flung over his neck a silver chain, 
to which hung a star of rubies, and, in the 
style of the old romaunt, bade him name the 
queen of the festival. Louis rose, and taking 
his casque from Marie, offered her the red 



rose, which was to mark sovereignty for the 
day. Her first glance was one of triumph— 
her next was one of mingled admiration and 
gratitude for Louis ; and, accepting his offered 
hand, they led the w T av to the banquet pre- 
pared in the Palais Oj ion, — a favourite gar- 
den house, where they often had collations 
when the party was but small, which was the 
case to-day. The queen mother did not dine 
with them ; and only those nobles who were 
of the three bands, and twenty-four ladies. 
The banquet was gay but brief, as prepara- 
tions had been made for dancing. Mademoi- 
selle Mancini was led forth by Louis, who 
entertained all with the chivalric gallantry 
suited to his assumed character. The next 
dance she declined, under pretext of fatigue- 
she had no attention to give to another part- 
ner, and Louis's last words were to engage 
her hand again ; and truly she required rest, 
for every effort had been exerted to amuse her 
royal listener. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

"Love is an offering of the whole heart, madam — 
A sacrifice of all that poor life hath ; 
And he who gives his all, whate'er that be, 
Gives greatly, and deserveth no one's scorn." 

Barry Cornwall. 

The tremulous pressure of Louis's hand 
yet vibrating through every pulse of her own — 
his last whispered words yet musical in her 
ear, Marie hastily turned into one of the more 
shaded walks, where the boughs, trained to 
meet overhead, and the trellis-work on either 
side thick with creeping and odoriferous 
shrubs, shut out all view but its own green 
and winding path. Her cheek was flushed, 
her eyes danced in light, and a frequent smile 
passed like sudden sunshine over her face; 
vanity, in that moment of triumph, had all the 
strength of a passion, — its enthusiasm — its 
imagination ; every thing seemed possible — 
the future rose palpable before her. Her 
eager and buoyant step became more stately, 
as if already in the presence of her court; 
already she granted favours, and requited in- 
juries — for assuredly forgiveness formed no 
part of her creed. She even put aside the 
bows with somewhat of an air of condescen- 
sion. 

"My first struggle," thought she, "must 
be against the influence of his mother. Gra- 
titude ! we owe none to Anne of Austria! 
We are just the puppets she destines for the 
amusement of her son — toys to guard against 
graver thoughts — the ornaments of the cha- 
riot, while she guides the reins. Fickle — 
unloving, is there one about her whom she 
would not sacrifice to her interests — ay, even 
to her whims 1 Holy Madonna ! but I do 
respect my uncle's genius when it has so con- 
trolled our false and wilful queen ; — I may 
chance to save him some future trouble." 

It is singular the charm that youth flingg 
over both its exaggeration and its~selfishness— 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



233 



perhaps they are pardoned for their very un- 
consciousness. Its expectations are unrea- 
sonable ; but they are entertained in such 
good faith, that we first envy and then excuse 
the state of mind which admits them, and for- 
give their present folly, from our conviction 
of their coming disappointment. It is our 
own sense of superiority — the conscious su- 
periority of knowledge, dear-bought by experi- 
ence, that makes us thus charitable. In youth, 
too, selfishness is divested of its most obnox- 
ious part — its calculation ; it seems thought- 
lessness — again we pity, pardon, and fancy 
that amendment which never comes. 

There is something amiable in even be- 
lieving in our own good feelings, but it is an 
amiability whose loveliness is even less last- 
ing than that of the complexion. Marie 
passed along — she had arrived at an especially 
pleasant part of her reverie— she was arrang- 
ing her future household. 

" I will be lenient," thought she, " to Mes- 
dames les Frondeurs ; they will be glad to 
get back on any terms, and their high birth 
will be an answer to the many who may urge 
claims on the plea of having known me now. 
My sisters had better marry foreign princes — 
it would be mortifying to see them forced to 
yield precedence to any. As for Henriette, 
that cannot be helped ; — an embassy will be 
the thing for Mercceur." 

How many more places might have been 
distributed by her incipient majesty, it is im- 
possible to say, for the thread of her medita- 
tion was broken by the sudden termination of 
the path, it ended in one of those beautiful 
little nooks, which, girdled in by shade, are 
yet. full of sunshine ; the branches close the 
sides, but the clear sky is overhead. In the 
midst of a circular plot of grass was a small 
fountain ; a nymph knelt amid the waters, 
and a liitle trickling stream fell from the urn 
by her side with a low and musical murmur. 
Even the small space of this fountain was a 
divided empire; the farther side was clear 
and glittering with the golden daylight, but 
the nearer one lay dark in shadow, for a large 
sombre branch hung directly over it. The 
very gloom made it the better mirror; and 
Marie started as she saw her face reflected 
side by side with thai of the statue. For a 
moment she smiled at the contrast of her own 
head, with its ribands and its waving feathers, 
beside the simply-wreathed hair of the marble 
figure. But even as she looked, another 
thought arose in her mind. The ny r mph was 
so like one that had been a favourite in Guido's 
studio — a world of early fancies, of tender 
recollections, were called up by the resem- 
blance. She thought of the deep and earnest 
love, which had seemed to her like folly amid 
more worldly scenes; she thought of their 
wanderings by twilight, with the rosy sunset 
dying away amid the thick-leaved pines : — 
she turned, and saw Guido by her side. Ad- 
milted by the influence of Bournonville into 
the royal gardens, he had wandered round, 
and by chance followed the very path which 
Marie had taken. 

Vol. I.— 30 



" My beloved Marie!" exclaimed her un- 
suspecting lover, " this is happiness ! Ah ! 
if you knew how chilled, how constrained, I 
have felt by the forms and the crowds by 
which we have been surrounded — h sw I have 
pined for a moment to tell you he* dearly, 
during absence, I have cherished your image — 
how beautiful you seemed when I saw you 
again ! — how beautiful you are, even in this 
strange and unfamiliar dress," added he, fol- 
lowing the direction of her eyes towards the 
fountain. 

She allowed him to retain the hand which 
he had taken — it was but for an instant. The 
momentary softening of her heart was gone, 
and she felt as if he could reason him out of 
love, even as she had reasoned herself. She 
was strong in what would be the universal 
opinion ; it would be an act of insanity to al- 
low a girlish preference to interfere with her 
present brilliant hopes — it would be folly, 
nay, presumption, on his part, to talk more 
of love ; still, she would act kindly by him — 
she would impress upon him the impossibility 
of constanc} 1- , and make the necessity of 
change obvious to his own conviction. 

At first her words were hurried and con- 
fused ; and the young Italian, though sta - tJed 
from his fond security, might still ask, had 
he, could he, have heard aright 1 But as 
Marie spoke, her voice grew firm, her antici- 
pations gave strength to her resolves, and she 
really avoided all difficulty by speaking the 
truth. 

" I do not," continued she, " talk about my 
uncle's displeasure, or the obstacles which it 
would entail — I talk to you of myself. I own 
I am changed — I cannot help it ; nature never 
intended me for a heroine of a romance. 1 
despise poverty — I dislike trouble — I enjoy 
the luxury which surrounds me — I delight in 
the homage — and I look to my future husband 
for more settled wealth and more assured rank. 
Of all that I most prize, you can offer me no- 
thing ; and I confess love to be insufficient for 
my happiness. You and Francesca will ever 
be to me my dear and early friends. You — " 

" Say no more, as a last grace !" inter- 
rupted Guido, passionately — ''I ask it at your 
hands. I see it — I feel it all, — your place, 
and my own folly. May the holy Madonna 
keep you from — from ever suspecting the pain 
of knowing that in one little moment life can 
lose every hope. ' 

He sprung so rapidly down the opposite 
path, that Marie almost asked, had she really 
seen him'? But she heard the quick steps 
passing along the gravel walk; she listened 
to their echo with anxiety, even tenderness; 
all became silent, and her heart filled with 
sorrow for the anguish she had inflicted. She 
felt the value of entire affection — the contrast 
forced itself, of love the deep and true, com- 
pared with the falsehood and the selfishness 
by which she was surrounded. A little while, 
and the warm and kindly feelings of long ago 
came back, and she sat down beside the foun 
tain and wept bitterly. 

u2 



234 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

" I loved her ; for her sweet familiar face 
Brought back my earlier self." 

The great fatigue of the day being too 
much for the delicate state of Madame de 
Mercceur's health, she soon retired ; and early 
in the evening she and Francesca found them- 
selves, for the first time, tete-a-tete, and with- 
out fear of interruption. 

The evening was chilly ; some fresh wood 
was heaped on the hearth ; they drew the 
fauteuils closer to the fire and to each other ; 
and felt as if old times and sentiments were 
come again. Past events and past feelings 
soon led to present recollections ; but, to 
Francesca's surprise, the duchesse did not 
seem to consider their position so perfect in 
felicity as it appeared to her guest. 

" What," exclaimed her youthful friend, 
" have you to desire 1 You have rank, wealth, 
favour, health, and a husband who loves you, 
and whom you love, and of whom you may 
well be proud. I like the Due de Mercosur 
so much; and I. should have been sorry not 
to have liked him, Henriette : he is so hand- 
some, so kind, and so silent." 

Madame de Mercosur laughed at silence 
being mentioned as a merit. 

" You may laugh," rejoined Francesca ; 
" but you cannot imagine how bewildered I 
feel by the infinite variety of discourse which 
is here apparently a daily habit. I am talked 
out of my wits ; I have scarcely recovered 
the surprise of the ingenious question, before 
I meet another surprise in the still more inge- 
nious answer. I remember, in the dear old 
pallazzo, and the still dearer pine woods 
around, that we have conversed away hours ; 
but, then, think how interesting were the 
subjects — ourselves. We had the whole fu- 
ture before us ; but here it is yesterday, 
whose sayings and doings are so repeated, as 
if every thing were done that afterwards it 
might be told." 

" The truth is, ma mignorine" replied her 
companion, " we have nothing else to do — 
talking is the business of the idle. We do 
not talk out of the careless gayety of the heart, 
which indulges its hopes, or expresses its 
feelings — we talk for amusement ; we are not 
interested in the doings of others, but we are 
entertained — always supposing, as the narra- 
tor may very well contrive, there is something 
a little absurd in them. We live together in 
society — strangers, rivals, and enemies, hiding 
the envy and hate, which it would be impolitic 
to exhibit. We care nothing for each other ; 
society could not exist a day now, did the 
dislike or the indiffeience rise to the surface. 
Talking is an ingenious contrivance for hiding 
all this. An agreeable compliment conceals 
carelessness ; a pointed phrase gives vent to 
many a suppressed emotion ; and we can veil 
our perfect disregard to what people feel, by a 
most studied attention to what they say. 1 
can assure you, talking is more than an amuse- 
ment — it is a necessity." 



" Well, I shall do my best to learn what 
seems to me a profound science ; but at pre- 
sent, in my astonisment at many of the ques- 
tions put to me, I quite forget that it, is neces- 
sary for me to answer." 

" My dearest Francesca, it is very indiscreet 
ever to be astonished ; and an answer is a sort 
of conversational coin which you should al- 
ways have in readiness." 

" Well, Henriette, what answer have you 
to my question — what have you to desire moro 
than you at present possess V 

" Security. Here we are strangers, depend- 
ants on that vainest of human reliances, court 
favour. I have seen my uncle forced into 
exile by an impericu* and ambitious faction ; 
— true, I, perhaps, should not complain ; for 
it proved, if I had needed proof, the disinte- 
restedness of Mercosur's attachment. He fol- 
lowed me into banishment, and married me 
when the yerj name of Mazarin was the sig- 
nal for popular outcry and contumely." 

"But, now that the cardinal's power is 
more firmly fixed than ever, and yourself so 
happy in your husband and your home—" 

" It is for others that I fear — for my sisters, 
indulging the most golden hopes, depending 
on so many chances, and which must make 
any destiny less brilliant than what they now 
anticipate, and of which they once so little 
dreamed, a disappointment hard to be borne." 

" Yet what is not within } T our reasonable 
expectations 1 I saw from the gallery the 
caresses which the queen so publicly lavished 
upon you all; and, then, the flattering dis- 
tinction of the king appearing in Marie's co- 
lours !" 

" Ah ! it is on Marie's account that I am 
most anxious ; I know how vain is the delu- 
sion she is now cherishing." 

" Yet if Louis did love her — " 

"Louis," interrupted the duchesse, "love 
her ! — it is not in him to love aught but him- 
self. His mother is well aware that she may 
trust him, or Marie Mancini would have been, 
ere this, in a convent. The queen encou- 
rages his intimacy with us — rejoices even at 
his preference; for we amuse him, and are 
less dangerous than any that might carry him 
away from her immediate care. But she 
relies, and safely, upon the selfishness of Louis. 
Let Marie cause him trouble, annoyance, or 
interfere with the slightest of his interests, and 
her hope — her happiness — w T ould be sacrificed 
as things of course. It would never even enter 
his mind that they could be consulted." 

" But Marie — so shrew r d, so penetrating ; is 
it possible that she does not perceive this"?" 

" You have not lived long enough among us 
to know the intoxication of vanity. Marie 
has allowed herself to dwell on one bnJiant 
object till her eyesight is dazzled." 

" But cannot you advise — cannot you warn 
her!" 

" Alas, Francesca ! we are not now in the 
pine groves, where we once talked so freely. 
There is here something in the very air we 
breathe which precludes confidence. W e are 
sisters no longer ; we fancy — ah, how falsely, 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



235 



Jhat our interests are opposed, and that V 
vour extended to one is at the expense ot the 
other. Moreover, yon must remember, even 
as children, Marie was ever more resolute than 
myself; and now, how little would she heed 
remonstrance of mine !" 

" Ah," replied Francesca, after a moment's 
silence, somewhat sad in both, " the air of 
this great city does cause change; a thousand 
illusions seem to have passed away even from 
me. I have, I know not why, a vague fear of 
the future — the future, from which I once 
hoped so much." 

" It must be my care. For the present you 
remain with me, — you will excite less envy 
than if placed immediately about the queen, as 
was at first my wish, and I think you will be 
happier; I feel that I am so myself. You 
know not, dear friend, how much of youth and 
of Italy you bring with you." 

How could Francesca answer, but by affec- 
tionate thanks 1 

" One thing more," added the duchesse : "I 
uav*s not forgotten Guido : I have thought — " 
and here she hesitated — " that all young men 
HVs change. The cardinal will visit Bour- 
r ,nville to-morrow, to see his majesty's pic- 
ure. Guido will there be presented to him, 
and receive his commands for Modena ; he is 
to be the bearer of letters to our cousin. His 
absence will be temporary; so you need not 
weep at parting with your brother." 

Francesca deeply felt the kindness which 
so unobtrusively removed Guido, for the pre- 
sent, from the frequent meeting with Made- 
moiselle Mancini. He was thus spared, that, 
perhaps, worst pang of unrequited affection— 
that of perpetually coming in contact with its 
object — caressed, flattered, beloved, brilliant, 
while you are forgotten, though in sight. 

" You know, Francesca," continued her 
friend, "that you must accustom yourselves 
to separation, for Paris is nearer England than 
Rome." 

" I have seen Mr. Evelyn since my arrival," 
replied Francesca. 

" That is a disappointment to me ! I had 
arranged so many charming adventures, in 
which I was to enact the part of the good 
fairy — settling every thing for the happiness 
of my two lovers. Very provoking of des- 
tiny to have taken the affair into her own 
hands, without my interference. But you 
look grave ! A lover's quarrel, I hope ; I 
shall be delighted to reconcile you." 

" Alas, Henriette ! how little are our feel- 
ings in our control ! I shame to tell you how 
much mine are altered. I endeavour to per- 
suade myself that it is Evelyn who is changed ; 
but I am forced to confess that the fault is my 
own." 

" Well, after this let no one pretend, to be 
sure they know the heart of another ! Why, 
I would have risked my life on your con- 
stancy. You were always so earnest, so 
grave, so much to be relied upon ! I should 
have thought you would have needed another 
Petrarch to celebrate your romantic devotion. 



However, it leaves the field open to me ; 1 
shall soon find you another lover in Paris." 

" I feel that I am incapable of love — no- 
thing can bring back the illusion of my earlier 
and happier belief. But, at least, I hold my 
faith to Mr. Evelyn as sacred as if he still 
were, what I once deemed he was, the only 
hope and object of my existence." 

" We shall see," said the duchesse, laugh- 
ing; "but I am now too tired to enact the 
part of president in the parliament of love,— 
we must leave this knotty point for discussion 
some other night. I own I have my doubts 
about constancy surviving love; but though 
your infidelity makes me not quite certain 
about any thing, yet of one fact I feel tolera- 
bly convinced, which is, that in all places, 
and under all circumstances, I shall love you 
very dearly, and be as anxious for your hap- 
piness as I am at this moment." 

Francesca embraced her friend tenderly, and 
they parted for the night. 



CHAPTER XV. 



" It is a dreadful question, when we love, 
To ask, is love returned ?*' — The Hunchback, 



It had been arranged that Francesca was 
to join Guido at Bournonville's, where he still 
resided, previous to the visit of the cardinal 
and Madame de Mercceur. On her arrival, 
she was surprised to hear that he had not yet 
arisen; but on entering his room, she saw at 
once that he had not been in bed. The apart- 
ment looked into the garden, and a large old 
tree almost darkened the window with the 
heavy foliage of one huge bough ; the case- 
ment was open, and there Guido was leaning, 
his face bowed upon his arm, and so engross- 
ed in his own thoughts, that he did not hear 
Francesca enter. Softly closing the door, she 
approached him with a light step, which, 
however, failed to rouse his attention. 

"Dearest Guido," exclaimed she; but his 
face still remained hidden. With gentle force 
she passed her arm round his neck : " My 
own brother, are you ill'? — you frighten 
me!" 

Half unconsciously he raised his head; and 
his cousin was startled to observe his extreme 
paleness, and the unnatural brightness of his 
eyes. She was herself shivering with the 
chill of the open lattice ; but his hand, as she 
took it, was burning. Making a strong effort 
to appear unconcerned, Guido muttered some- 
thing about the over fatigue of the previous 
day. 

" Now shame, dearest Guido ! what can be 
the cause of untruth to me] when have we 
kept a thought from each other 1 ?" 

Still he remained silent and confused ; when 
Francesca, placing herself beside him on the 
window seat, said, intones of the most tender 
affection, " Guido, we are here alone, in a 
strange place — orphans, with scares a frend 



236 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



save each other ; where may we place confi- 
dence but in GUI-selves'? If we bar out love 
from our own hearts, where shall we ever find 
it again? Speak to me — to your own Fran- 
cesca. What sorrow can you have that will 
not be a sorrow to me also ?" 

Hesitatingly and reluctant at first, but 
warmed into passionate expression as he pro- 
ceeded, Guido at length detailed his interview 
with Mademoiselle Mancini, interrupted but 
by Francesca's soothing ejaculations of pity 
and of anger; for at first she felt too much to 
say half the rational things she had intended. 

" But, dearest Guido," at length she ven- 
tured to whisper, " you seem to me to be 
scarcely aware of the great change which has 
taken place in the situation of our friends. 
Adopted children of him who is almost a king 
in this great country, to what honours may 
the3 r not aspire] — while we — " 

"Ah, Francesca!" he exclaimed, " do you 
think I do not see my folly — my weak, mise- 
rable, extravagant folly, in believing that the 
deep devotion of one loving heart could reckon 
for aught in this gay chaos ? You think that 
only one dream has vanished — you know not 
how many sprang out of that one. Marie has 
ever been the aim of all my hope, the reward 
of all my ambition. I imagined myself capa- 
ble of so much, and for her sake! I awaken 
from the delusion, and ask, Where is there 
any thing like truth in all the visions which 
have been to me the prophecies of future life? 
Deceived in one, shows me how deceived I 
am in all. Poor, friendless, solitary — what 
have I to live for?" 

"Friendless and solitary !" replied Frances- 
ca, reproachfully ; " at this moment, my bro- 
ther, I could lay down my life to spare the 
pain you are suffering." 

"My own sweetest sister!" exclaimed he, 
drawing her tenderly towards him. 

" Marie was never worthy of you. Vain, 
she sought but for flattery, where you gave 
affection ; selfish, she thought only of her own 
rrassing amusement, heedless of the pain 
which she inflicted on you. In her childish 
pleasures, herself was ever the first object; 
and now, ambitious and calculating, she 
grasps at more glittering toys, to gratify the 
same vanity in a higher form, and with in- 
terest instead of amusement for her object. 
She is incapable of caring for any one but 
herself." 

"Francesca, you are too severe. She did 
love me once; but absence, and, as you must 
own yourself, the temptations by which she 
's surrounded — " 

Francesca was about to contradict him — 
the next moment she checked the impulse ; 
if it was any consolation, why not let him 
think that he was once beloved ? " It seems 
lo me dear Guido, that youth has passed away 
from us both," — this was the philosophy of 
tighteen — " for, young as 'we are, how differ- 
ent every thing appears to what it did ! But 
a few months since, how we looked forward 
to our arrival in Paris ! Now it would be our 
greatest happiness to leave it. But alas! 



could we bear returning to our former homa 
with such altered hearts ?" 

"Yet, why should you feel thus? — v" 
have seen Evelyn, and he is unchanged.' 

" In words, but not in himself. Holy 
saints ! to think that I should feel his absence 
a relief, and look forward to his return with 
dread !" 

" I must leave France," said Guido, abrupt- 
ly ; his own feelings yet too fresh to admit 
of sympathy with those of his cousin's, which, 
in his heart, he thought somewhat fanciful; 
"what do I want with the cardinal's patro- 
nage? — the world is before me, and Made- 
moiselle Mancini shall not see one suing for 
her favour who once hoped for her love." 

" Madame de Mercceur," replied Frances- 
ca, " was telling me last night, that, aware 
of her uncle needing some one in whom he 
could place confidence, as the bearer of letters 
to the Duchesse of Modena, she had mentioned 
you, and that his eminence was pleased to de- 
cide upon employing you." 

" And so," returned Guido, colouring with 
mortification, " it was soon decided that I was 
to be sent out of the way ?" 

" If there was any intention in Madame de 
Mercosur's plan, it was with the view of spar- 
ing, not hurting, your feelings," said Fran- 
cesca, soothingly. 

" Henriette — Madame de Mercosur," conti- 
nued he, correcting himself, " was always 
good and kind." 

" And so she is still ; the same Henriette 
who never came without some choice leaf oi 
flower for my poor grandfather. I remain 
w r ith her till your return, and it will then be 
time enough to decide on our future plans. 
But the cardinal will soon be here ; so I shall 
go, and lend an attentive ear to Mons. Bour- 
nonville's raptures about le superbe jeune roi, 
&c, while you attend to your toilette. Look 
nere!" said she, passing her fingers through 
the tangled masses of his long dark hair, and 
parting it on his forehead : — she turned deadly 
pale — for there was blood upon her hands ! 

" It is nothing," exclaimed Guido, with a 
faint smile. 

Francesca kissed him in silence, and left 
the room ; but it was sometime before she 
had resolution to join Bournonville. 

" Mon Dieu ! mademoiselle !" exclaimed 
the fluttered artist ; " his eminence the cardi- 
nal — and he may be here in five minutes! 
For the love of the saints, help me to place 
his portrait on the easel — there, there," — giv- 
ing it a touch or two — " I am working at — " 

" But," said Francesca, " it is the picture 
of the king which he comes to see." 

" Good, good ; I can reach that down.when 
he comes. Madelon, burn some sandal-wood 
on the stairs ; and, Madelon, when I look at 
the picture of tragedj r , with the dagger and 
cup, go you, without my telling, into the cel- 
lar — here is the key — and bring up a bottle of 
Burgundy : if his excellency is in a good hu- 
mour, I may venture to offer it him ; and, Ma- 
delon, your best confitures for Madame do 
Mercceur. Ah, mademoiselle, you are toe 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



237 



good," for Francesca had knelt down to assist 
m unfastening the cords of a package, which 
Corregio, in his haste, was rather tightening 
than loosening. A small hut exquisite Ma- 
donna was produced — " Leave the cords about 
that; his eminence may observe it is only 
opened in honour of his arrival." . 

As Guido entered, a carriage was heard 
slowly rolling into the court-yard. Bournon- 
ville flew down to receive his expected visit- 
ers, and almost involuntarily, the cousins 
drew closer together. Guido grew paler — he 
only recollected that the cardinal was the un- 
cle of Marie ; while Francesca trembled and 
coloured with anxiety, that he should make a 
favourable impression. 

The door flew open, and Bournonville first 
appeared, walking backwards, swinging to 
and fro the cassolette containing the perfumed 
wood, and followed by the cardinal, leaning 
on his niece's arm. 

Madame de Mercosur advanced, and extend- 
ing both hands to Guido, addressed him with 
the utmost kindness. 

"I shall soon," said she, smiling, "be 
ashamed to confess what very old friends we 
are;" then, leading the strangers to the car- 
dinal, presented them to him, adding, "their 
name will be familiar to you, for the fresco in 
your oratory .once belonged to the Carraras." 

Each dropped on a knee before him, while 
Mazarin looked at them for a moment in si- 
lence, evidently struck by their great and 
peculiar beauty. " You might know them 
^or Romans," he observed, " all the world 
yver ; but rise, my children, and the blessing 
"v the saints be upon you!" His eye now 
rented,, as the painter intended it should, on 
his own likeness : " Holy Madonna ! but, 
Monsieur Bournonville, I owe you some grati- 
tude; pray how many years have you taken 
off]" 

Before Bournonville could give utterance to 
'-he flattering assurances that rose in their tens 
of thousands in his mind, the cardinal's atten- 
tion was fixed on the Madonna — seemingly 
carelessly, but, in reality, most skilfully dis- 
played. 

" Raphael ! by all that is beautiful !" ex- 
claimed Mazarin, examining the picture with 
much attention. "How long has it been in 
your possession ?" 

" Just arrived — a little speculation of mine, 
and only hastily opened, from a desire to have 
its merit appreciated by so admirable a judg- 
ment as that of your excellency." 

"What do you think of it 1 ?" asked the 
cardinal, turning to Guido, who gave a warm, 
and, gradually, an enthusiastic opinion of its 
beauties. 

The conversation now turned entirely on 
worksof art, and the cardinal evidently took 
much interest in the fervour with which Guido 
dwelt on the subject. The love of art, which 
was with Mazarin a passion, seems to have 
been the only sign in him of that poetry which 
is part of the Italian character ; but there is 
no mind, however wordly, without some ideal 
enjoyment ; and his was in his superb collec- 



tion of paintings. He pointed out the " glorious 
spoil which hung his storied walls" to a 
friend on his death-bed, and said, "Is it not 
hard to leave all these behind ]" The enthu- 
siasm and freshness of Guido, too, attracted 
him. There is an inexpressible charm to 
politic and care-worn age in the hopes which 
can never more be its own, and the illusions 
which can never again lend a grace to the 
beaten path of existence. It is memory that 
makes the old indulgent to the young. The 
cardinal, moreover, deemed Guido's admira- 
tion and love the more reasonable, as they 
were lavished on his own favorite object. 

Bournonville was able to look at tragedy — . 
her cup and dagger — with perfect compla- 
cency; the Burgundy was tasted; and, at 
length, Mazarin departed, leaving them all 
convinced that he was a very great man, who 
deservedly filled the high station of France's 
prime minister. Yet, notwithstanding his 
present condescension, Mazarin was not popu- 
lar, neither had he popular manners — they 
were not what he affected ; and he was right. 
It is the man who is feared — not the man who 
is loved — that succeeds in the world. Refuse 
a favour, and all your gracious smiles, your 
kind words, aye, and even your really kind 
feelings, are utterly forgotten. But be neces- 
sary ; let men have aught to hope from you ; 
forward in any way their interests — and it 
matters not how you do it; be harsh, abrupt, 
insolent, and it will only be "your way." 
People would, to be sure, rather obtain their 
object by trampling upon you; but, sooner 
than not obtain it, they will let you trample 
upon them. Civility is not only troublesome, 
but it is waste. To vary the old simile, peo- 
ple 'in general are like sweet herbs — they 
require crushing, not for their sakes, but foi 
your own. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

" How does the heart deceive itself, and feed upon a 
future which will never be !" 

All arrangements for the monow's depart- 
ure were soon completed. Tho day passed 
away in that hurry which makes it seem so 
shurt, and in the many little cares, so few of 
which ever answer their purpose, and which 
yet appear so indispensable to the feminine 
affection from which they generally emanate. 
Night came at last, and Bournonville, after 
much good advice, in which the gouvernante 
cordially joined — touching the necessity of 
early going to bed where there was a neces- 
sity for early rising — and after many good 
wishes, left the cousins to themselves. To 
those who had never before parted for even a 
day, there was something almost terrible in 
separation. Francesca had rejoiced in the 
thought of Guido's absence ; but it now rosa 
before her with all its possible perils and evils. 
Absence, like every other pang, weakens bj 
repetition ; the friend who has once returne*' 



238 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



in safety may return so again — we soon draw 
precedents from the past. She had to say 
farewell for the first time, and whatever we 
do not know, we always exaggerate. They 
sat together, with clasped hands, till the si- 
lence was suddenly broken by Guido, who 
had been intently watching a small bright 
flame, which, after having struggled for some 
time with the smoke around, sunk into dark- 
ness. 

•' Franceses," exclaimed he, " that is my 
embCem ! Did you mark that little blaze, 
how it has striven, and how it has perished 1 
It had in it the germ of the glorious and lovely, 
but it had no open space wherein to expand ; 
the heavy vapour oppressed it — other and 
brighter flames obscured its weakness — and 
now it has gone quite out. I see our resem- 
blance. I, too, have in me a gift of power 
and of loveliness ; but it is power that will 
be subdued, and loveliness that will die un- 
developed. I feel around me, the iron weight 
of circumstance — I am oppressed by the 
heavy vapour of hopelessness — and lo ! I go, 
and my place will be no more seen." 

" But that I have no heart for chiding to- 
night," replied Francesca, " dear Guido, I 
should blame this weakness, which creates 
the misfortune it deplores. It is the adverse 
circumstance that gives the triumph. Were 
I a man, I should delight in difficulties — I 
should desire toil, exertion, and obstacles. 
Let the world be before me, and I Would 
make my way in it. I cannot understand 
sinking under any shape that adversity could 
take; I should enjoy the struggle in my 
strong belief of the success." 

" I cannot force myself into hoping," an- 
swered Guido, in the same low and melancholy 
tone. " Even in my happiest moments, while 
the grass was crowded with flowers beneath 
me — the sweet monotony of the running water 
•n mine ear, only broken by the cheerful chant 
»f the grasshopper ; the boughs of the chestnut 
filled with sunshine, dazzling my eyes, till 
che golden air seemed thronged with lovely 
shapes — even then came pale and mournful 
shadows, whose white faces looked upon me 
pityingly. Even then, darkness, but a speck 
at first, would spread and spread till it over- 
hung the atmosphere ; and I would lie doubt- 
ing and mournful, and encompassed by night." 

" And what was this, my beloved brother, 
but a vain yielding to unbridled imagination, 
which, like a spring confined to one spot, 
collects its pure clear waters, and is at once a 
beauty and a blessing; but which, allowed to 
spread abroad in every direction, oozes through 
the marshy earth, becomes stagnant, and is 
habited by the loathsome reptile. That which 
would have been a green haunt, with its fair 
fountain, is a dreary and useless quagmire. 
Is it not thus with the mind, Guido ?" 

lie made no reply ; and Francesca was too 
anx^us for his taking some rest previous to 
his journey, to pursue their discourse. The 
next morning she rose early ; but as she bent 
over Guido's pillow to awaken him, she 
started to observe how oppressed was his 



breathing, and how feverish his slumber. " It 
is evidently the rest of complete exhaustion — 
sleep won by hours of weary restlessness." 
She had not the heart to rouse him, and 
seated herself watchfully beside, while th& 
fear of his being ill when far away, made her 
heart sink with affectionate apprehension. 
"Yet it is best he should go," — and, for the 
first time, the sense of her own utter loneli- 
ness, when he should be gone, rose sadly be- 
fore her. 

"Great God!" exclaimed she, stepping 
softly to the window, which commanded the 
view of many streets, " to think, amid this 
multitude of human beings, we have neither 
kindred nor friends — not one to care for our 
welfare, not one to rejoice in our joy, not one 
to sorrow in our sorrow." 

As she spoke, her heart reproached her with 
Henriette's kindness — still, it was kindness 
only ; how many hopes, fears, and cares, 
would she have, in which Madame de Mer- 
cosur could have no share! "Guido has 
made me fanciful. I am unthankful for the 
good which has really fallen to our share. 
Henriette is very, very kind — how glad I 
ought to be of such powerful protection ! And 
my brother — this journey will do him good ; 
the sight of our own dear Italy will be inspi- 
ration to him — again he will feel the excite- 
ment of praise, and he will return eager and 
hopeful." Yet, as she kissed his brow !• 
waken him, she left her tears upon his 
cheek. 

The bustle of a departure suspends every 
thing but itself; and it was not till Guido 
rode out of the court-yard, that Francesca re- 
membered, or fancied she remembered, a 
thousand things that yet remained to say. 
Fortunately for her, Bournonville was too 
much occupied to administer more than a 
word of consolation in passing ; and she re- 
mained in the window-seat, watching the 
gateway through which he rode, as if she, 
every moment, expected him to return. 

Suddenly she started from her seat, the bell 
rung, and a horseman entered, the dark gray 
colour of the horse made her heart beat; but 
in an instant she saw that the rider was too 
tall to be Guido. He dismounted, and drop- 
ped the cloak which had hitherto concealed 
his face, and showed the countenance of Eve- 
lyn. 

Francesca sunk back. "And do I feel no 
happier that he is returned'?" But it was in 
vain to persuade herself that she was glad 
Her hand was extended readily to him when 
he entered, but it was cold and trembling; 
however, he seemed perfectly satisfied, and 
was eloquent in his praises of her improved 
beauty in the French costume. 

"1 find here all loyalty and festivity. What 
a charming example for England to follow !" 

" The scene yesterday was splendid." 

" Did you venture out in the crowd to see 
it 1 ?" asked the visiter. 

" I was not so bold ; but thanks to the 
Duchesse de Mercosur's kindness, witnessed 
the whole from the gallery of the palace." 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



239 



"You have, then, seen your old friends the 
Mancinis?" 

" I am residing with Madame de Mercceur; 
and only remained here last night, that I 
might see Guido set off. He is charged with 
a commission of the cardinal's in M odena." 

"Residing with Madame de Mercosur! 
you could not be more agreeably placed," 
replied Evelyn; yet the expression of his face 
belied his words. Meeting Francesca's eyes, 
he added, " for your own sake — for mine, 1 
must regret aught that places ceremony or 
distance between us." 

She was saved the trouble of a reply, by 
the announcement of Madame de Mercosur's 
coach, sent to fetch her; and as Evelyn 
handed her in, he said, "I shall wait upon 
you this evening. Mazarin's fair nieces hold 
almost a court, and I will find some one to 
present me, for your sweet sake." 

Francesca could only say something indis- 
tinctly about pleasure, &c; and the ponder- 
ous machine rolled off at a rate little calcu- 
lated to disturb any meditation in which she 
might please to indulge. 

Evelyn's train of thought was far the most 
agreeable of the two. " If I had for a mo- 
ment," thought he, "renounced my old belief 
in luck, I should resume its worship with all 
possible speed. Mark now what fortune has 
done for me ; well does she deserve my entire 
trust. Meeting the pretty Italian was enough 
in itself; and now she promises to be as ser- 
viceable as she is charming. Without money 
our enterprise must fall to the ground. All 
hope of obtaining it from the pope through 
De Rctz is at end — that negotiation has been 
most judiciously kept out of sight. Well, 
Ave must turn to Mazarin. I hear much of 
the influence his nieces possess ; let me try 
what it can do for us. I must not expect a 
great deal from Francesca: shy, proud, and 
cold, her very beautiful face will never be of 
half the use it ought to be. Why, in her 
place, I should dispute the heart of the young 
king with the Mancini. By-the-by, a little 
flattery will not be ill-bestowed in that quar- 
ter, if she possess the power with Louis 
which is usually ascribed to her. Puppet 
though he be, in the hands of his mamma and 
her minister, his good pleasure would go for 
something. Ay, give us but a small present 
supply, and a hope of future assistance — 
which, if we succeeded, it would be policy to 
accord — and I wager my head, that the fire 
we should kindle in the west of England 
would soon spread over the whole island." 

The great popularity of the Stuarts — cer- 
tainly more allied to personal causes than we 
can at present calculate — is a curious fact. It 
was not one of those feelings drawn from 
hoar antiquity, when habit has become reli- 
gion. No — their ascension to the throne was 
of recent occurrence. Neither were they 
grafted into the heart by that enthusiasm 
which, more than all others, dazzles and de- 
lights, viz. military renown. No victories, 
no conquests, excited the imagination, and 
confounded theirs and the glory of England 



together. Their reigns had been most pacific, 
and their few warlike attempts unsuccessful; 
and yet what devotion and attachment they 
inspired ! — fortune, liberty, and life, were 
yielded, and joyfully, in their cause. Wrongs 
were forgiven ; violated privileges and out- 
raged laws forgotten ; and nothing but the 
still mightier spirit of fanaticism could have 
been opposed with any success to the spirit 
of loyalty. It was Charles's bigotry that cost 
him his crown. If he had given up the bi- 
shops, uncurled his hair, and spoken through 
his nose, he might have been an absolute 
monarch in all but name. As it was, he con- 
trived to die a martyr, and to be mourned with 
a degree of personal affection which one, now- 
a-days, scarcely expects from the nearest and 
dearest friends. 

Evelyn was but one of many. Reckless, 
loving pleasure and ease; with much of 
worldly wealth and aggrandizement to tempt 
him on the other side of the question; yet 
was he heart and soul devoted to the Stuarts — 
prepared to sacrifice his own enjoyment, risk 
his life ; in short, to be all but actually disin- 
terested ; and, indeed, his only drawback to 
that, was his cordial hatred to the Roundheads. 

It may easily be supposed, with these mo- 
tives, that he was an early visiter that evening 
at Madame de Mercosur's, where his reception 
was most gracious. For a brief while he 
forgot all his intended flatteries of the Manci- 
nis, in his admiration of Francesca's beauty. 

The appearance of your lover — known to 
be such — among your intimate friends, is em- 
barrassing enough to any girl, who anticipates 
their remarks, and foresees their railleries. 
To Francesca, little accustomed to strangers, 
and, moreover, embarrassed and anxious in 
herself, it was enough to give the brilliant 
colour that reddened her cheek, and added to 
the light of her large black eyes — the more 
striking, from the Avhite powdered hair; 
whereas, in general, they were shaded by the 
dark tresses now so differently adorned. She 
was, perhaps, more strictly beautiful, with 
her statue-like head in its own native dark- 
ness ; but use is every thing, and fashion still 
more. Besides, Evelyn was accustomed to 
associate an idea of distinction with a certain 
mode of dress. Francesca's peculiar and 
high-bred air — so easy to feel, so difficult to 
define — flattered his prejudice for rank, at that 
time so broadly marked. 

But their conversation was soon interrupted ; 
for Mademoiselle Mancini, w T ho had her own 
motives for the attention, came across the 
room exclaiming, " Since you do not remem 
ber me — " 

"Nay," answered Evelyn, "it is I who 
wait upon your memory." 

" Ah, I thought you were going to make 
the usual remark, that really I am so im- 
proved since I left Italy — " 

"Pardon me," interrupted Evelyn , "this 
usual remark is not mine. I own I can see 
no improvement — perhaps it was impossible." 

" Seriously," — this was said with a very 
gracious smile — " I am truly glad to see voc 



240 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



it is something- not to have lost your head in 
England. But, now, do tell us all your ad- 
ventures ; and, remember, we expect you to 
be very amusing-." 

This " we" might have been rendered " I ;" 
for Marie soon contrived to engross the young 
cavalier's attention. The truth was, that 
Louis's attraction towards her had proceeded 
far enough for jealousy ; he had more than 
once questioned her with evident pique about 
the attentions she received from many of the 
aspirants either to her or to her uncle's favour. 
She deemed it injudicious to encourage any ; 
and yet the time often hung heavily on her 
hands. Now, Evelyn was a perfectly safe 
person, and y^t both handsome and entertain- 
ing, — moreover, evidently well inclined to 
offer that incense in which she delighted. She 
might amuse herself with him, and yet have 
ready the unobjectionable answer of, "An old 
friend, known ages ago in Italy — when he 
was, as he is now, a very devoted slave of 
my pretty friend the Signora Carrara." This 
reply effecting a double purpose; for Marie 
had not been too well pleased the other even- 
ing at Louis's glance of admiration at this said 
pretty friend. It was as well to let him know 
that the ground was pre-occupied ; and the 
king was quite young enough to be deterred 
by a rival. 

The conversation on both sides proceeded 
with so much animation, that neither had a 
word for Francesca. She sat silent and lonely ; 
left to ruminate at her leisure on the solitude 
of society. She heard around her gay con- 
verse, in which she had no share ; and laugh- 
ter, in which she was little tempted to join. 
She observed every face, and, still more mi- 
nutely, every dress in the room; and, despite 
of what philosophers say of its charms, found 
the task of observation very tiresome — she 
would have preferred a little participation. 
She could just hear the voices of Marie and 
Evelyn, without being able to distinguish 
what they said; but could perceive that they 
were amused, which she was not. Now, one 
may be very well content to renounce a lover; 
but it is very disagreeable to have him taken 
away. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

" We must make 
The heart a grave, and in it bury deep 
lis young and beautiful feelings." 

Barry Cornwall. 

" I think our young Englishman so much 
improved," said Madame de Mercoeur, the 
next morning; "and as I take it for granted 
that you have found out, by this time, that 
your inconstancy was one of those mistakes 
which the heart will sometimes make, I have 
invited him to Compeigne. Now do allow that 
there is such a thingas friendship in the world." 

" I never denied it," said Francesca, who, 
however, wished that the friendship had shown 
ts activity in any other shape. She could not 



deceive herself; neither pique nor flattery 
could bring back her old feeling for Evelyn. 
Every hour some sentiment of his, carelessly 
expressed, jarred upon the inmost chords of 
her heart. All that she had from infancy re- 
vered as high and generous, was to him mat- 
ter of ridicule; he did not even pay virtue the 
compliment of belief in its existence. Then 
his insincerity perpetually revolted her. The 
present circle were always flattered — not so 
much by any set phrase of compliment, but by 
his desire to please ; while the absent, with 
him, realized the old proverb, " Us avoieni tou- 
jours tort." Their faults grew suddenly per- 
ceptible, and their absurdities an unfailing 
subject of mimicry. All these, in his hands, 
became singularly amusing. Francesca, who 
had little knowledge, and no envy, of the in- 
dividuals so relentlessly caricatured, could not 
help being entertained. While their more 
intimate friends, whose competitors they were, 
who had a thousand small jealousies to be 
gratified, and divers little grudges almost un- 
consciously treasured up, placed no bounds to 
their encouragement. Still, it w r as a mirth 
that left, as sarcasm always does, its doubt 
and its depression. Human nature avenges 
itself by suspicion. First there comes the 
internal and unerring whisper, As others have 
been used, so shall we; and, secondly, we 
are in our hearts a little ashamed of our own 
enjoyment, — we feel how contemptible it is, 
thus to revel in, and exult, over, our neigh- 
bour's faults, follies, and misfortunes. Our 
very selfishness rebukes us. And if the many 
are^thus actuated, what must it have been 
with Francesca, whose life had passed in a 
small and affectionate circle, with all the fresh, 
warm feelings of youth about it? where there 
might have been angry words to the face, but 
to the face only. While from their lovely 
climate, the poets native to their sweet south, 
the old ruins hallowed with the memories of 
other days, the lovely paintings, the still di- 
viner statues, which had been their constant 
companions — the character had imperceptibly 
caught a tone of romance, calculated long to 
resist the inroads of worldliness and deceit. 

On Marie Mancini the- effect had been but 
slight. There was an innate little selfishness 
in her, which defied the finer influences. In 
Madame de Mercosur they were neutralized 
by a total deficiency of imagination. She 
was kind, good, and even penetrating, when 
enlightened by the affections ; but head is 
required for the very highest qualities of the 
heart, and those were beyond Madame de 
Mercoeur. 

In Guido the imagination had taken one 
peculiar bent, and given one peculiar talent. 
In Francesca it was more generally diffused ; 
it gave something of poetry — her feeling of 
beauty was more keen, her reverence for the 
good more exalted, and her perception of the 
generous more strong, from native sympathy. 
Evelyn's faults were, therefore, of a kind 
eminently calculated to disgust one whose 
mind was so high-toned and so ideal. Still, 
there were times when she bitterly reproached 



FRANCESCA CARRARA 



241 



• herself, and thought, " I ought to have seen 
these faults before, or I ought to be blind to 
them now ;" and by a sort of compromise 
with her conscience, resolved to make up in 
fidelity what she wanted in tenderness. 

Previous, however, to their following the 
court to Compeigne, Monsieur de Mercoeur 
having gone to join the army, the duchesse 
resolved on passing a week at the Carmelite 
convent. 

The superstition which once taught us to 
believe that prayer and penance brought down 
their blessing on some beloved one was at 
least a kindly one. The affections or earth 
grew at once more tender and more spiritual, 
thus elevated and purified by an intercourse 
with heaven. The court was dissipated, 
worldly, false,- — even as human nature has 
ever been from the beginning, and will be 
even unto the end ; but there, also, human 
nature asserted its better part, and had its 
deeper feelings and its higher hopes. Many 
a 3 r oung and lovely woman, whose feet knew 
but the pleasant paths of prosperity, and whose 
ear was familiar but with the voice of the 
flatterer, would voluntarily offer up a portion 
of her time, as her holiest sacrifice ; and on 
the straw pallet, and in the serge robe, take a 
profound lesson of the vanities which made 
up ordinary existence. To these vanities, it 
is true, they returned ; but surely not without 
a stronger humility, and some thoughts which, 
even in the world, were God's own. 

Madame de Mercoeur was at first unwilling 
that Francesca should share her seclusion ; 
but her young companion was too much in 
earnest to be refused. Francesca was still 
depressed by her recent parting with Guido, 
and clung to Henriette as her only friend, — 
she would have felt so utterly alone with 
Marie ; besides she, too, wished to pray for 
the absent and the dear. 

It was a gloomy evening when they arrived. 
A small, drizzling rain, chill and damp, 
seemed to relax the fibres of the body, even 
as it did their hair, which fell over the face 
heavy and uncomfortable. The wind howled 
with a sudden gust, as the gates of the con- 
vent swung on their sullen hinges, and sound- 
ed almost like a human voice in its agony or 
in its-despair, as it swept through the vaulted 
corridors. 

They were conducted first into the presence 
of the abbess — a harsh, severe-looking wo- 
man, stately and reserved — one who seemed 
never to have known youth or emotion ; — 
a breathing machine, pursuing, day after day, 
a monotonous round of habits rather than du- 
ties, and impassive rather than content. They 
were then conducted to their separate cells, 
where they were left for the night. 

Francesca felt oppressed as she, gazed on 
the bare -vails, the wooden pallet, the crucifix 
at the foot, where the wan light of the ill- 
supplied lamp gave a strange ghastliness to 
the dying agony of the Saviour. She turned 
to _ the casement, on which the moon was 
shining; for the high wind had driven aside 
he clouds, whose huge dark masses threat- 

Vol. I.— 31 



ened soon to eclipse the pale and dim circle 
of passing light. The window opened on a 
square court-yard, paved, and surrounded by 
the heavy building, whose high dead walls 
seemed to repel the gaze. 

The imagination of the Italian, accustomed 
to the picturesque convents of her native land, 
shrank from the sterile austerity around. 
" Alas !" thought she, " can the Almighty 
Benefactor, who delighteth in the work of his 
hands — who has covered the fair earth with 
beauty as with a garment, can he take plea- 
sure in the penance which fills this sullen edi- 
fice] Why are we sent into life, but to share 
in life's sympathies and struggles'? Methinks 
it is not well, thus to make a fenced boundary 
of that devotion which should mingle with 
and aid every action of existence." 

Again the wind drove the dark vapours 
across the moon ; a heavy rain began to pour 
down ; and casting one more glar.^e round the 
gloomy quadrangle, she felt it a relief + o gaze 
on a medal of the Madonna, which n^ar 
around her neck. It recalled all the vivid 
hopes and beliefs of her childhood, when she 
was wont to kneel before some lovely image, 
till the face seemed to smile encouragement, 
and the little supplicant felt as if beneath a 
mother's eye. This period had long since 
passed ; the discursive reading, the enlight- 
ened discourse of her grandfather, had cast 
her mind in a different mould to the usual 
superstition of her country; but faith and love 
were only more pure and perfect in a soul too 
innocent not to be religious. 

At the morrow's early matins, Francesca's 
attention was particularly drawn towards one 
nun. Sister Louise was still in the early pe- 
riod of youth, but it was youth from which 
bloom had utterly departed. The features 
were thin, even to emaciation, and cheek and 
lip were alike colourless; while this deadly 
paleness rendered more remarkable the large 
lustrous black eyes, filled with all the light 
of excited fervour. But when the enthusiasm 
of devotion died away, as it were, with the 
dying notes of the anthem, the whole face 
wore the impress of fixed melancholy, to 
which there could be no hope but beyond the 
grave. 

" That is Mademoiselle d'Epernon," re- 
plied Madame de Mercoeur, in answer to her 
friend's inquiry : " I can scarcely recognise 
her. "When I first arrived in Paris, she was 
among the most celebrated of our youthful 
beauties — one whose destiny promised to be 
as brilliant as herself. The crown of Poland 
was offered for her acceptance; when she 
announced her intention of retiring from the 
world. Prayer and remonstrance were alike 
in vain ; and she took the veil before she was 
nineteen." 

The attraction between Louise (for so she 
was always called) and Francesca was mu- 
tual, and they soon became constant compa- 
nions during the few leisure moments thai 
the constant succession of religious offices 
permitted. Worked up to a high pitch of 
devotional entuhsiasm, Louise was energetic 



242 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



in the performance of penance, and fervid in 
psalm and prayer; bat from all other duties 
she shrunk with disgust, and never volunta- 
rily participated in the ordinary employments 
of her associates. A convent to her had evi- 
dently been the refuge of the bruised spirit 
and of the broken heart. At first, Rome was 
the great theme of their discourse. Rome, 
the mighty mother of the Christian faith, 
whose amphitheatres had been red with the 
blood of the saints, and where the pilgrimage 
and the miracle still testified to the truth. 
But it was not likely that conversation be- 
tween two very young persons should always 
keep to this exalted strain ; the feelings are 
sure to follow close upon imaginings, and 
confidence is natural to youth. 

Francesca had been so long accustomed to 
have every thought spring from the heart to 
the lip, that the restraint so familiar to those 
with whom she had of late associated, op- 
pressed and chilled her. Reserve and dis- 
trust seemed equally painful and unnatural ; 
it was too soon for the pride of art, which sup- 
ports so many through winding and rugged 
pathways. 

Louise, bred up amid strict forms and 
courtly observances, perhaps found the far 
greater relief. To talk of herself and of her 
feelings, with the entire conviction of affec- 
tionate attention in the listener, was a new 
sensation. Besides, there was now such a 
wide and such an irretrievable gulf opened 
between her present and the past, that she 
referred to the days of her youth with a de- 
light like that of age, which recalls mourn- 
fully and tenderly, joys and sorrows which 
never more can disturb a pilgrimage, which 
is even now passing through the valley of the 
shadows of death. The monastic seclusion 
of sister Louise was like old age, inasmuch 
as all events and emotions in life was left far 
behind; all emotions, did we say 1 ? — not so. 
There are some that will rise even at the foot 
of the altar, and will haunt the pillow, how- 
ever guarded by penance and by prayer. 
These remembrances would have been less 
vivid had Mademoiselle d'Epernon remained 
in the world : love would have become its 
own atheist, as it found of what changeable 
and finite material that passion was formed, 
which once seemed so eternal; and the sin- 
gle disappointment on which she now dwelt 
would have grown supportable from compa- 
nionship. Mademoiselle d'Epernon, in the 
gay and varied pathway of busier life, would 
have almost lost the image, now so constant 
and so precious. 

At the back of the convent, was a large 
though neglected garden. Fruit and yew- 
trees mingled together; and in some of the 
more sunny patches, one or two of the nuns 
had cultivated some carnations, whose green 
buds were just beginning to take the small 
globular form, which, as yet, had no beauty 
but that of promise. 
„" I observe," said Francesca to her compa- 
:'cn, " that you have no flowers." 
" I have not patience to cultivate them," 



replied Louise: " I planted some once; bu v 
poor things, they soon perished for want ot 
care. I used to love them; but now my 
thoughts wander away from tho flowers to 
their recollections — to all that should be so 
utterly banished from my meditations." 

Perhaps there is not a situation in the 
world so confidential as pacing up and down 
some shady walk, arm in arm. The freedom 
of that freest element, the air, communicates 
itself to the thoughts; the green obscurity 
of the closing branches overhead re-assures 
timidity ; the motion gives its own activity, 
and dissipates the nervous restlessness ever 
attendant on excitement. Your face is neces- 
sarily a little averted from your companion's, 
though not enough to prevent you marking 
the attention given. Then the chance which 
led to your choice of subject was so accident- 
al, the discourse has proceeded so gradually, 
that restraint has melted away from the lip, 
and reserve from the heart, almost before the 
speaker is aware that the secret soul has 
found its way in words. 

" I can scarcely," said the nun, as she com- 
plied with Francesca's request that she w T ould 
trace the progress of the change — seemingly 
so strange and sudden — which sent the youth- 
ful beauty from the court to the cloister, " re- 
call one sorrow or one disappointment in my 
earlier life. T had good health, a gay temper, 
and was surrounded by indulgence and affec- 
tion, — from my father, of whom I was the 
darling plaything, to my nurse, whose princi- 
pal object in existence w T as myself. 

" The court was at its very gayest, when, 
on our return from England, my age allowed 
me to participate in the festivities which were 
the order of the day. The sombre austerity 
of the late king had disappeared with himself 
— the dissensions, whose echoes have pierced 
even these walls, had not then commenced. 
There was some truth in the flattery which 
said, that the queen ruled all France with a 
smile. But the pleasantest time of our life 
leaves the lightest impression ; or, perhaps, 
one deep feeling has absorbed all memory, as 
it has destroyed all hope. I am astonished 
to think how little I remember of all the light 
fancies and vanities which made the delight 
of my first two years at court. 

" Perhaps you have heard that there was 
once some purpose of marriage between the 
Due de Joyeuse and myself; it is of that 
which I have to tell. Even in your brief ex- 
perience of society, you must have discovered 
that its success has its chances. There are 
some evenings when you succeed, you scarce- 
ly know why, and the homage of one seems 
only to attract that of another. It was on such 
an evening that I first met the Due de Joy- 
euse. I danced with him, and he scarcely 
spoke to me ; — perhaps the contrast had its 
effect, for that night my silent cavalier was 
the only one who obtained a second thought. 
I felt a vague desire to see him again ; I won- 
dered whether he was always so reserved; 1 
endeavoured to recall the few words which 
he had said ; and rose the next morning eager 



FRANCESCA CARRARA 



243 



and impatient, expecting I knew not what. 
How long the morning seemed ! I scarcely 
heard a word that was said to me ; I could 
keep my attention to nothing. I went to a 
ball in the evening. My eyes fixed involun- 
tarily on the door; every one seemed to enter 
excepting the one whom I could not help an- 
ticipating in every new arrival. I danced 
without spirit; I found the evening weari- 
some; I complained of fatigue; and I retired 
to rest with a discontent and a despondency 
entirely new to my experience. 

" Mademoiselle de Montpensier was at that 
time my most intimate friend ; and the next 
morning she entered my chamber before I was 
risen, a slight headache serving as an excuse. 
'As usual,' said she, laughing, ' I am come to 
tell you of your conquests. I was at Ma- 
dame de Guise's yesterday evening, and her 
youngest son could talk of" nothing but Made- 
moiselle d'Epernon.' ' Why, he scarcely 
spoke to me!' 'Speaking of you,' replied 
my companion, ' is far more expressive : but 
you are actually blushing about it — I do verily 
believe it is a mutual impression.' 

" My mother entered my room at that mo- 
ment; but Mademoiselle went on rallying, 
and it seemed to me that the subject was not 
disagreeable even to her. Alas, how that 
thought encouraged my own weakness ! The 
truth was, that an alliance between the houses 
of Guise and Epernon was at that time deem- 
ed equally suitable by both. How little can 
the very young comprehend the affections be- 
ing made matter of policy ! I discovered that 
my headache was gone with a surprising de- 
gree of rapidity ; I arose with such gay spi- 
rits, I found the liveliest pleasure in all my 
usual occupations. True, I did not continue 
long at any of them, and every now and then 
lost myself in such a delicious reverie of the 
coming evening. 

" It was not quite so delightful as I ex- 
pected ; for shame and confusion for the first 
hour of the Due de Joyeuse's presence made 
me scarce conscious of what I said, or how I 
looked ; and during the last I could think of 
nothing but how silly I must appear to him. 
Still, with what a happy flutter of the heart I 
flung myself into my fauteuil that night, to 
think over the events of the evening ! 

" Time passed on, and Francois became my 
avowed lover. About two months after our 
first meeting, I was taken ill, and of the small- 
pox. The holy saints forgive me for the hor- 
ror with which I heard my disease pronounced ! 
I prayed in my inmost soul that I might 
die rather than become unlovely in his sight: 
I have been justly punished. With what a 
strange mixture of joy and dread did I hear 
his voice, almost hourly, in the antechamber, 



makings the most anxious 



inquiries 



Others 



shunned the poisoned atmosphere, but Fran- 
cois feared it not. What prayers I implored 
them to make in my name, that he would re- 
ft ain from such visits ! 

" One day he came not: I was told, and 
truly, that business, the most imperative, re- 
quired his personal attendance ; yet I could 



not force the ghastly terror of his illness from 
my mind. I dared not tempt my fate b} r con- 
tent — the agony which I suffered seemed a 
sort of expiation. The next day I heard his 
voice and fainted. Francesca, it is an awful 
thing thus to allow your destiny to be bound 
up in that of another — to live but by the beat- 
ings of another's heart — thus, as it were, to 
double your portion in every risk and weak- 
ness of humanity. 

"I cannot describe to you the mixture of 
anxiety and shame with which I desired to 
know how I looked. One morning, while 
alone with my mother, I asked her to bring 
me a little mirror that was wont to lie on the 
table; she smiled, and said, ' Not yet, Louise.' 
I never felt one moment's care after that — I 
knew that she could not have smiled, had she 
anticipated any very terrible alteration. At 
length I was able to rise — to move from one 
chamber to another, and at last to see Fran- 
cois. Do you wonder I cannot bear flowers, 
when I tell you that he used to bring them to 
me every day? I was too happy: earth, in 
its perfect enjoyment, had no thought for hea- 
ven. Life is but a trial; and wherefore was 
I to receive my reward before the time ? But, 
ah ! my friend, a woman may well be forgiven 
for the passionate sorrow with which she sees 
the empire of the heart pass away from her. 
Is it a light thing to discover that you are 
poor, where you deemed that the most pre- 
cious riches were garnered 1 ? — to find what 
had seemed to you like fate, treated as a trifle 
and a toy ? — to think that affection, which ga- 
thered pride from its imperishable nature, is 
yet dependent on such slight circumstances'? 
— The discovery, too, how much you have 
overrated your own power? humiliation and 
regret exchange but to heighten their bitter- 
ness. 

" Soon after my recovery, Mademoiselle de 
Guise appeared to seek my friendship more 
than she had before done. How willingly I 
met her advances ! — I loved Francois too well 
not to love those connected with him. Yet 
her friendship disturbed our intercourse; she 
w r as constantly interrupting our conversations, 
and I found myself perpetually engaged in a 
whispering dialogue, from which Francois 
was completely excluded. She possessed a 
peculiar talent for placing every r body in their 
worst possible light; I felt thav I never ap- 
peared to advantage in her presence. She 
drew from you some playful opinion, and 
then, suddenly repeating your words serious- 
ly, would, by some imperceptible change, 
contrive to make your expression appear the 
unconscious betrayal of some strangely una- 
miable feeling. Mademoiselle de Montpen- 
sier warned me against her treachery. ' She 
hates you,' said my friend ; ' you give into 
her snares, and will be surprised when you 
find they have succeeded.' I little heeded 
this warning — it is so difficult for the young 
to believe themselves hated without a cause! 

"A few weeks after my illness we went to 
Sedan. A thousand slight anxieties and dif 
Acuities, contrived by Mademoiselle de Guise, 



$44 



MISS LANDON S WORKS. 



had kept me in a perpetual fever ; my health 
was sinking under them — and change of air 
and scene always seem such infallible reme- 
dies where the pale cheek is considered, and 
not the harassed spirits. Indeed, the perse- 
cution under which I suffered was one not 
easily to be told in words ; I had not then 
thought over it as I have done since. The 
journey, therefore, was principally undertaken 
on my account; but, once at Sedan, and some 
affairs of my father's detained us beyond the 
time that had been expected. 

" Long as our absence appeared, it ended 
in our return to Paris. One — two — three days 
elapsed, and Francois never came; yet he 
knew of our arrival, and was only separated 
from us by a street. The fourth day brought 
Mademoiselle de Montpensier. She laughed, 
and, recalling her former warning, asked me, 
' Who was right"?' and informed me that the 
Due de Joyeuse was now the devoted attend- 
ant of Mademoiselle Guerchy ; and she ended 
in being quite angry with me for not seeming 
so utterly overwhelmed as she expected. 
There were two causes for this ; first, and 
that indeed was chief, in my secret soul I dis- 
believed what she asserted; and, secondly, I 
felt so angry with her want of sympathy. 

"But her assertion soon proved its truth. 
That very evening I met both the Due de 
Joyeuse and Mademoiselle Guerchy; — a 
slight embarrassment on his part, a little air 
of triumphant impertinence on hers, and an 
affected but insolent commiseration from Ma- 
demoiselle de Guise, told the whole. Fran- 
cesca, I have heard my father say, that the 
shock of a gun wound at first deadens the 
pain, and the suffering is lost in the shock. 
Mine was such a case ; it was confusion, not 
pride, which supported me through the even- 
ing. When we were in the carriage, my mo- 
ther put her arm round me, and said, ' I am 
charmed with your conduct, my child ; you 
treated cet jeune insolent with fitting disdain.' 
A sudden resolution grew up in my heart, and 
I thought within myself, ' My mother shall 
not be made wretched by my misery;' and, 
with a strong effort, I restrained the impulse 
which prompted me to throw myself on her 
neck and weep. 

" It is singular how little I recollect of the 
succeeding period. My existence was a blank 
— I neither thought nor felt ; a strange impa- 
tience actuated all my actions. I longed for 
change — for movement ; I dreaded being left 
a moment. I craved for pleasures which, ne- 
vertheless, I did not enjoy. 1 grew bitter in 
my words — I believed the worst of every one; 
nay, I sometimes doubted the affection of my 
kind, my indulgent parents. But let me 
hastily pass over this vain and profitless 
epoch — the fierce tempest, and the weary 
calm, were but the appointed means by which 
I reached the harbour of faith and rest. 

" During our stay at Bordeaux, I accom- 
panied my mother to a little convent, whither 
had retired an early friend, one who had seen 
much trouble, and known many sorrows. I 
was aware of her history, and was singularly 



struck with her calm and gentle m anner. I left 
the cell; and my chance wandering through 
the garden led me to the burial ground. I sat 
down on one of the graves, at first from very 
idleness ; but the still solemnity of the place 
gradually impressed my thoughts, — the pre- 
sence of the dead made itself felt. I looked 
over the numerous tombstones, so various in 
their dates: — the maiden reposed by the full 
of years ; — all bore the same inscription, ' 7?e- 
quiescat in pace.'' I had before seen the wor<!s ; 
I had never before reflected on them. What 
was this peace 1 I felt that it was the peace 
of hope, as well as of rest. It was, not only 
that the turmoil of this feverish life was at 
an end, but that such end was only the begin- 
ning. I saw the sunshine falling over the 
tombs ; to me it seemed like the blessing ot 
Heaven made visible. It so happened that 
the place where I sat was the only one in 
shadow: to my excited feelings, the darkness 
was emblematic. I stepped forth into the 
glorious sunshine, and prayed that even as 
that light illuminated my mortal frame, so 
might the divine grace illumine my soul! 
From that instant I vowed myself unto God. 
I know, Francesca, that you consider this but 
as the ill-regulated enthusiasm of a moment; 
and such I now confess that it was. 

" But out of evil worketh good. That 
enthusiasm led to reflection — that reflection 
to conviction. I became deeply penetrated 
with the vanity and the worthlessness of my 
former life. I looked at its petty cares ; its 
bitter sorrows, and said, ' 0, that I had the 
wings of the dove, for then would I flee away 
and be at rest ;' and then I learned that faith 
had wings even like the dove's, and that its 
rest was in heaven. One trial yet remained; 
but I trusted, in all humility, that the diffi- 
culty would make the sacrifice more accepta- 
ble. Yet, from day to day, I delayed telling 
my mother, that in me she saw the dedicated 
servant of God. Every time I sought her 
presence I resolved on the disclosure, but in 
vain; the words died on my lips, and again I 
had to pray for strength from above. 

" One morning I was summoned at an ear- 
lier hour than usual to her chamber. She 
received me with an expression of rejoicing 
affection, which showed me she had some- 
thing more than usually pleasant to unfold. 
1 had scarcely taken my accustomed low seat 
at her side, when opening a casket which 
stood on the table near her, she took out a 
diamond tiara, and, placing it in my hair, 
pointed to the glass. 'Ah, my child!' she 
exclaimed, 'you well become your future 
crown !' and, without waiting for my reply 
she informed me that my father's negotiations 
for my marriage had been completely success- 
ful, and that the King of Poland had demanded 
my hand. 

" The time for concealment was over. Sup- 
ported by a strength not my own, I threw 
myself at her feet, and avowed my unaltera- 
ble resolve. That dear mother has since died 
in my arms, blessing her child, and rejoicing 
that I had chosen the better path ; and yet, 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



245 






even now, I shrink from recalling- the suffer- 
ing of that scene. The cloister then seemed 
to my beloved parent even as the grave ; and, 
x ah ! my father's anger was terrible to bear, 
for it was an anger that grew out of love. 

" But if their reproaches cut me to the 
heart, how much more did I suffer from their 
entreaties. Yet I persevered even to the end, 
and was permitted to begin my year of novi- 
ciate in the hope that my resolution would 
falter when put to the trial. They know not in 
what entire sincerity it had been taken. I re- 
memoer a letter of remonstrance I received from 
Mademoiselle de Montpensier, and among 
ether arguments, was this : ' I implore you 
to marry the King of Poland, if it were only 
to mortify Mademoiselle de Guise.' She was 
little aware that forgiveness of even her en- 
mity had been the earliest offering of my heart 
above. 

" I have never repented my choice ; every 
hour I have felt my belief more perfect, and 
my hope more exalted. Had I remained in 
the world, experience could but have brought 
me added discontent, and more utter weari- 
ness. I had been too profoundly disabused of 
life's dearest illusions ever again to allow of 
their sweet engrossment. Only those who 
have looked hopelessly upon life, and turned 
again to the restless and gloomy depths of 
their own heart with a despair which is as the 
shadow of the valley of death, — only they can 
know the peace that is of heaven, and the 
faith that looks beyond the portals of the 
grave. 

" Once only since rny abode in this convent 
has my heart gone back to the things of its 
former life ; but tenderly, not repiningly. 
Mademoiselle de Montpensier passed here a 
week in Lent, and her first intelligence was, 
that the Due de Joyeuse had died of the 
wounds he had received while leading- on a 
charge of cavalry during a sortie from Paris. 
He died, too, unmarried. Heaven forgive the 
weakness which found in that thought sweet- 
est consolation ! I was free to remember him 
— to pray for him — to know that to none other 
could his memory be precious as it was to 
me. Perhaps even now, looking down from 
another world, better and happier than the 
one where we go on our way in heaviness, he 
knows with what truth and constancy I loved 
him. I now dare hope to meet him again; 
for, Francesca, what may we not hope from 
the goodness of God ?" 

The nun's voice sank into silence, and her 
companion saw that her pale cheek was warm 
with emotion, and her large lustrous eyes 
bright with tears. A kind pressure of the 
hand expressed her sympathy and they parted ; 
Louise to join a service about to be perform- 
ed, requiring the attendance of the sisters 
only, and Francesca to her solitary cell, to 
muse over the votary's confession. But she 
looked back to the world ; her yet unbroken 
spirit asked activity, not repose ; a thousand 
hopes and wishes rose in vivid colours upon 
her imagination. She knew as little what 
she asked as what she anticipated ; still the 



future was before her, and all know what the 
future is to youth. Nothing more truly proves 
that life is but a trial — than the pleasures 
which depart, the sense of enjoyment which 
deadens, and the disappointment which springs 
up at every step in our pilgrimage. Could 
life preserve its illusions, who would be fit tc 
die. Vanity of vanities is written on this 
side of the grave, but that we may more clearly 
discern that on the other shines the hope of 
immortality. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

" A new world rises, and new manners reign. ; ' 

Young. 

The first week after their arrival at Com- 
peigne, the duchesse was confined to her room 
by slight indisposition ; and Francesca never 
left her. It was a constant gratification to 
perceive, that but for herself, the duchesse's 
sick-room would have been dull and solitary ; 
for Marie was so much occupied with the 
gayety of the court, that she had little leisure 
for the amusement of an invalid. 

One morning, the first that Madame de Mer- 
cosur had been equal to the task of receiving 
visiters, the Chevalier de Joinville and Mr. 
Evelyn arrived together. 

"Ah, madame !" exclaimed the former, 
" what a pity you were not present to wit- 
ness Mademoiselle Mancini's triumph last 
night ! — the mere necessity for yielding in 
such a case was victory." 

" Let me hear what the triumph was," said 
their hostess. 

" You are aware that the entertainment last 
night was given in honour of the Queen of 
England. Few were admitted, as it was 
quite the household circle, and all ceremony 
was to be waved. So thought our young 
king; for when he led his partner to thv 
dance, that partner was not the Princess Hen ■ 
riette, but Mademoiselle Mancini. The queen 
rose, snatched away the king's hand, and led 
him to the pretty little fairy, whose eyes were 
already filled with tears — the fear of not danc- 
ing being before them. Louis turned away, 
saying, 'He would rather not dance at all 
than dance with a child.' His mother insisted 
— the English queen interfered — mademoiselle 
was the very image of triumphant submis- 
sion — and we all stood round, looking as inno- 
cent and indifferent as possible. The king 
gave way at last, and danced with la petite; 
but looks and words were alike addressed to 
your sister. Ay, and our white-handed queen 
sees she must conciliate; for at the close of 
the evening, she expressed her regret that she 
had been so hasty, and caressed Mademoiselle 
Mancini, as if there was something to be 
made up with her." 

" Once for all," interrupted Madame de 

Mercosur , I " wish you would not talk such 

nonsense ; their majesties are too good ; and 

it was as much my sister's duty tc obey the 

x2 



246 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



king by standing up to dance, as it was to 
resign her place when she understood that 
such was the queen's wish." 

The chevalier saw at once that the subject 
was unpleasing and immediately changed it. 

" You know, I suppose, that our northern 
Penthesilea arrives to-morrow ; she has amaz- 
ed the good people of Paris, and we are all 
preparing to be astonished." 

"I hope," said Evelyn, "that we shall not 
exhaust our astonishment en avant — that very 
common process of anticipation." 

" According to my belief," replied the che- 
valier, " there is nothing worth anticipating." 

" Nothing worth realizing, you mean," ex- 
claimed Francesca. 

" Nay," returned the chevalier; " I do riot 
come from so poetical a country as your fair 
Italy — to me reality is every thing. Let my 
pleasure come, and I will enjoy it; but I re- 
ally cannot afford to waste my time before- 
hand in a thousand visionary anxieties. No ; 
I hold hope to be a great mistake— life is too 
short for it." 

" It is too true that nothing realizes your 
previous idea — and then how bitter is your 
disappointment!" replied Francesca. 

" You seem to have acquired much expe- 
rience in a brief space; it is somewhat soon 
to be convinced of the worthlessness of plea- 
sure," answered de Joinville, with an almost 
imperceptible sneer. Slight as the expression 
was, it had its effect on the } 7 oung Italian, 
who instantly resumed her usual silence. 

We talk of youth as our happiest season, 
because, perhaps, we do not begin to moralize 
upon it till it has been long past. The pre- 
sent sorrow always exceeds its predecessors 
— not so the present joy; comparison exag- 
gerates the one, while it diminishes the other ; 
and people talk of their youth as if it had 
not been a period of feverish sensitiveness, 
awkward embarrassments, many heart-burn- 
ings, and an utter want of that self-reliance 
which alone can insure content. It is folly 
to dwell on any season's peculiar happiness ; 
each might in tuyi be weighed in the balance, 
and found wanting. 

The week following Madame deMercceur's 
recovery was one of great gayety. Fete suc- 
ceeded fete in honour of the arrival of Chris- 
tina of Sweden, who seemed to communicate 
her own reckless love of novelty to the then 
somewhat siaid French court. Claim your 
privileges as an oddity, and even you your- 
self will be astonished at their extent. In 
an atmosphere of ceremony, Christina was 
free as air ; surrounded by forms, she observed 
none of them ; and, equally lax in her mo- 
ral and religious notions, she yet succeeded 
with a queen now prude and devotee — and 
both, it may be, the more strongly pronounced, 
f rom their being late assumptions. Anne 
of Austria was amused, so was Louis ; and 
V Amazone philosophe had a prodigious run. 

There never was mask so gay but some 
tears were shed behind it ; and Francesca, one 
perhaps among many, found it possible to be 
very sad, even at a festival. Despite of Ma- 



dame de Mercosur's kindness, her situation 
was often painful, and always disagreeable. 
She could not but contrast her lot with that 
of others ; of course she could only judge of 
the exterior, which at least seemed so much 
more brilliant than her own. They had 
friends, connexions whose credit was mutual, 
fortune, and a defined place in society ; she 
was an orphan, poor and dependent. Many 
who hated, and yet cringed to the Mancinis 
took a sort of petty revenge in slights shown 
to a favourite without influence ; she pined 
under a constant sense of isolation, ever most 
painful when felt in a crowd. She was a 
spectator, not a partaker, of the gayety around ; 
for, in truth, gayety must make some small 
appeal to our vanity before it is enjoyed. The 
dance, to be delightful, must have an interest 
in the partner, or the eclat of display ; and 
both these attractions were wanting to Fran- 
cesca. In the numbers that surrounded her, 
there was not one individual for whom she 
cared, few who even honoured her with passing 
notice; and she daily heard the beauty and 
grace extolled to the skies, which could not 
for a moment bear comparison with her own 

One would think that, in society, beauty 
instead of lying on the surface, was in the 
mine and required discovery ; the majority 
would never discover the loveliness of the 
Venus de Medici, unless it were pointed out 
to them. Francesca's feelings were those of 
all whom a chance circumstance has placed 
in some brilliant circle without the acknow- 
ledged rank of fortune necessary to make 
their right of entrance ; and yet with an 
innate consciousness of superiority, which 
makes neglect more bitter, by adding to it a 
sense of injustice. 

There were many who would have felt no- 
thing of all this — who would have made their 
way by little and little — who would either 
have been useful or agreeable, as might have 
suited the occasion, till they reached an ele- 
vation astonishing even to themselves, when 
the sneer might be remembered and the scorn 
retorted, as no advantage was longer to be 
obtained by endurance. Thus, as usual, end- 
ing the career of flattery by insolence. 

Francesca was at once too simple and too 
highminded ; simple as regarded worldly 
knowledge, but highminded, as feeling and 
talent ever are. With her, time passed on, 
divided between disgust and indifference ; or 
an increasing anxiety respecting her connexion 
w T ith Evelyn. He still urged a secret mar- 
riage, but now she no longer found it difficult 
to refuse. Fidelity to her early vow yet ap- 
peared a duty ; however, like most proofs of 
faith, it was to be put off as long as possible. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

" 'Tis a dark labyrinth the human heart."— Young. 

Francesca one evening attended Madame 
de Mercceur to the small circle allowed en 
trance to the queen's dressing-room. Th 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



247 



morning had been one of great fatigue, so 
that but few of the court were admitted ; 
and Anne of Austria herself was in that demi- 
toilette so favourable to the twilight of 
beaut}'. She wore a loose dress of gray silk, 
edged with black, and fastened with loops of 
pearl. A portion of her still beautiful hair 
was parted in two rich auburn bands on her 
forehead ; while the rest was hidden by a 
long black crape veil which hung nearly to 
her feet, and set off the exquisite fairness of 
her skin, the more striking as she wore no 
rouge. It was difficult to suppose her the 
mother of the young man who leant on the 
back of the chair; for Louis looked as much 
older, as he really was, as she looked younger. 

It was said of Anne of Austria, after she 
had been some time regent, that her misfor- 
tunes had been her only attraction ; — to them 
might be added her appearance ; it was the 
very reverse of her character, in the sensitive 
and changeable complexion, and its long-re- 
tained youthfulness. Yet few had grown 
more old in world liness and deception — for- 
getful in friendship, and vindictive in resent- 
ment. She had all the faults peculiar to very 
weak people — faults which are of the meanest 
order; violent, for it requires strength of 
mind to curb emotion; obstinate, for with the 
obstinate opinion is made up of habit and 
conceit; and cunning, for cunning is the ge- 
nius of the fool. It is difficult to account for 
the influence acquired over her by Cardinal 
Mazarin, unless we adopt the belief of their 
private marriage ; for in their connexion there 
was something of the authority of the hus- 
band, but none of the devotion of the lover. 
His manner to her was abrupt, often harsh ; 
it implied the necessity for yielding. La haute 
dcvo'ion, to use an untranslatable phrase of 
the time, to which she was addicted, belong- 
ed less to the mistress, whose chains may be 
regretted and broken, than to the wife, whose 
repentance comes u?i peu tard, and who may 
as well make her obedience matter of con- 
science. Her conduct, too, after his death, 
was very like the conduct of those who are 
always " wonderfully supported ;" suited 
also to her particular situation, in which, 
there was so little need for keeping up the 
semblance of grief, and in strict accordance 
with her own paramount selfishness. When 
those around her thought to pay their court 
by exaggerating the merits of the deceased, 
she exclaimed, " Mon Dieu ! we must drop 
the subject — I am sure the king is sick of it; 
we have really enough to do, without wasting 
time in useless words." It would be no un- 
charitable supposition were we to conclude, 
that newly recovered liberty — that word 
which always appears so charming — was 
sufficiently agreeable to afford a widow's 
consolation. 

Francesca — who, like all persons of natu- 
rally fine taste that have lived much in soli- 
tude, was keenly alive to the charms of 
manner— fixed her whole attention on the 
card-table where the queen was playing. She 



was struck with the grace which made the 
common courtesies of the game appear like 
personal compliment, while the caressing aii 
with which she occasionally addressed indi- 
viduals standing round, seemed at once sc 
pleasing and so much in earnest. " How is 
it possible," thought the young Italian, " that 
one so fascinating could ever have been ne- 
glected by her husband, and the object of 
hatred to* the fierce and insolent faction so re- 
cently subdued ?" 

Her meditation was interrupted by an unu- 
sual bustle in the antechamber, when, before 
the pages could announce her, the Queen of 
Sweden walked, or rather ran, into the room. 
Advancing straight to the queen, she ex- 
claimed, " a thousand congratulations — I have 
j just heard of the taking of Valence, and could 
! not rest till I had rejoiced with you on the 
success of your arms." 

Victory is an agreeable subject, and the 
visiter and her compliments were equally well 
received. 

"You may give me credit for sincerity," 
continued she, " as there is some selfishness 
in it. It hurts one's vanity to be mistaken ; 
and you know I prophesied the success of the 
lleur-de-lis." 

" Valence," observed M. de Nogent, one 
of the party at the card-table, " was besieged 
a hundred years since by the French army, 
but unsuccessfully; the fort has never before 
been taken, and — " 

"And you should have been there," inter 
rupted Christina abruptly, " with your long 
stories of a hundred years since; I would 
rather hear them a hundred years hence." 
Then turning, with a singular change of coun- 
tenance from harshness to extreme sweetness, 
to Madame de Mercceur, " I give you joy that 
your husband should be the first conqueror of 
this redoubtable Valence." 

" 1 deserve," replied the duchesse, " some 
compensation for the anxiety I have endured." 



Anxiety 



exclaimed the Swede : 



" a man is never in his proper element but 
when fighting. I am persuaded that war was 
always meant to be one great luxury of the 
human race. War calls out all our good 
qualities ; courage teaches a man to respect 
himself — and self-respect is at once the begin- 
ning and the guarantee of excellence. Be- 
sides, a campaign teaches patience, generosity, 
and exertion. So much for the morale ; and 
as to the enjoyment, pardieu .' I can imagine 
nothing beyond the excitement of leading a 
charge of cavalry." 

" Alas, madam," said the king, smiling, 
" why cannot offer you the baton of a mar- 
shal]" 

" You cannot lament," returned she, " the 
impossibility more than I do. What could 
God mean by sending me into the world a 
woman ] — But let us change this mournful 
subject — it really affects my feelings." 

"I am rejoiced," observed Louis, 'that 
you have recovered from the etwiui of Mes- 
sieurs les Jesuites' tragedy." 



248 



MISS' LANDON'S WORKS 



"I protest," was her reply, equally against 
confession or tragedy from them ; their rules' 
are too lax in both." 

" You do not seem," said the queen, evi- 
dently wishing to change the subject just 
started, " to have been much pleased with our 
dramatic representations; but we have not 
been fortunate — our actors are generally more 
amusing." # 

" I suppose so," replied Christina, " as you 
keep them still. But I see I have interrupted 
your game ; go on, and do not mind me — I 
should like to have another victory to congra- 
tulate you upon." 

Crossing the room, she seated herself on 
one chair, while, drawing another towards 
her, she placed her feet upon it, and thus 
stretched out negligently, began talking in a 
low tone to the king and Mademoiselle Man- 
cini. 

Francesca had now an opportunity of ob- 
serving her more closely, and found that her 
appearance, if equally singular, was more pic- 
turesque than she had heard described. Her 
dress was odd enough, half-masculine, half- 
feminine ; but it became her. She wore a 
sort of jacket of bright red camlet, richly 
braided w r ith gold and silver lace; a fringe of 
which also hung from her gray petticoat, 
which was short enough to show her feet and 
ankles, whose small size was rendered more 
remarkable by the peculiar shaped boot. A 
crimson scarf, flung over one shoulder, adroitly 
hid the defect in her figure ; and round her 
throat was a neckcloth edged with point lace, 
and fastened with a crimson riband. She was 
delicately fair, with an aquiline nose, and a 
mouth, the size of which w r as forgotten in its 
white teeth and pleasant smile. She wore a 
peruke of very fair golden hair ; and herein 
was shown the lurking spirit of female vanity : 
her own tresses had been very beautiful ; in 
some whim she had them shaven off, but the 
colour of the peruke had been most assidu- 
ously assorted to them. Her eyes, large, blue, 
bright, and restless, were her most remarkable 
feature, perhaps from their constant employ ; 
they seemed perpetually on the watch, and 
she had also a custom of fixing them with 
singular intentness on the person to whom she 
spoke. It was said this habit had somewhat 
startled the Bishop of Amiens, whom she se- 
lected for her confessor; instead of the down- 
cast eyes to which he had been accustomed, 
the royal penitent, who then knelt at his feet, 
fixed her clear piercing orbs full on his face, 
till the good father was all but stared out of 
co mtenance. She was small and slight ; and 
the impression she gave, as she lounged on 
her two seats, swinging to and fro her black 
hat and feathers, was of a fair and pretty boy, 
clever, and somewhat spoiled by indulgence. 
She commenced her conversation with the 
king and his companion by saying, " Pray, 
do not suspend your fleurettes on my account; 
next to being in love myself, I like to see 
other people in love. I shall be a charming 
i-cnfidante " 



"Too charming," replied Marie, " not to be 
dangerous." 

" Very prettily said, but more pretty than 
true. Falling in love is quite out of my way, 
I do not often offer up thanksgivings ; but 
when I do, and turn in my mind what to be 
grateful about, I always give thanks for my 
indifference." 

"You are selfish in your gratitude," said 
Louis. 

" A very common case. But, truly, I have 
become too worldly, have too many other 
things in both head and heart, to find a place 
for love — it takes up too much room. But 
this I do say ; if there be an intense, overpow- 
ering happiness in this world, it is first love, 
unsullied, unfrittered away by a thousand 
vain considerations — deep, fervent, and en- 
grossing. Of what avail is a throne, save to 
share it with a beloved one 1 One with whom 
the deck of the frailest bark that ever cut my 
own stormy seas would be paradise, and 
without whom the whole wide world is but a 
desert. Ay, such a love is indeed heaven or 
hell!" And she flung herself back in her 
chair, and gave way to one of those fits of ab- 
sence in which she was accustomed to in- 
dulge, with equal disregard of time, place, 
and company. 

The young king looked tenderly at Made- 
moiselle Mancini, who gave him a glance 
quite as tender in return — not, however, unob- 
served. His mother had been, for some time 
past, a displeased spectator of a predilection 
which might become dangerous. With her 
usual dissimulation, she refrained from evinc- 
ing any outward sign of uneasiness, and, 
beckoning Madame de Mercceur, apparently 
made some request. Madame de Mercosur 
crossed the room to Francesca, and informed 
her that the queen had heard of her musical 
skill, and wished herself to judge of a voice 
that had been so extolled. 

Such a request was a command, though 
one she felt inclined, had it been possible, to 
disobey. Her vanity had been too little called 
forth for her to rejoice in display ; she was too 
indifferent to her audience to have any anx- 
iety about pleasing them— and she was per- 
fectly aware of her own powers. Moreover, 
she was actuated by a feeling between indig- 
nation and disdain at being thus called on to 
minister to their pleasure who would never 
dream of contributing to hers. Still, her lute 
was brought; and, with the first tone awakened 
from the strings, she grew timid, as if she only 
then noted how much the attention of the cir- 
cle was fixed upon her. At first her voice 
was tremulous and low, but it soon asserted 
its delicious power. Rich, deep, and melan- 
choly, it was one of those which appeal even 
more to the heart than to the ear — one of those 
which, by some subtle spell — music's best 
secret — seem to call up every sad and sweet 
thought w r hich memory has garnered for 
years. 

Every one was surprised, or rather touched, 
into warm expressions of delight. The 






FRANCESCA CARRARA 



249 



queen's quick eye glanced from Louis, who 
stood in fixed attention, to the singer, who, far 
more confused by the praise than the exertion, 
rose from the kneeling position, whose very 
humility had in it such grace, with that rich 
flushed colour, so lovely in a face usually pale, 
and with downcast eyes, whose darkness was 
only indicated by the black and curled eye- 
lash. 

" How very lovely!" said the queen in a 
whisper, but loud enough for her son to hear, 
who now approached, and took, himself, the 
lute from Francesca. Christina, first indulg- 
ing in a quick and instantly suppressed smile, 
addressed a few words, more kind even than 
flattering, to the singer ; and Francesca, who 
an hour before had been as much neglected 
as the old fauteuil by which she had leant half 
concealed, was now the centre of a little cir- 
cle of admirers and flatterers. Young, and a 
woman, it would be too much to suppose that 
it was very disagreeable to her. 

" I think," said Anne to Madame de Mer- 
cceur, "we must obtain your protegee's ser- 
vices for our intended masque ; however, I 
shall leave that to you young people to settle," 
turning to Louis as she spoke. 

The Swedish queen saw at once that the 
day for civility to Mademoiselle Mancini was 
over, at least in the royal mother's presence, 
and that she had lost some ground by her in- 
cautious encouragement; besides, the king's 
ready and obvious admiration did not say 
much for his stability. 

" He is too young to be trusted," thought 
she ; " it takes half a dozen fantasies to pre- 
pare the way for une grande passion. Ma- 
dame la Mere at present — " 

Christina drew near to the card-table, and, 
lolling upon it with her usual indifference, be- 
gan to watch the progress of the game, which 
was now resumed. Suddenly she snatched 
up the queen's hand, and, holding it by the 
wrist, let the light fall upon it, as if it had 
been a toy she wished to examine. " Ah, 
mon Dieu! how perfect. Talk of the works 
of art as the standard of ideal beauty — look at 
this work of nature. I consider my voyage 
from Rome amply repaid by the sight of the 
most lovely object in the world. In my coun- 
try they would say you had the hand of a 
water-sprite — white as the earliest snow. 
And you have been gathering roses, I see," — 
turning the little palm, so that the delicate 
pink inside became visible. 

"Flatterer!" exclaimed the queen, and 
holding up the said hand in a menacing atti- 
tude, but with no appearance of displeasure. 

Christina snatched both hands, kissed them, 
and, without further farewell, walked out of 
the room, half-singing Scarron's celebrated 
lines : 



" fille avoit au bout de ses menaclu 
Une paire de mains si blanches, 
Que j'eu voudrois etre souffieteV' 



She left her character behind her, — charac- 
ter which usually has the fate of King Pelias, 
namely, that of being torn to pieces by its 

V^l. I.— 32 



dearest friends. The Swedish queen, how- 
ever, escaped wonderfully well. She had out- 
raged every rule of the court, mocked their 
proprieties, and infringed their decorums; yet 
they talked of her genius, and called her la 
Heine philosophique. Well — audacity, oddity, 
and flattery, are the three graces which make 
their way in modern society ! 



CHAPTER XX. 

" Si vous eussiez ve'cu du temps de Gabrielle 
Je ne sais pas ce qu'on eilt dit de vous, 
Mais on n'aurait point parle d'elle." 

Yoltaiee. 

The next morning Francesca received a 
letter from Guido, the first she had ever pos- 
sessed. Even in our time, when they are so 
many in number — things of morning, noon, 
and night occurrence — a letter is a delight. 
We never hear the postman's knock without 
a vague sort of hope that it is for us. A let- 
ter, too, is one of the few mysteries that yet 
remain — a small and a transitory one, but 
still a mystery, though but of a moment. We 
have to open it. If these are a pleasure even 
now, what must they have been when an 
epistle was an event in a life, and when rarely 
any but a beloved hand traced the characters \ 

" I have such happiness in store for you," 
said Madame de Mercosur ; " now do guess." 

" Guido ! — what have you to tell me of 
him V 

" Ah, now, how came you to think of him 
at once ? But I have not the heart to disap- 
point those eager eyes — so take it ;" and from 
a packet by her pillow she took the letter and 
gave it to her. 

Francesca felt choked — the tears rose — she 
tried to thank the duchesse, but her voice was 
gone, she kissed her, by way of gratitude, 
and left the room — she could not bear to read 
the letter but by herself. Shutting herself in, 
she opened the scroll, and read it hastily to 
the end — then began it over again,. but slowly 
this time, as if she feared to lose a word 
Again she commenced it, but stopped sudden 
ly; and the tears, which had hitherto only 
stood in her eyes, now dropped thick and fast 
upon the paper. There was something unsa 
tisfactory in its contents — they were too brief 
and too abrupt; Guido said nothing of his 
own health, or his own feelings — and what 
did his sister care for else ? — what to her 
were the duke, the duchesse, or even Modena 
itself? nay, she felt very disrespectfully to- 
wards the Madonna, which he described as 
divine. 

" How very unkind !" exclaimed she ; " he 
knows how anxious I am about him, and he 
tells me nothing — he may be ill or well for 
aught he says about it." She turned the pa- 
per over to see if any little corner had escaped 
her notice, but she had read it far too care- 
fully. " How differently I should have writ- 
ten to him ? and yet, poor Guido, I fear he is 
unwell — hurried evidently, and he will have 



250 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



the more to say when we meet ;" and once 
more she read the paragraph mentioning his 
speedy return. 

Francesca's was a grievance of which most 
of her sex have to complain ; a man's letter 
is always the most unsatisfactory thing in the 
world. There are none of those minute details 
which are such a solace to feminine anxiety ; 
the mere fact of writing, always seems suffi- 
cient to content a masculine conscience. 
Guido, therefore, was guilty of no uncommon 
failing; and could Francesca have looked into 
the heart whose emotions were so ill depicted 
on that brief scroll, she would have seen how 
tender was the affection which clung to her 
image, as the only object beloved — the one 
light of a dreaming and melancholy existence. 
But for her sake, he would not have returned to 
France; for his absence had made his own coun- 
try seem lovelier than ever. His earlier visions 
returned upon him ; his despondency, which, 
amid realities, had become imbittered by mor- 
tifications, here took the tone of poetry, and 
but showed itself in the deeper sense with 
which he lingered beside the ruined temple, 
or gathered the wild flowers, and took a fan- 
ciful pleasure in seeing them wither. 

The imagination shuns to reveal its work- 
ings, unless it can clothe them in some lovely 
and palpable shape, and create into existence 
the high romance, the mournful song, the ani- 
mated canvass, or the carved marble; pride 
then comes to the aid of the gifted one, and 
says, " ho ! these are the fruits of those hours 
the busier worldlings deem given but to idle 
fantasies!" But Guido knew that his sum- 
mer idlesse had been idlesse indeed. He 
expected so much from himself, that he be- 
lieved Francesca must expect something too 
— and he had nothing to tell her ; and this 
inward consciousness she so little suspected, 
contributed much towards the constrained tone 
of the letter. 

Gradually it gave its possessor more plea- 
sure. Francesca smiled at what she now 
termed unreasonable sensitiveness, and began 
to reckon how long it must be before her bro- 
ther's return. Moreover, the very mention of 
Italy brought to her all the most cheerful re- 
collections of her childhood. She recalled 
the old hall, with its storied frescoes — the 
woods, where so many mornings had passed 
so happily away — the little river, where they 
used to launch their light boats, made of the 
green rushes which grew beside ; she recalled 
the blithe chirp of the cicala in the fragrant 
grass — and the gleam of the fire-flies, glitter- 
ing by twilight amid the boughs of the myr- 
tle. "Ah!" exclaimed she, "we will soon 
return thither, and be happy again !" 

Francesca forgot that she must take hack 
with her an altered heart. Her hand fell by 
chance on her lute, which lay near — it gave 
forth a sweet but hollow sound, as if the wind 
had swept over it, and, almost unconsciously, 
her fingers ran over the notes of an old fami- 
liar air ; she started, for it seemed almost like 
a reproach, it had been such a favourite of 
Evelvn's. The recollection at once dissipated 



her pleasant reverie : " Alas !" she exclaimed 
" is it he or I that is changed ?" 

Without waiting to decide, she suddenly 
remembered that Madame de Mercosur would 
marvel at her long absence, and hastened to 
join her. She was risen, and seated before 
her glass, while her woman was arranging her 
long fair hair. The Chevalier de Joinville 
leant opposite ; Evelyn, with a true English- 
man's habit, was fastening and unfastening a 
little enamelled box, which he had taken up 
under plea of admiring her portrait on the lid; 
and, seated on the arm of a fauteuil, instead 
of the chair itself, was the queen of Sweden, 
talking with great rapidity. 

" Well, finding remonstrance vain, and tired 
with urging that to-day was a very particular 
fast indeed, the king endeavoured to snatch 
from Monsieur the atrocious bouillon, with 
its still more atrocious meat. The Duke of 
Anjou resisted ; but finding his brother strong- 
est, fairly flung plate and all into his face. 
Our pious Louis laughed at first; but Made- 
moiselle Mancini making it matter of personal 
dignity, he grew angry, and said, 'That but 
for the queen's presence, he would have turned 
Monsieur out of the room.' Meat and temper 
being lost alike, la bonne Mam an interfered, 
but in vain ; and the duke sought his cham- 
ber in high dudgeon. Ah, the blessings of 
Providence will certainly rest upon a monarch 
so pious." 

The rest of the party were too prudent to 
comment ; and Madame de Mercosur asked 
Christina if mademoiselle was as beautiful as 
she was allowed to be] 

" Even in exile V said Evelyn. 

" Superb !" replied the queen, after having 
given the speaker a look, as much as to say, 
' I take your sarcasm ;' " tall — fair, — a fitting 
Bellona for the Prince of Conde. The come- 
dy of the league ought to have ended in their 
marriage. Vraiment, mademoiselle has ex- 
erted herself for an establishment. She was 
devout for the emperor. I heard that she left 
off powder, patches, and rouge, for a month 
when his third consort died, and he grew re- 
ligious — whether out of grief or gratitude, I 
never heard ; then she grew factious, for the 
sake of your own king, and thought to strew 
the way to the altar with straws* instead of 
flowers. I applaud her spirit in fighting for 
a crown." 

" I marvel," interrupted De Joinville, " at 
such a sentiment from your majesty." 

" Poor child !" replied she, bursting into 
one cf her abrupt, but musical laughs, " where 
can you have lived, not to know we never 
care for what we have 1 — But to return to 
mademoiselle ; her pride unabated, though 1 
heard that your uncle declared, that the sho 
she fired from the Bastile killed her husband. 
Pray did he say so!" 

"Really, your majesty," answered Ma* 
dame de Mercosur, " seems too well acquaint- 
ed with all our affairs to ask any questions of 
me." 

* Straws were the badge of the Leaguers. 



FRANCESCA CARRARA 



251 



" Especially such as you do not deem fit- 
Ling to answer Pitying mademoiselle's se- 
3lusion, I did my best to entertain her, and, 
by way of news, told her that her former lover, 
the king of England, was talked of for Made- 
moiselle de Longueville. Liable! but her 
eyes flashed fire. ' I owe it, madame, to my- 
self to disbelieve the story; convinced that no 
one, who had ever once raised his hopes to 
myself, could stoop to Mademoiselle de Lon- 
gueville.'' " 

" Now, by St. George!" interrupted Eve- 
lyn, " the daughter of Henri Quatre was ready 
enough to marry his grandfather; and, let the 
present madness of our islands pass away, and 
the daughter of the Duke of Orleans may re- 
pent her disdain, or rather her miscalcula- 
tion." 

" Circumstances are every thing," rocking 
her heavy seat backwards and forwards. 

" I have been busy this morning," continued 
De Joinville, " consoling beauty in distress 
and in debt. Madame de Chatillion and Fou- 
quet have quarrelled !" 

"What! he, the most devoted and most 
despairing of lovers, who talked in the same 
breath of her charms and her cruelty — who 
accumulated wealth but to lavish it on an 
idol !" exclaimed Madame deMercceur; " why, 
at the last fair, taste was of no use, for every 
thing pretty had been selected beforehand. 
They said, madame first went round to choose, 
and l'abbe followed to buy ; and the various 
presents were sent in as mysteriously as fairy 
gifts." 

'^But the abbe is an inglorious successor," 
remarked Christina, " to the Prince of Conde, 
to your English king — both of whom wore 
the chains of this triumphant beauty." 

" Circumstances are every thing, as your 
majest)'' has just observed," replied De Join- 
ville; " the Conde is absent, the king poor; 
Fouquet is present, and rich, and what is 
more generous. Besides, he helped her out 
of one of those adventures in which her folly 
—she calls it ambition — is perpetually involv- 
ing her. Madame de Chatillion was threaten- 
ed with a leitre de cachet, for her suspected 
correspondence with Monsieur le Prince, and 
Monsieur l'Abbe took upon himself the re- 
sponsibility, answered for her loyalty, and 
made his house her prison or her palace." 

" I never saw a house more splendidly fur- 
nished," observed Christina; "he gave me a 
collation; and there I saw Madame de Cha- 
tillion glittering with gems; her diamond ear- 
rings alone might have lighted up the room. 
She showed me her portrait, written by her- 
self. I only remember what she states of her 
mouth, which, she says, was not only beau- 
tiful and red, but had a thousand little natural 
airs and graces not to be found in any other 
mouth. Oh, I must not forget her figure, 
which, she assured tne reader, was the^best 
made, and the finest that could be seen : no- 
thing could be more regular, more graceful, 
or more easy. Certainly it is pleasant to ap- 
preciate one's own perfections ; it puts one on 



good terms with others, by first being on such 
with ourselves. But now for the quarrel." 

"Madame de Chatillion," answered the 
chevalier, " in the first halcyon hours which 
her smiles created for l'abbe, had resigned tp 
him some letters of M. le Prince ; she also, 
in due time, favoured him with divers ad- 
dressed to himself. These precious epistles 
were placed in certain caskets, and treasured 
like — really, my experience affords me nothing 
sufficiently precious for a likeness. One fine 
morning, when l'Abbe Fouquet was in the 
country, she goes to his house; the servants, 
knowing her authority was absolute with their 
master, supposed it was to be equally abso- 
lute with themselves, and admitted her to his 
cabinet. Once there, she makes good use of 
her time, and retakes all those said letters ; 
considering, perhaps, that what is said may 
be unsaid, but what is written remains in evi- 
dence against you." 

" Love letters are very foolish things," 
muttered Christina. 

" L'Abbe returned," pursued the chevalier, 
" and at once missed his caskets, and next 
heard of his visiter. In despair, he rushed 
into Madame de Chatillion's presence, and 
said every thing that could be said by a man. 
very angry and very much in love. Words 
were followed by actions ; he vented his rage 
on the magnificent mirrors, till the floor was 
covered with shattered glass, every fragment 
adding to his misery, by another reflection of 
madame's beautiful face. He went away at 
last, threatening to send and take away furni- 
ture, plate, and jewels — all being gifts of his 
own. Madame de Chatillion acted upon the 
threat, took down hangings, &c, and removed 
to Madame de St. Chaumont. This is the 
tragedy : — now for the farce. 

" W v hile staying with Madame de Porcinne, 
in the Convent de la Misericorde, Madame de 
Chatillion was amazed by the appearance of 
l'abbe and his mother in the parlour." 

"Ah," cried Christina, " I remember the 
old lad}'' — simple, kind hearted, and evidently 
quite astonished by every bod}' - and every 
thing." 

" ' What,' said la belle dcdaigneuse, ' do I 
see? — dares this man appear in my presence V 
The abbe's answer was couched in the most 
approved terms of love and remorse — his de- 
spair quite touched the hearts of the three old 
ladies. ' Remember,' remonstrated Madame 
de Porcinne to the angry beauty, ' that you 
are a Christian, and that you should lay down 
all your animosities at the foot of the cross.' 
'In the name of Jesus!' exclaimed the Pro- 
vencal Mere de la Misericorde, for even her 
feelings were affected, 'look upon him with 
pity.' The poor old mother next took up the 
petition: 'Madame, I implore, on my knees, 
that my son may just haunt your footsteps.' 
Neither l'abbe nor his three old women suc- 
ceeded in softening the angry goddess. _ It is, 
however, rumoured, that certain offerings at 
her shrine have since had considerable effect, 
and he is now beginning to hope that, per- 



252 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



haps, he may again be suffered in Madame de 
Chatillion's sight." 

Other visiters entering interrupted the thread 
of the discourse; and Evelyn took the oppor- 
tunity of approaching Francesca, who was 
seated in a window, a little behind the others. 
" I congratulate you," said he. 

"Ah, I. am so happy !" was her reply, sup- 
posing that he alluded to Guido's letter, and 
without giving herself time to consider that it 
was impossible for him to know of its arrival. 

" You are not aware of the effect you pro- 
duced !" 

"What do you mean]" ejaculated his 
listener, in the utmost astonishment. 

" Nonsense ! Do you think," replied he, 
" that I have been the last to hear of the beau- 
tiful Italian and her lute ?" 

"I thought," said Francesca, "you were 
speaking of the letter I have this morning had 
from Guido." 

"Pshaw! — what is a letter compared to 
your last night's triumph'? Joinville told me 
you had never looked more lovely, and that 
Louis never moved his eyes from your face 
the w T hole time you were singing." 

" Very pleasant to be stared out of counte- 
nance!" returned she, colouring. 

" I would have Mademoiselle Mancini look 
to her chains," said Evelyn. 

Francesca remained silent, from vexation 
and anger; and he continued — 

" But I must say farewell now. Lord Cra- 
ven is to ride by the wood; and, even if it 
should be observed, our meeting will seem ac- 
cidental — I wish for no appearance of con- 
nexion with his party, for that would end all 
my plans. Ah! my fair Italian; what with 
their anxiety and your cruelty, I have enough 
on my hands !" 

Francesca saw him depart with that pro- 
found depression of spirits which usually fol- 
lowed their interviews. She was vexed at 
the want of sympathy which he showed with 
her joy or her affection — he had not even 
thought of inquiring after Guido. It seemed 
so very unkind ! Then she was mortified at 
his ready allusion to the admiration she had 
excited — surely he ought not to have been 
pleased by it. A lover owes his mistress a 
little jealousy. Indifference to the homage 
she receives may show reliance, but it is a 
bad compliment. She was roused from her 
reverie by a hand laid upon her arm; she 
looked up, and saw the Swedish queen. 

" A cold look at parting, and a sad brow 
afterwards, are bad signs. You know the 
old fable — there is little profit in leaving the 
6ubstance for the shadow." 

Francesca only looked her surprise. 

" Some shadows," continued Christina, 
" are enough to dazzle such young sight as 
yours ; yet I warn you of trusting to them." 

" I have little," said Francesca, and her 
eyes filled with tears ; for there was a kind- 
ness in the speaker's voice, which, in her pre- 
sent depressed mood, touched her powerfully, 

to trust in. save heaven 



"Poor child!" returned her companion 
"why did you leave Italy 1 ?" 

" Ah, you may well warn me of trusting ta 
shadows ! why, indeed, did we leave if?" 

" Because there was a lover in the case 
W^ell, well ; he is a handsome and noble look- 
ing cavalier. Do not quarrel with him again, 
because he is jealous that others beside him- 
self think you have a bright blush and a sweet 
voice." 

Giving her a good humoured smile, Chris- 
tina moved away, to Francesca's great relief. 
What could she say to so complete a miscon- 
ception 1 The chamber was by this time 
cleared of visiters, and she was about to thank 
Madame de Mercosur for her letter, when Ma- 
damoiselle Mancini entered. Without salute 
ing either, she flung herself into a chair, and 
exclaimed, "I suppose, Henriette, you are 
well aware of the fine marriage about to take 
place'?" 

" I know of none," answered Madame de 
Mercosur. 

" Oh, then my uncle has kept you equally 
in the dark; but the queen this morning con- 
gratulated me — me, forsooth! — of the ap- 
proaching alliance between Mademoiselle 
Martinozzi and the Prince de Conti. She 
showed me the pearls she meant for a wed- 
ding present." 

"A splendid match for our pretty cousin! 
Well, she is a sweet creature; and I rejoice 
in her good fortune." 

"You do?" exclaimed Marie, her cheek 
flushing with anger; "very kind, very sister- 
ly, indeed! No consideration for my inte- 
rest !" 

" How does it affect you, but advantageous- 
ly? — such an alliance is an honour to our 
whole family." 

" Surely I am as well fitted to be Princesse 
de Conti as my cousin '?" 

"And the gentleman's choice is to go for 
nothing'? You remember the prince always 
greatly admired Mademoiselle Martinozzi." 

"The cardinal has taught you your lesson: 
— I meet with the same unkind ness from you 
all ; but if he does not attend to my interest 
from affection, he may from weariness of my 
complaints, and of them I promise him the 
full benefit." 

" For shame, Marie ! — think how very kind 
he is to us !" 

" To you, I presume, you mean." 

" For pity' sake, let us drop the subject; 
and do tell us all about the quarrel between 
the king and the duke of Anjou." 

" I have nothing to tell, but that it is ridi- 
culous for Louis to be so absolutely governed 
by his mother as he is. He hears with her 
ears, and sees with her eyes — I suppose, he 
will soon eat with her mouth !" 

"Do not look so angry, Marie; it quite 
spoils your pretty face." 

" I do not care how I look; and if you have 
nothing more pleasant to say, I wish you good 
morning." 

" Nay, now, don't run away ; we shall flna 









FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



253 



something more agreeable, if you will but 
have patience." 

" Indeed, I should not have come in at all, 
but that the queen requested I would give the 
plan of the masque to la Signora Carrara, and 
remind her of her engagement." So saying, 
she threw the roll of paper on the table, and 
left the room. 

" I am so delighted at the fancy which the 
queen has taken to my little Francesca," said 
the duchesse, kindly. " You must look your 
best at the masque. There is an old picture 
of my uncle's, whose costume will suit you 
exactly — we will go and study it." 

Madame de Mercceur was one of those who 
are happy in their amiability. Gentle and 
kind, rather than acute or strong in feeling, 
she relied upon the affection she inspired, be- 
cause she had no exaggerated estimate within 
to whose test she applied it; the expression 
she witnessed came up to her expectation. 
Hence she was confiding and unsuspicious. 
She could comprehend the under motives of 
an action, when explained ; but she would ne- 
ver have penetrated them without such ex- 
planation. This extreme goodness and sim- 
plicity of character made Henriette her uncle's 
favourite. None but worldly people appre- 
ciate simplicity. He felt safe with her, and 
he believed in her attachment, because he saw 
that it was natural to her to love. 

Liking Francesca warmly herself, it seemed 
the most natural thing in the world that others 
should like her too. It never would have en- 
tered into her head, that the queen hourly 
saw, with more and more suspicion, her sis- 
ter's influence increasing, and that she calcu- 
lated on Francesca's attractions as a passing 
lure to Louis. The friendless Italian was a 
much safer person than the niece of the all- 
powerful minister, whose ambition would not 
stop but at the throne. Francesca might be 
allowed to detach him from Mademoiselle 
Mancini, and could then be easily flung aside. 
The king's devotion was the next engine to 
be brought into play; and the queen felt sure 
that his conscience was still sufficiently ten- 
der for alarm. 

But Marie was too dangerous; for though 
the very lilies of France would blush at such 
an alliance, still it was possible ; and Anne of 
Austria was too false herself to place any re- 
liance on the cardinal's professions, that he 
would be the first to oppose such a union. 
The temptation of the crown for his niece 
seemed too great to be resisted ; and the queen 
thought it but prudent to diminish it as much 
as she could. Francesca's beauty caught her 
attention ; it could not be better employed 
than in diverting Louis from Mademoiselle 
Mancini ; and that once effected, there was a 
convent ready for her, and her own authority 
and his confessor for the king. Marie, too, 
would be piqued by the prospect of her 
cousin's brilliant marriage ; and let her hopes 
be once turned towards a similar establish- 
ment, and no unnecessary delay should ensue 
in finding one for her. 

There is a story somewhere of an eastern 

Vol. I. 



king, whose delight it was to assemble his 
subjects in a glittering hall, where they were 
crowned with roses, and drank the purple 
wine from cups of gold ; but beneath them 
were caverns and chains. Suddenly, the floor 
gave way, and the guests were precipitated 
into the darkness below, there to meditate at 
leisure over their former blind enjoyment. 
Human life is just such a tyrant — the pleasure 
hides the pain; but not long — soon, very 
soon, are we precipitated into the depths ot 
experience and regret! 



CHAPTER XXI. 

" When factious Rage to cruel exile drove 
The Queen of Beauty and the court of Love, 
The Muses droop'd, with their forsaken arts, 
And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts." 

Drydem 

Courted, flattered, and caressed, Francesca 
could scarcely believe such a change could 
have so rapidly taken place, and on what : 
moreover, appeared such slight grounds. 
Though more thoughtful than Madame de 
Mercosur, yet it asked far more knowledge of 
society — that wilderness of small intricacies — 
for her to penetrate into the motives of those 
who seemed so suddenly struck with her fas- 
cination ; but she was too clear-headed to be 
deceived, and set it all down under one gene- 
ral belief in caprice. Still, it was pleasant to 
have a little circle gather round her, where, 
before, she had sat in solitary silence ; it was 
pleasant, also, to have half a dozen cavaliers 
for the dance, of which she had hitherto been 
little more than a spectator; and it was not 
very disagreeable to hear how beautiful she 
was from even the elderly dames of the 
court. 

The gardens around Compiegne were very 
extensive; and sunshine and the open ah 
seemed to give something of their own free 
dom to the gayety which prevailed. 

Most da}^s, Francesca was called on to sing 
to the queen, and, by some chance or other, 
Louis was constantly present, and often en- 
tered into conversation with her. He talked 
to her of Rome, and appeared to take great 
pleasure in exciting her enthusiasm, which 
dwelt delightedly on the by-gone glories of 
the eternal city ; or took a more touching 
tone, when painting its present desolation — 
yet lovely, and even sacred, in its ruins. It 
was very new to him, and herein was the 
secret charm. 

Mademoiselle Mancini pouted, and reveng- 
ed herself by an affectation of extreme inti- 
macy ; whispering to him even in his mother's 
presence, who now scarcely concealed her 
displeasure; and by tormenting her uncle with 
perpetual reproaches for what she termed his 
neglect of her interests. An old Italian ex- 
claimed, one day, as she left Mazarin's cham- 
ber, " I hear, Signora, many complaints of my 
master ; but, truly, you avenge them all." 

In the mean time, Francesca's favour wi*J 
Y 



254 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



he queen apparently increased daily ; she 
was even named to accompany her en calcche, 
with Madame de Mercceur and Christina, the 
day previous to the departure of the latter. 

The morning' was delicious, and, arrived at 
a sheltered portion of the gardens, they alight- 
ed for the sake of walking-. In the first ave- 
nue which they entered, they met Voiture. 
Voiture belonged to a race of poets essentially 
French, who sacrified to the graces instead of 
the muses ; to whom Cupid, with his wings 
and arrows, was the ideal of love, and whose 
art of poeiry consisted in epigram, tournure, 
readiness, and facility. Mademoiselle ex- 
pressed the spirit of the times, when she said, 
"Trifles weary me, excepting verses, and I 
am fond of them." 

But the passion which gives its deep and 
melancholy tone to our English imaginative 
literature, was unknown across the channel. 
Feeling never got beyond sentiment; and that 
bien arrange. The heart's faith was but la 
gallanierie — a term, by-the-by, which our word 
gallantry does not translate. Voiture carried 
his talent to perfection. His letters were 
charming — full of point and flattery; and his 
conversation sparkled with bon mots and 
compliments. The queen beckoned him to 
approach, and the whole party seated them- 
selves by a fountain, beneath the extended 
boughs of a large old chestnut-tree. 

"A scene from Bocaccio," said Christina; 
" nothing wanting but the lovers." 

"I should like," said Anne, "to know of 
what M. Voiture is thinking — he seems so lost 
in meditation !" 

"It is sometimes," replied the poet, " dan- 
gerous to give utterance to one's thoughts ; I 
claim full pardon for the presumption of 
mine." 

" On one condition," said the queen — " that 
you give them expression." 

Voiture smiled, and, fixing his eyes on the 
shadow of the queen in the water, repeated 
the following verses : — 

" Je pensais que la destine"e, 
Apres tain d'injustes malheurs, 
Vous a justement couronn^e 
De gloire, d'eclat, et de honneurs : 
Mais que vous eYiez plus heureuse, 
Lorsque vous 6tiez autrefois, 
Je ne veut pas direamoureuse 
La rime le veut toutefois. 

" Je pensais que ce pauvre amour, 
Qui toujours vous preta ses amies, 
Est banni loin de votre cour, 
Sans ses traits, son arc, ses charmes, 
Et ce que je puis profiter, 
En passant pre3 de vous ma vie, 
Si vous pouvez si maltraiter 
Ceux qui vous ont se bien servie. 

" Je pensais, car nous autres pofctes 
Nous pensons extravagamment, 
Ce que dans l'humeur'ou vous eles, 
Vous fer' " si dans ce moment 
Vous avisiez en cette place 
Venir le Due de Bokingham? 
Et lequel serait en disgrace 
De lui ou du Pere Vincent V 

"Have I exceeded my poetical license?" 
said Voiture, dropping on one knee. 

" Ah ! the follies of youth are now as nothi- 
ng in my sight, God be praised !" said Anne ; 
K T have long learnt to fix my wandering 



thoughts on graver subjects than the vain 
flatteries in which the young delight. Still, 
your verses are charming, and you must copy 
them for me." She extended her hand, which 
Voiture kissed with all possible devotion. 

" I do not often," replied he, " task my 
memory with such trifles ; but your majesty's 
commands would impress the very air that 
passes on my mind." 

"I should like," interrupted Christina, "to 
have seen the Duke of Buckingham; there 
was something picturesque and romantic about 
him, infinitely to my taste ; — and was he so 
very handsome 1 ?" 

"Very: but we are talking such non* 
sense !" answered Anne ; not, however, with 
an air as if the nonsense displeased her. 

"I have heard," continued Christina, 
" that it was quite a passion de Roman, and 
that the war with England was entirely caus- 
ed by V amour de vos beaux yeux." 

" Rather a desperate method of recom- 
mending himself to my favour." 

" Ah ! women like to have desperate things 
done on their account ; besides, people in love 
never calculate on probabilities. I dare say 
the duke dreamed of winning you, like an 
amadis, sword in hand." 

" And, like most dreamers, woke, and 
found out his mistake." 

"'Pardieu ! — it does not the least surprise 
me : if people will be beautiful, they must 
take the consequence. By-the-by, what trash 
the Queen of England talked the other night, 
when she contended, that no woman retained 
her beauty after five-and-twenty. I am sure, 
in this kingdom, such a speech is lese-majesle. 
But her fault brings its own punishment, for 
she spoke feelingly. God knows ! there is 
little vestige of the lovely Henriette in her 
careworn countenance." 

Few persons flattered with greater auda- 
city than the ex-queen of Sweden; but it was 
amazing how much the appearance of flattery 
was done away with by her abrupt manner, 
and seeming carelessness as to whether what 
she said was even heard. But the discourse 
was interrupted by the approach of a large 
party, who, as soon as they perceived the 
queen, advanced to pay their court. Among 
these was Evelyn, who drew near to Fran- 
cesca with an unusual degree of anxiety. 

" Dearest Francesca," he exclaimed, as 
soon as, by drawing her a little aside, the 
branches of a flowering shrub somewhat con- 
cealed them, "I think I may trust you, and 
will, therefore, as hastily as possible, make 
my request. The English ambassador ar- 
rives here to-day, and it is of the utmost con- 
sequence that no suspicion should be enter- 
tained of my correspondence with Queen 
Henriette, — all my present sources of infor- 
mation would be at once closed. The visit 
is unexpected ; and I dare not risk sending, 
still less dare I myself communicate any in- 
telligence. Will you take charge of a letter, 
and watch your opportunity for giving it un- 
perceived ]" 

" O, yes," exclaimed Francesca ; " and I 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



255 



thinK 1 could manage to do it this evening; 
as, after the play, there is a sort of fete at 
the cardinal's." 

" Good : the queen will be sure to be 
there." 

" Where is the letter ?" 

"Not yet written; but I will venture into 
the theatre to-night. I will bring you a bou- 
quet of flowers — round them will be a note ; 
and be careful to excite no suspicion in giv- 
mg it." 

Francesca promised, and the queen advanc- 
'ng towards the caleche, hastily followed her. 
The carriage drove off; though not till Anne 
Sad given Voiture a most gracious smile, and 
Did him remember the verses. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

K Crystal and myrrhine cups, embossed with gems 
And studs of pearl." 

Milton. 

Francesca that evening awaited the appear- 
ance of Evelyn with no little anxiety, which 
increased on perceiving that she was quite 
hemmed in by the quick-eyed Christina in 
front, the Duchesse de Mercceur on one side, 
and, to her great surprise, Louis took his 
place on the other, and, regardless of the ea- 
gerness with which she was watching the 
stage, drew her into conversation. She could 
scarcely disguise her preoccupation. Like 
most persons utterly unused to deception, she 
could not imagine how it was to be managed ; 
and her thoughts conjured up every probable 
and improbable embarrassment that might 
occur. The actors, too, diverted her atten- 
tion, with all the fascination their art ever 
exercises over the unaccustomed ; by degrees 
her eyes fixed upon the scene, and she be- 
came almost absorbed in the distress of the 
hero and heroine, who were in their usual 
difficulties. Her inattention, however, rather 
amused the king, though the charm with him 
had lost its illusion from frequent repetition ; 
yet it was something new to observe it in an- 
other. The amusement would not have lasted 
very long, but Christina, tired of what was go- 
ing on, addressed herself to him, and satirized 
the play unmercifully, but entertainingly. 

At this moment Mazarin entered, and Eve- 
lyn was in his suite. It had been arranged 
that his intended invitation should be given 
personalty, as if without premeditation, much 
ceremony being thus avoided. During the 
time that the cardinal was paying his devoirs 
to the two queens, Evelyn remained behind, 
and gradually obtained the vacant place be- 
tween Francesca and Madame de Mercceur ; 
the latter, to whom he more particularly ad- 
dressed himself, observed, " What very fra- 
grant flowers !" With an air of gallantry, he 
anxiously selected some of the rarest, and 
presented them to her; turning, as if with a 
sudden thought, to Francesca, offered her the 
remainder. She immediately perceived the 



note around the stems; and now, while all 
were engaged with the cardinal, concealed 
it with an ease that astonished herself. Be- 
fore, however, she could look round, Evelyn 
had disappeared. 

Soon after, Louis resumed his place ; and 
observing the flowers, asked Francesca for 
one of the roses, which she immediately gave, 
when, much more to her dismay than to her 
gratification, he kissed it, and placed it con- 
cealed in his bosom, adding, in a low voice, 
" It is too precious to be worn openly." 
Then, as if he were himself confused by 
what he had said, turned hastily, and began 
talking to Madame de Mercceur. 

From the theatre they proceeded to the car- 
dinal's, where many of the guests were al- 
ready assembled ; among others, the Queen 
of England and her daughter. There was 
something in the scene that jarred upon Fran- 
cesca's sympathy. She, whose councils had 
done much towards conducting her husband 
to the scaffold on which he perished— whose 
rank was a mockery, making her present 
state of dependence more bitter — an exile in 
her own country, whose very dreams must be 
haunted by death and danger; yet there she 
was seated, the centre of a frivolous circle, 
and of flatteries whose worthlessness she, of 
all there, must best have known. Ah ! misfor- 
tune ought to have sufficient self-respect for 
solitude. 

For the first time, it struck Francesca hvw 
exceedingly difficult she would find i* :o ae- 
liver the note with which she had been en- 
trusted. The three queens were seated at 
the upper end of the room, surrounded bv 
their attendants, with every eye fixea upon 
their least movement : what excuse had she 
for approaching Henriette 1 — she had never 
been presented to her, and it was most proba- 
ble the whole length of the chamber would 
be between them during the evening. But 
while she was increasing the difficulty by 
thinking about it, Madame de Mercceur, pass- 
ing her hand through her arm, said, " You 
must come with me, Francesca ; I want you 
to see the old portrait I was telling you about 
the other morning." 

So saying, she led her into a small apart- 
ment adjoining. There were three small 
rooms, which ran one into another. They 
were alike hung with gray cloth, covered 
with pictures, while all the light came from 
above. The picture before, which they paus- 
ed, represented one of those ruined fountains 
so common in Italy. Francesca gazed upon 
it as if it had been an old friend : many a 
time, beside such a one, with its carved and 
broken marble, had she wreathed the acanthus 
that hung around it, the green and trailing 
foliage so profuse in the south, into shapes 
even more fanciful than those which once 
suggested the Corinthian capital. The clear 
blue sky, and the towers of a church in the 
distance — the sunny foreground — brought the 
old-accustomed scenes so forcibly to hei 
mind, that for a moment she had forgotten al! 
but themselves. 



256 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Madame de Mereceur, though with a kind 
remembrance of childish habits and haunts, 
hrew around them none of that melancholy 
which is their poetry, and soon drew her 
companion's attention to the figure. It was a 
female in the prime of life, with the colours 
and rounded form of youth, but with the ex- 
pression of a more advanced period ; it was 
wonderful how the painter had contrived to 
give such determination, nay, even severity, 
to the brow, and yet retain such sweetness in 
the lower part of the face. But the mouth 
was that of a child — so small, so fresh, so 
red, and parted with a smile so glad, so inno- 
cent, and extending its influences to the dim- 
pled cheek and little ivory chin. Yet the nose 
was high and Roman ; and the eyes, which 
looked boldly out, seemed to flash fire. The 
dress was singular ; a green velvet boddice, 
which fitted tight, and was met at the throat 
by a chain, or rather collar, of gold. A crim- 
son scarf was round the waist, in which was 
placed a jymiard, whose sheath and handle 
glittered with gems. The large loose sleeve 
was lined with fur, and on each arm was a 
bracelet. On the one, a plain massive band 
which matched the collar ; on the other, a ser- 
pent ; the tail reached nearly to the elbow, 
and the head rose a little from the wrist ; the 
tongue of a ruby, the eyes of large brilliants. 
The costume was finished by a petticoat of 
broad alternate stripes of green and crimson, 
with a deep gold lace. The hair was plaited 
with bullion and red riband, and then wound 
round the head, something after the fashion of 
a turban, save that it entirely displayed the 
forehead. 

" It is too fierce," said Louis, who, toge- 
ther with Mazarin, had entered the gallery. 

"Such was the original," replied Mazarin; 
" she Avas the wife of a celebrated bandit in 
the Abruzzi ; and this likeness was its artist's 
ransom. It was found in the old castle, 
which had long been the haunt of a most des- 
perate band. Tradition says she died by her 
.lusband's side, fighting to the last." 

"I cannot approve this costume for la Sig- 
nora Carrara : Amazons are out of keeping in 
a fete. Now, I much prefer the one to the 
left." 

They passed on to the picture which he 
named ; singular enough, there was a resem- 
blance in the features, and yet no likeness 
between the two, it was as if to show the infi- 
nite difference that could be wrought by ex- 
pression. The background of the painting 
was a crimson velvet curtain, which threw 
out the drapery of the figure. It was dressed 
in white satin, unmixed with any colour; the 
boddice was laced with pearls, but the fair 
neck and arms wore no ornament ; and the 
profusion of raven black hair hung down in 
large loose mils, without any visible confine- 
ment. The large, soft dark eyes were raised, 
but seemed rather engrossed by their own 
feelings — (thoughts are scarcely tender enough 
for such a look) — than fixed upon any sur- 
ounding object. 

" It is a lovely portrait; Francesca will, of 



course, adopt a dress honoured by your Grace' 
approval." 

Louis looked at Francesca, who, colouring 
a little, bent her head in silence. 

" I have lately," remarked Mazarin, "added 
to my collection of royal likenesses ; this is a 
very scarce one of Francis the First." 

" I am proud of my ancestor," exclaimed 
Louis, gazing on it with an animation whicr" 
suspended every thing else for the moment, 
"I envy the glory which yet lingers round 
the name of France's most chivalrous king 
Ah ! but for my mother's fearful love, i 
should now be at the head of my army. I 
envy Turenne every victory he gains in my 
cause." 

" It is a grave fault," answered the cardi- 
nal, " for a king thus rashly to expose his 
life. Think of all the evils France has suf 
fered from the imprudent valour of her mo- 
narch." 

" Imprudent, if you please," rejoined Louis ; 
"but this very imprudence has ranked him 
among our greatest heroes." And saying this, 
he passed on, as if unwilling to continue the 
conversation. 

"Ay," exclaimed Mazarin, looking after 
him with an expression of almost affection, 
" he has in him stuff enough for four kings, 
and an honest man beside." 

A landscape, with a palace in the distance, 
somewhat resembling' that of La Franchiui s. 
attracted Francesca ; and while she was ob- 
serving a scene which seemed so familial io 
her, she dropped the flowers which Eve*vn 
had given her. Before she ever perceived ner 
loss, the king had picked them, and was about 
to give them to her, when he perceived *tie 
note, and also observed that the seal was yet 
unbroken. 

" Mademoiselle has not had time to read a 
letter, so surrounded by sweets — pray, use no 
ceremony." 

" Good Heaven !" exclaimed Francesca, — 
"if I had lost it!" 

" Is it, then, so very precious ?" asited 
Louis. 

Francesca was too young not to feel asham- 
ed of its being supposed that she could be the 
possessor of a loveletter, and answered un- 
guardedly, " Oh, I am only its bearer ; it is 
not for me." 

"Can I save you the trouble?" asked the 
king, smiling; partly from that general gal- 
lantry, which was his universal tone, and a 
little, it must be owned, from curiosity. 

"Holy Madonna!" ejaculated Francesca; 
" if your majesty would but take charge of it ! 
I see clearly that it is impossible I shall be 
able to deliver it." 

Louis, amused by the ignorance of form 
which so readily took him at his word, as- 
sured her he would give it. " But to whom ? 
for the note has no address !" 

"To the English queen." 

Louis looked surprised ; but having pro- 
mised, his courtesy was too perfect to allow 
of either hesitation or question. 

Further conversation was interrupted by the 



FRANCESCA CARRARA 



'257 



approach of the cardinal and his niece, who 
asked the king 1 to adjourn to a neighbouring 
gallery, "Where," said he, "you will wit- 
ness the perfect enthusiasm of my gallantry." 

• rip-"- went forward ; but Madame de Mer- 
ov^t/r lingered a moment behind. " I do not 
know how you will manage your hair," said 
she, looking 1 at the picture ; "though, Heaven 
knows ! we found it easy enough some three 
or four years ago." 

"I like the other best," answered Frances- 
ca, who had a sort of unconscious reluctance 
to allow her costume to be thus Louis's espe- 
cial choice. 

"That is- quite out of the question," re- 
joined the duchesse; "have you not lived 
here long" enough to know, that a royal wish 
is a command ?" 

They then proceeded towards the gallery, 
which they found partially filled, and the news 
of its contents soon attracted thither the rest 
of the company. It contained every species 
of ornament: toys, china, shawls, lace, &c. — 
a very fair, whose temptations were selected 
with all possible attention to taste, and an 
equal disregard to expense. On one table 
were Indian cabinets, wrought in ivory, ebony, 
tortoise-shell and amber; on another were the 
exquisite porcelain of Dresden and Sevres; a 
third was heaped with gold and silver stuffs ; 
a fourth, with the colours of the rainbow, in 
embroidered taffetas; close beside were per- 
fumed gloves, and the rich ribands of Lyons, 
and velvets from Genoa fit for the mantle of a 
queen. 

Other stands were covered with the " cun- 
ning devices" of the goldsmith and the jewel- 
ler. There were diamonds colourless with 
excess of light; rubies, rich as the sunset of 
their native clime ; the purple amethyst; the 
pale, pure pearl ; and ornaments worked in 
gold,— from the massive links, like precious 
fetters, to the light fragile chains of Venice. 
Nor were there only articles of personal deco- 
ration ; but on some of the tables stood silver 
cups and lamps, crystal girandoles, and ala- 
baster vases. 

The surprise excited by this exhibition was 
indeed increased when the cardinal came for- 
ward and said, that he trusted his guests 
would accept his offering, as whatever the 
gallery contained was to be distributed among 
them by means of a lottery. " It is fortune 
you will have to thank, not me." 

A murmur of applause and gratitude arose 
from the crowd, which was soon interrupted 
by the preparations for distributing the tickets. 

Four pages, clothed in white and crimson, 
brought in two massive salvers, whose deli- 
cate carving was from the unrivalled graver 
of Benvenuto Cellini. These were rilled with 
small sealed billets, from which the company 
were to draw, and afterwards open in succes- 
sion. The pages first approached and knelt 
before the queens, who each took one of the 
billets, and then proceeded to distribute the 
remainder among the rest. 

It was curious to observe the many indica- 

Voi. I.— 33 



tions of character called forth by the spirit of 
gambling so unexpectedly evoked. Some 
pressed forward ; others hung back, as if 
they feared to tempt their fate without some 
effort at propitiation, in the way of " muttered 
vow and inward prayer." While one would 
take up the sealed billet with affected care- 
lessness — belied, however, by the anxious 
eye — another could not conceal the flushed 
cheek and the trembling hand. Many elbowed 
their way to the pages, without consideration 
or scruple ; some few, with innate courtesy, 
made way, and seemed to think that others 
had as much right as themselves. 

But Francesca's whole attention was soon 
engrossed ; for, attracted by the beauty of 
some vases of cut crystal, Queen Henriette 
was standing beside one of the tables. A 
moment afterwards, Louis approached her, 
and began, apparently, to discuss with her, 
their exquisite workmanship. He passed 
one or two from his own hand to her's ; but 
scarcely five minutes had elapsed, before he 
turned away ; yet Francesca could not dotibt 
but that the letter had been delivered. The 
young Italian could scarcely believe, that 
what had seemed to her a difficulty so insu- 
perable, could be so easily effected. Her eyes 
were fixed upon the place, aware of what was 
going on, but she had not been able to per- 
ceive look or gesture that either party wished 
unobserved. She little knew the perfect 
command of countenance so early acquired in 
society ; or how one who, like Henriette, had 
lived in a world of plot, intrigue, and anxiety, 
Avas alive almost by intuition to the slightes' 
signal of intelligence. 

The king moved carelessly amid the sur 
rounding groups, evidently, however, verging 
to her side of the room; when his progress 
was interrupted by Mademoiselle Mancini, 
who addressed to him some laughing ques- 
tion. This was soon followed by another, 
and she contrived completely to engross Lou- 
is's notice. Marie even then began the 
course which, in after years, secured her so 
vast an influence in the court, — alternately 
taking up and laying down her claim to the 
youthful monarch's penchant; administering 
to his amusement, and ready to encourage his 
passing fancies. Already she had controlled 
her temper, excepting where it might be in- 
dulged in safety. She saw that Francesca 
was now the idol; and artfully turning the 
discourse on Italy, contrived to talk about her 
former friend — the most interesting subject 
she could have selected. Any one possessed 
of less finesse would have disparaged a rival, — 
not so Marie. She praised Francesca ; tola 
many slight but amusing anecdotes of he. 
childhood, and all in her favour; till the king 
was charmed with her for such warm and in- 
genious friendship, and with himself for hav- 
ing been the first to discover those merits and 
graces. 

In the mean time, Francesca, separated 
from Madame de Mercceur, was hidden by a 
group around the queen of Sweden. W T itb 
y2 



25S 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



the wall on one side, and a human block- 
ade on tne other, she was left at full lei- 
sure to meditate on a vow made at the first 
announcement of the lottery, namely, that 
whatever might fall to her lot she would offer 
in a neighbouring chapel to the Virgin, at 
whose shrine she would kneel one hour for 
Guido's safe return. But conversation was 
too busy to allow of any very abstracted me- 
ditation, and she was compelled, perforce, to 
listen. 

"I shall carry away with me," said Chris- 
tina, an equally brilliant and grateful remem- 
brance of your court." 

" I trust," said the Duke de Candale, " you 
will defer these pleasures of memory to the 
latest possible period of enjoyment." 

"Till to-morrow," replied she. 

"So soon!" replied the duke; "and can 
you tell us so with a smile ?" 

" Ah ! you, I know, are one of those," con- 
tinued Christina, "who imagine existence is 
bounded by Paris — that life elsewhere is but 
dull vegetation! Now, denounce me not as 
a heretic; but I prefer Rome. Here, every 
thing is absorbed in the present, as all there 
is merged in the past. Yet, you must admit, 
that the past, with its gathered glories of 
many ap-es, exceeds the past which has only 
to-day ?"" 

" Yes," replied Candale ; but such glory 
has its gloom. The shadow of the tombs 
whence it emanates rests upon it." 

" But what superb repose ! — what deep 
conviction of the worth in life's nobler uses ! 
I have," said the queen, "higher hopes, and 
more general feelings, in those marble soli- 
tudes, sacred to great names, than I have 
here, where pleasure is business, and a tabou- 
ret the best ambition. It is very catching ; I 
am half inclined to dispute precedence my- 
self." 

" Yet these forms are necessary," replied 
an elderly courtier, whose well-powdered 
ailcs de pigeon stood out a little more stiffly 
than usual at hearing such doctrines. 

" Well, well," interrupted the queen, im- 
patiently; "you take good care to surround 
yourself with them." 

"I'll tell you an anecdote," said De Join- 
ville. "You are awarr that the privilege of 
entrance to the staircase of the Louvre is re- 
served to the princes, to ambassadors, and to 
dukes. One evening, when we were all as- 
sembled after his majesty's supper, M. de 
Roquelaure entered, and advancing at once to 
the king, said, ' I came in my carriage to the 
bottom of the staircase.' Now he is not enti- 
tled to this honour, and the king is very se- 
vere on any branch of etiquette ; so he was 
asked, in an angry tone of voice, ' And who 
could be ignorant enough to allow you to en- 
ter V 'Ignorant, indeed, sire,' replied Ro- 
quelaure ; ' for he allowed me to pass under 
the name of the Due d'Epernon, the last de- 
ceased.' Louis laughed at this ; and we all, 
as in duty bound, followed the example. ' I 
must tell you how it happened,' continued 



Roquelaure. ' It was raining in torrents when 
I arrived at the Louvre, and I told my coach- 
man to enter. The sentinel called out, ' Who 
is if?' 'It is a duke.' ' What duke V 'The 
Duke d'Epernon.' 'Which]' 'The last 
deceased.' 'Enter!' and my ghostly grace 
entered.' So, } r ou see, madame, wit makes 
its way in spite of all our forms." 

The conversation was interrupted by an 
announcement, that as the billets had all been 
distributed, they were now to be opened. 

Poor Francesca felt most cruelly disap- 
pointed. Pushed aside in the crowd, with 
none to heed her hidden position, no billet, had 
been handed to her ; the pages had passed to 
and fro, but she had been kept completely out 
of sight. She thought of her intended offer- 
ing to the Madonna ; it was as if her very 
intention had been rejected. Perhaps, even 
at that moment, Guido was in trouble or sick- 
ness. " Though I shall have nothing to offer, 
yet I will go to-morrow and pray," thought 
she; and, in spite of her efforts, her eyes 
filled with tears. 

The whole gallery was now a scene of gay 
confusion, — all were exhibiting and comparing 
their prizes ; and in the movement, Francesca 
contrived to draw near to Madame de Mer- 
cosur. She held in her hand a superb jasmine 
spray of pearls, which she was showing to the 
group around. 

"I pray you.look at mine," said a cavalier, 
who, though rather advanced beyond middle 
age, retained the buoyant step and clear glad, 
eye of youth; "do you not think it very ap- 
propriate ?" and he exhited a small hermitage, 
carved in alabaster. 

"Quite a moral lesson, Benserade, for you. 
When do you retire V 

" A hermitage 1 Benserade w r ould prefer a 
monastery, if all tales be true," exclaimed De 
Joinville; "and, in their confirmation, I must 
say I never tasted such venison as at the be* 
nedictine abbey." 

" And I," said the Due de Candale, " ade 
my testimony in favour of their wines : sum 
mer seemed to have been expressly made fo 
their vineyards. No trifling recommendations 
Monsieur Benserade." 

" I have known, in my court experience 
much worse ones attended to," replied Bense 
rade. 

" Your hermitage wants nothing but an in 
scription," said Madame de Mercosur. 

"It shall want nothing that you wish,* 
answered the poet; and, taking up a pencil 
wrote four lines on the vacant space whici 
seemed destined for such use. 



"Adieu, fortune, honneurs, vous et les votres, 
Je viens ici vous oublier; 
Adieu, toi-meme amour, bien plus que tous les autrea 
Difficile a cong^dier." 



The little circle were warm in their com- 
mendations on the readiness and the grace ut 
the inscription ; when the English queen 
stopped for an instant in passing, and ad- 
dressed Madame de Mercceur. " Have I tal- 



FRANCESCA CARRARA 



259 



rulated too much on your kindness ? I want 
my Henrietta to see some of the dresses pre- 
paring for the ballet; will you allow her to 
come to-morrow, and trespass on your time 
and good-nature for their exhibition V and as 
she spoke, her eye, with the most seeming 
unconsciousness, rested on Francesca. Ma- 
dame de Mercoeur returned a polite consent, 
and the queen left the gallery. 

Francesca was again confounded at the ease 
with which the appointment was made; for 
she was right in her supposition, that the 
princess's visit the following morning was to 
give an answer to the note which had that 
evening been conveyed to her mother. 

Mademoiselle Mancini, whose dialogue with 
Louis had been interrupted by the queen's 
departure, whom her son almost invariably 
himself conducted to her carriage, now ad- 
vanced to exhibit a splendid pair of diamond 
ear-rings. She was herself radiant with tri- 
umph ; which grew still more obvious, when 
Louis, returning, joined their circle. Fran- 
cesca was still in the back ground ; but the 
quick eye of the king at once perceived her. 
He produced his prize : it was a massive 
bracelet, consisting of a broad band of gold, 
widest in the middle, and shaped something 
like a cuff ; though it was obvious, from its 
unusually small size, it was only fitted to a 
most delicate wrist. It was set with a sort 
of running pattern of various precious stones ; 
and it was difficult to say, whether the costli- 
ness of the material or the taste of the work- 
manship was most to be admired. 

Many a bright eye grew brighter as the 
glittering toy was submitted to their inspec- 
tion ; but Louis seemed to have no immediate 
intention of parting with the beautiful brace- 
let. He passed round the circle, addressing 
each individual with his own peculiar grace 
of manner, questioning them on the various 
results of the lottery, till he arrived where 
Francesca stood. " And you. Signora Car- 
rara, have you been very successful ] — what 
memorial of our cardinal's gallantry has fallen 
to the lot of his fair countrywoman ?" 

" I had no billet," was the hesitating and 
confused reply. 

" Mon Dieu ! why did you not take one V 
exclaimed Madame de Mercoeur. " My dear 
Francesca, you are too shy." 

" The pages did not happen to pass near 
me." 

"And you, my poor child, were ashamed 
to help yourself! Will you ever forgive my 
carelessness'? — it is I that am to blame," said 
the duchesse, with a kindness that quite de- 
prived her young companion of all power to 
thank her. 

" Allow me the pleasure of reparation," 
said the king. " The Signora Carrara will, I 
hope, accept this toy in token that she extends 
her forgiveness to us all. There is not a gen- 
tleman here but must feel such a neglect as a 
personal reproach." With the most dignified, 
vet graceful courtesy, Louis fastened the 
bracelet on Francesca's arm. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

" That early love that longest haunts the heart. 
Bringing back youth and home !" 

The glittering bracelet, every precious 
stone on its golden circle lighted with the 
morning sunshine, was the first thing that 
caught Francesca's sight when she awoke. 
Up she sprang; for at once the remembrance 
of its destination flashed upon her mind. She 
dressed hastily, as she wished to be at home 
again before Madame de Mercoeur had risen. 

Once she fastened the beautiful toy on her 
arm in a passing touch of feminine vanity, 
equally momentary and pardonable; but not 
for an instant did she think of appropriating 
it to her own gratification. Her education, it 
is true, had preserved her from much of the 
ignorant belief of her country ; but, whatever 
the head may be, the heart is always super- 
stitious. The more unexpected the arrival of 
the prize, the more it seemed given for the 
fulfilment of her original purpose. Indeed, 
so paramount was Guido in her thoughts, 
that it may be questioned whether it had even 
the merit of a sacrifice. 

Closely drawing her cardinal round her, 
she descended into the park, at whose ex- 
tremity was the little chapel where she in- 
tended to make her offering-. She soon arrived 
there, and found the aged priest in attendance. 
The gem was given, and a blessing received ; 
and many and fervent were the prayers which 
she uttered at the foot of the altar, for the 
safety and the welfare of her beloved brother. 
She returned homewards more slowly; for 
the lovely morning was so bright, and so 
quiet, that a sense of enjoyment and security 
unconsciously stole into her heart. The glo- 
rious sunshine, the clear blue heaven, some- 
what reminded her of Italy. She felt the 
gladdening influences, and walked slowly on 
in one of those pleasant reveries which so 
rarely last beyond our childhood ; and when 
by chance they do revive, they bring with 
them the freshness of that early and happy 
time. 

The path which she pursued overlooked the 
highroad, and, though little exposed to view, 
it commanded all that was passing. Sud- 
denly, she saw Evelyn advancing slowly 
along, quite alone, and seemingly lost in deeD 
meditation. Francesca was on the very point 
of beckoning to him, when she checked her- 
self: she had already learned that leading 
lesson of society, namely, that of curbing 
your first impulses. She was unwilling to 
have it said that her early rising had been to 
meet him ; and still more unwilling, wheii 
she recalled his wish to avoid any suspicion 
of his intercourse with the English queen, — it 
was impossible to say how it might be ex- 
cited, and she therefore resolved to pass on, 
without communicating the successful deli- 
very of the letter. But, as he came nearer, 
she was startled to perceive his pale and hag. 
gard appearance. His dress was neglected 



•260 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



like one who had watched through the night, 
and cared not for the coming- daylight. His 
lip and cheek were white ; and his step was 
uncertain and agitated. 

Every kind feeling' in Francesca's heart 
rose to the surface ; and she was just about to 
lean forward and speak, when a servant on 
horseback, leading- another horse, rode up. 
Evelyn snatched the bridle hastily, flung- him- 
self on the steed, which pranced as if as im- 
patient as himself, plunged the spurs in its 
side, and darted off like a man who strives to 
fly even from his very thoughts ; while Fran- 
cesca watched the rapidly receding figures in 
mute amazement. 

There is something peculiarly attractive to 
a woman in any display of strong emotion, 
though she herself has no part in it. Evelyn's 
pale countenance and disturbed manner awak- 
ened in Francesca the most tender interest. 
Involuntarily, she recurred to the period of 
their earliest acquaintance— their first meet- 
ing, when each felt attracted to the other, 
they knew not wherefore ; how shyness deep- 
ened into timidity, and how that gradually 
melted away before the sweet confidence of 
mutual affection. She remembered how, one 
long summer day, they had, together with 
Guido, wandered amid the ruins of ancient 
Rome ; and how, while Guido dwelt on the 
poetry of the present, Evelyn rather turned to 
the history of the past, — and with what a no- 
ble enthusiasm ! How many true and gene- 
rous feelings had found an unconscious vent 
in words ! " Beloved Evelyn," exclaimed 
she, " I am affected with the worldly atmo- 
sphere around. I do you less than justice, 
because necessity forces you to conform to the 
false and frivolous spirit, which, here, seems 
the very soul of existence, — I forget what 
your higher nature really is; rather ought I 
to blame my own judgment, which looks not 
behind the mask." 

Francesca pursued her way, calling up 
every better attribute of her lover with all the 
aids which imagination is ever so ready to 
offer on such occasions, and, like most gene- 
rous tempers, exaggerating the right to efface 
the wrong. 

On her return, she hastened to Madame de 
Mercosur's apartment, who was already risen. 

" Do not hate me, said the duchesse, " for 
my news ; but a new commission of my un- 
cle's has taken your brother on to Rome." 

" Ah ! he will visit our old home," ex- 
claimed Francesca, her eyes filling with tears. 

" Why is it," asked Madame de Mci-cceur, 
" that you turn with a more tender leding 
than I can to your former home, and former 
life ] I candidly confess that they never 
come into my head, — at least, of their own 
accord. But,. 1j you know, I deem it one of 
my faults to live as much as I do in the pre- 
sent. I never think of what I do not see; 
unless, as you must bear me witness, an old 
friend now and then," passing her arm affec- 
tionately round Francesca. 

Just then a page announced, that the Prin- 



cess Henriette, of England, desired to be ad- 
mitted. 

" Ah," cried Madame de Mercosur, " there 
is another instance of my forgetful ness, 1 
promised the dear child to show her the 
caskets of that curiously wrought tortoise- 
shell — a gift of my uncle's ; and she is forced 
to recall my promise by a visit." 

There was something singularly interesting 
in the youthful princess, who now entered. 
Her figure was very childish, and so were her 
small and delicate features; — not so their ex- 
pression ; for there was a degree of thought, 
mournful in one so young; and her large blue 
eyes had that melancholy which is almost al- 
ways prophetic. It was strange, that while 
gazing on that fair child, images of misfor- 
tune, early death, and all life's saddest acci- 
dents, rose uppermost in the mind; — it was 
like spring with the association of autumn. 

Henrietta approached, and, with a remark- 
ably sweet voice, addressed Madame de Mer- 
cosur — blushing, as it were, at the sound of 
her own voice: " You see, madame, what it 
is to promise a pleasure; — am I too bold in 
reminding you of your caskets ; — Remember, 
if I intrude, the fault began in your own kind- 
ness." 

Madame de Mercosur was all delight and 
courtesy, and the caskets were immediately 
produced. " I must make a merit of a fault," 
added she, "and hope my candour will ex- 
cuse my forgetfulness. It is curious, that just 
as your highness entered, I was lamenting my 
utter want of memory." 

" I am glad," replied Henrietta, " that in 
future I shall have your example to plead. In- 
deed, I never remember any thing but kind- 
ness." And Francesca was conscious that 
the glance which she caught was directed 
towards her; their eyes met, and the princess 
withdrew hers, with a smile, which said, 
"we understand each other." 

No person is much in any particular room 
without having a favourite seat in it; and 
Francesca's was in the large window. Here 
she was a little withdrawn from the circle, 
and yet able both to see and hear ; timidity 
and curiosity being each. satisfied. 

The progress of Madame de Mercosur's 
toilette went on ; and while her woman was 
exhausting her ingenuity and attention in ar- 
ranging the front hair, Henrietta exclaimed, 
"Ah, how beautiful the veins of the tortoise- 
shell are, with the light coming through, just 
like painted glass;" and raising one jn her 
hand, she approached the window. Frances- 
ca, of course, offered to hold it ; and while 
thus employed, the princess said, in the lowest 
possible tone, " Tell Mr. Evelyn his note 
was just in time;" and then added, in a 
higher tone, " 1 really must thank the Signora 
Carrara; she holds the box so that the light 
comes through quite beautifully!" and turned 
away with another of her sweet and intelli- 
gent smiles. The carriage, with the lady in 
waiting, being announced, Henrietta departed, 
leaving Madame de Mercosur charmed with 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



261 



her grace, and her admiration of the favourite 
caskets. 

But though Francesca strove to repress the 
idea as harsh and unkind, she could not re- 
press the feeling that this grace was hut the 
perfection of art. How must the natural emo- 
tions have been checked — the wild, warm im- 
pulses of childhood subdued ; how much of 
dissimulation taught as a study, before a child 
could be so guarded, and so ready in resource ! 
" 'Tis a weary apprenticeship to serve," 
thought she; " and, after all, is not this per- 
fection of manner a thing rather to be admired 
than loved 1 ? — love asks reality." 

Visiter after visiter filled up the morning ; 
and late in the day, to Francesca's utter asto- 
nishment, Evelyn was among the number, 
looking equally well in health and gay in 
spirits. He came into the room accompanied 
by the Chevalier de Joinville; and they were 
discussing, with much animation, whether 
blue and amber, or green and scarlet, were 
the best mixture of colours. 

" Give me scarlet and green," said the Che- 
valier de Joinville; "they are magnificently 
barbaric. The one so warlike; the other so 
sacred to all true believers. Why, I should 
feel like the Sublime Porte himself"." 

" Give me," replied Evelyn, "blue — 

' The sunny azure in my lady's eye,' 
and amber — 

1 The amber tresses of her dropping hair.' 

I appeal to Madame de Mercosur — " 

" Who gives it in your favour, were it but 
for the gallantry which brings but feminine 
instances to support its taste. Out on the 
chevalier's barbarous references." 

" Theory and practice do not always ac- 
cord," observed De Joinville, as he watched 
Evelyn take a seat beside Francesea. 

"I am impatient," exclaimed she, " to tell 
you about your note ;" and she proceeded to 
detail her anxieties and safe accomplishment 
of her undertaking. "I was very near stop- 
ping you this morning; but tell me," and her 
voice took an unusual tone of interest, "what 
had j^st affected you so seriously ?" 

Evelyn absolutely coloured to the forehead 
as he asked, in a hesitating voice, where she 
had seen him. 

" As you mounted in the high road this 
morning, and spurred that unfortunate horse 
of yours as if life and death had been in his 
speed." 

"I cannot allow myself to be cross-ques- 
tioned," replied Evelyn, with a smile obvi- 
ously forced. 

Francesea felt her interest flung back again ; 
— nothing is more painful than to have a kind- 
ly anxiety treated as curiosity. Involuntarily, 
her manner became constrained ; and the con- 
versation, which had begun with so much ani- 
mation, died away into an awkward silence, 
which Evelyn was the first to break. 

"I have heard nothing talked of this morn- 
ing," said he, " but the king's gallantry and 
your beautiful bracelet. Do show it to me." 

*' I offered it this morning to the Madonna. 



It was in returning from the chapel through 
the park that I saw you." 

" You have made an offering of your brace- 
let! What could tempt you to do any thing 
half so absurd 1 ? Were you afraid it would 
haunt you with too brilliant hopes ?" 

" I pray you," returned Francesea coldly, 
" not to make my belief a subject of ridicule." 

" But I must know what deep sin it was 
intended to expiate." 

" None," replied Francesea ; " it only ac- 
companied my prayers for my brother's safe- 
ty_" 

" As if," continued he, " his safety were 
endangered by that pretty arm being worthily 
clasped." 

" At all events," replied Francesea, " it 
could not be better bestowed, than as an offer- 
ing, however unworthy, for his sake who is 
nearest and dearest to me in the world." 

" I thank you for the implied compliment," 
returned Evelyn, in a tone of pique. But all 
further intercourse was suspended, by Ma- 
dame de Mercosur's rising, as it was near the 
hour of her attendance upon the queen. 

Again Francesea felt dispirited, and discon- 
tented. " It is in vain," thought she, " to 
deceive myself: there is, there can be, no 
sympathy between us. He excludes me from 
his confidence — he takes no interest in my 
feelings. Ah ! I see now that love is the de- 
lusion which the sage and the grave say it is. 
Perhaps I should be thankful that my eyes 
have so soon been opened to its vanity." Yet 
she did not feel very grateful. 'Tis pity for 
those whose standard of love is high and ideal; 
for them are prepared the downfall and the 
disappointment. The heart is the true sensi- 
tive plant — revolting at a touch. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

" The comic triumphs and the spoils 

Of sly derision— still on every side 
Hurling the random bolts." 

Akenside. 

Francesca would have been not a little 
astonished could she have known with what 
curiosity her arrival was anticipated that 
night in the royal circle. Already the history 
of the bracelet had reached the queen's ear, 
with every possible variation and addition 
that human ingenuity, heightened by human 
envy, could devise. Perhaps of these, Marie's 
version was the most covertly bitter ; and poor 
Francesca appeared with a degree of artifice 
and coquetry about as far removed from her 
real nature as it was from the real case. Bat 
Anne of Austria, like most in her station, had 
singular tact in detecting the true and the 
false. The ear long accustomed to, and 
therefore on its guard against, dissimulation, 
oftens catches the fact from slight indications 
which would pass unnoticed by the common 
observer. Still, she too had some desire to 
note what effect the present honour, and still 
more brilliant fancies, would produce on a 



262 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



character whose simplicity and nature she 
had discerned at a glance. The truth was, 
that Francesca was perfectly fancy free ; she 
saw nothing in the king's action but the most 
genuine kindness; she was very grateful, and 
there, to her thought, the matter ended. 

When they entered the royal apartment, 
Louis was at one end, entirely engrossed by 
Mademoiselle Mancini, while the queen and 
her immediate circle, which they joined, was 
at the other. Marie had completely changed 
her plar* ; she saw that the higher game was 
not in he/ hands ; the king was not, and w^ould 
not be in love with her; but she amused 
him, and, by a little skilful management and 
flattery, could contrive to occupy his attention 
quite enough to alarm his mother; " and I 
shall be brilliantly married," thought she, 
" by way of security." It may be questioned 
whether Guido ever even entered her head ; 
love never lasts with a temper like hers; a 
first lover was welcome rather as an omen of 
future triumph than for his own sake. The 
sentiment of such a heart is dew, that exhales 
with the earliest sunbeam. 

The group around Anne were busily em- 
ployed in dissecting the Swedish queen, who 
had departed that morning, her eclat a little 
tarnished by an overlong visit, and by an 
indiscreet patronage of Marie Mancini's fasci- 
nations. An idol must be picked to pieces 
before it is discovered to be but wood and 
stone. An affected inattention, and a grave 
smile from the queen, reassured De Joinville 
as to the success to his mimicry, and Fran- 
cesca was certainly the only one who stood 
perfectly dismayed at the sudden change from 
flattery to sarcasm. So eagerly was the dis- 
course carried on, that not one perceived the 
queen, who was moving round, drop her 
glove ; it fell close to Francesca, who, draw- 
ing off her own, picked it up, and presented it. 
In so doing, Anne's quick eye discovered that 
she had no bracelet on ; like all artful people, 
she suspected artifice, and immediately sup- 
posed that Francesca feared to wear the gem 
in her presence. 

" My beautiful simplicity has, then," thought 
the queen, " deeper designs than I suspected, 
and is unwilling to let me see aught that can 
excite suspicion." " How is this," continued 
she aloud, "that the Signora Carrara does 
not honour my son by wearing his gift]" 

Francesca was dismayed ; this was a diffi- 
culty which she had not foreseen. Even the 
consciousuess of right does not always sup- 
port us ; and to increase her consternation, 
Louis had joined the circle, while the eyes of 
every one were turned upon her. Colouring 
till the tears glistened on her long dark lashes, 
in alow faltering whisper she stammered, " I 
have it not." 

"Have you lost it!" demanded the queen. 

" No, madame." 

" Then why did you not wear it to-night !" 

" It is mine no longer," replied the young 
Italian. 

" Surely," rejoined Anne, who was already 
offended that such a gift should have been 



lightly held, " you cannot have given it to 
any friend V 

" O no !" was the eager answer. 

" Then what have you done w T ith it V 

" I offered it at the shrine of our lady, in 
the chapel of the valley." 

" Now, the blessed virgin forbid I should 
grudge aught to her," exclaimed Louis, witK 
evident displeasure, " but, methinks, the piety 
w T as ill-timed." 

"Who 'knows," observed Mademoiselle 
Mancini, with a sneer, " what idea la signora 
might attach to the gift; perhaps it needed a 
little expiation." 

" We cannot tell for what tender interests 
it was to plead," added the Chevalier de Join- 
ville. 

With a cold and indifferent air the queen 
turned away, when Francesca, regardless of. 
form in the excitement of the moment, sank 
on her knee before her. " I cannot endure 
this imputation of being thankless for kind- 
ness so gracious and so precious.. Madame, 
I have an only and a beloved brother, delicate 
from infancy, and parted from me for the first 
time in our life — parted from me on a long 
and dangerous journey. When the lottery 
commenced yesterday evening,! vowed within 
my heart, that whatever became mine should 
be offered to the Madonna, with my earnest 
prayers for his safety. . 1 felt almost, in hav- 
ing nothing to offer, that my tribute had been, 
as it were, rejected ; and when, by the most 
unexpected chance, the beautiful bracelet be- 
came mine, could I, dared I, not fulfil my 
precious vow 1 Was I the less grateful, 
because I put the gift to its most worthy 
use ?" 

There was not one kindly feeling in the 
queen but what was touched by the youthful 
stranger's narrative ; she raised her, saying, 
" And so, my poor child, you thought we 
were angry — the blessed virgin forbid ! We 
could wish her shrine as w 7 ell served by others. 
} r oung as yourself." 

Look and word at once changed all round, 
and not a few found themselves growing most 
suddenly devout. Just then, an attendant to 
whom the queen had whispered, returned ; 
and taking a small case from her hand, Anne 
produced a bracelet somewhat similar to the 
very one w T ith which Francesca had parted, 
excepting that it had her cipher, surrounded 
by a wreath of fleurs-de-lis. " Louis, will you 
offer this to Mademoiselle Carrara?" 

The young king again fastened the clasp 
on Francesca's arm. " I hope you have no 
more vows to pay ?" said he, smiling. 

Francesca could not have spoken, had it 
been to save her life; but there are cases in 
which silence is very eloquence. 

" My dearest child," exclaimed Madame de 
Mercceur, "how I enjoyed your triumph! 
But do, pray, remember that royal gifts are 
to be kept. I must say, however, that the 
Madonna stood your friend to-night ; and I am 
sure you deserved it." 

Triumph it might be — it certainly was ; but 
Francesca enjoyed it not as such. Injustice 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



263 



3 so revolting to the young- ; they hear of it, 
Ihey Ihink of it, they believe in its existence, 
but always as of that which cannot affect 
themselves. It is a bitter lesson that which 
at first brings it home. Many a moment of 
feverish unrest did that night bring- to Fran- 
cesca's pillow; she questioned, she blamed 
herself — what could she have done that the 
whole company appeared so to rejoice in her 
pain? Why should they dislike her — what 
offence could she have given 1 With what 
increased gratitude did she turn to the queen's 
kindness ! It would have yielded her small 
pleasure, could she have known that, beyond 
the momentary impulse, that kindness was, of 
all. the most deceitful. 

No marvel that we regret our youth. Let 
its bloom, let pleasures depart, could they but 
leave behind the singleness and the innocence 
of the happy and trusting heart. The lessons 
of experience may open the eyes ; but, as in 
the northern superstition, they only open to 
see dust and clay, where they once beheld the 
beauty of palaces. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

" Nous avons change tout cela." 

" I must be early in my attendance on the 
queen to-day, and you shall accompany me," 
said Madame de Mereceur to Francesca. " Ma- 
demoiselle de Montpensier, so long an exile 
from the court, has at last obtained permission 
to return; she will arrive this morning. Have 
you any curiosity to see this heroine of the 
Fronde?" 

" Indeed I have," answered Francesca ; 
"my only fear is, in seeing so many new 
faces, that I shall forget from remembering too 
much. The whole of my former life would 
not fill one week of my present existence." 

"I, too, recall," replied the duchesse, 
" how bewildered I felt at first. I really lost 
half of what I wanted to observe, through 
fear of losing any. But we must be quick. 
I myself long to see if our princess return 
with her former unbroken spirit. There is a 
saying of hers when a child, which is the key 
to her whole character. Some one was talk- 
ing to her of her grandmother, Madame de 
Guise, when she exclaimed, ' she is my grand- 
mother, at a distance — she is not queen.' " 

On Madame de Mercoeur's arrival at the 
palace she found the carriage and guards in 
waiting, the queen having decided that she 
would do her niece the honour of going to 
meet her. 

"As we have deemed a reconciliation ex- 
pedient," said Anne to Madame Mereceur, as 
they passed down the steps, -" we must do it 
with a good grace; a flourish of trumpets, and 
a few extra guards, are a ready way to made- 
moiselle's heart." 

The cortege proceeded about a mile, when 
a courier announced the princess's approach, 
vho arrived almost as soon. The carriage, 



which was at full gallop, stopped suddenly , 
the guards deployed round, and mademoiselle 
alighted. She advanced with the step of an 
empress, till she came beside the queen, when, 
dropping on her knee, she kissed the hem of 
her robe, and then the royal hand. This, how 
ever, Anne would scarcely permit, and raising 
the penitent, embraced her with seeming cor- 
diality, exclaiming, " I am very glad to see 
you ; you know I was always fond of you." 
The princess again kissed her hands. " Not 
but what I have sometimes been very, very 
angry with you. I did not mind the Orleans 
business; but as to la porte Saint Antoine, 
well for you I was not near — I could have 
strangled you !" 

" Ah, madame !" was the reply, " I deserve 
it, since 1 displeased you ; but it has been my 
misfortune to be connected with people who 
induced me to act contrary to my duty." 

" I have said all I meant to say — it is well 
to have it over at once. But henceforth it is 
a forbidden subject — one, indeed, quite forgot- 
ten ; and I shall love you as well as ever." 
And again they embraced. " Though it is 
six years since I have seen you," exclaimed 
Anne, " you are not the least altered ; instead 
of that, you are handsomer than ever ; your 
being rather more embonpoint suits you, and 
your complexion is brilliant to a degree." 

" Has your majesty," rejoined mademoi- 
selle, " heard that I have actually some gray 
hairs'?" 

" I am surprised," said Anne, " to see so 
many at your age." 

" I was resolved," observed her companion, 
"that you should see me as I am, so have not 
worn powder." Then, as if unwilling to ad- 
mit them as a defect, she added, "But my 
mother had them before she was twenty; and 
gray hairs are quite an heirloom on my fa- 
ther's side." 

When they reached the gates, the queen 
desired her to notice the guard. " It is dou- 
bled to-day on your account ; we have not so 
many usually." 

" Nay," exclaimed the guest, this is treat- 
ing me like a foreign princess." 

" Only in honour, not in affection." was the 
gracious answer. 

On their arrival, Francesca could not resist 
an opportunity of expressing her astonishment 
to Madame de Mereceur. "I expected," whis- 
pered she, " the interview would be attended 
with such awkwardness, and made myself 
quite uncomfortable before with thinking how 
annoying it would be to both parties. Instead 
of that, nothing could be easier ; and they 
seemed so glad to meet. But were they quite 
in earnest 1 ?" 

"My dear Francesca," said the duchesse, 
laughing, " there are some questions that were 
never meant to be asked, still less to be an- 
swered ; and yours is one of the number." 

They were all now assembled in the queen's 
apartment, who, passing her fingers through 
mademoiselle's hair, said, " It is very beauti- 
ful, but I must see it better dressed." The 
conversation then took the most familiar turn ' 



264 



MISS LANDON'S WOUKS. 



and Francesca, from where she stood, could 
hear the queen giving a laughing account of 
the Due de Domville's attachment to Made- 
moiselle Menneville, the prettiest of her maids 
of honour, all of whom were pretty. 

" It is a passion of the good old time, and 
has already lasted some four years ; but Ma- 
dame la Duchesse de Vantadour, his mother, 
will not hear of it. Never before was a lover 
of fifty so put out, to think that he cannot yet 
have his own way. Not content with his own 
cares, when obliged to be absent he leaves his 
almoner to take charge of her. It is gallantry 
equally antediluvian and interminable; I sup- 
pose they will be married one day, and buried 
the next." 

At this moment the king arrived. He had 
been riding, and was covered with dust; but 
that was, as his mother observed, the more 
flattering, for it marked his impatience to see 
their visiter. On his entrance, the queen pre- 
sented mademoiselle. " Here is a young lady 
who is very sorry that she has been so wicked, 
and promises to be very good in future." 
The king laughed. " But where is your bro- 
ther ?" 

"He is coming in the carriage; he would 
not spoil his dress by riding. He is adorned 
to distraction." 

And he began laughing again, while ma- 
demoiselle betrayed the conviction that she 
was herself the object of this decoration ; but 
instantly assuming an air of the utmost humi- 
lity, she exclaimed, "I ought to kneel to im- 
plore your majesty's pardon for my past of- 
fences." 

" Nay," replied he, " it is I who must 
kneel to you, to entreat you not to speak in 
such a style." 

" How like she is to your brother !" said 
Anne. 

"My brother is much flattered by the dis- 
covery," said her son; while mademoiselle 
wore a pleased and conscious smile. 

" My life for it," whispered the Chevalier 
de Joinville, " that mademoiselle is already 
calculating the probabilities of marrying mon- 
sieur." 

At last the duke of Anjou arrived, dressed, 
as his brother said, to distraction. He wore 
a garb rather fanciful, of a silver-gray colour, 
trimmed with crimson, and a narrow edging 
of silver; the lace round his throat was of 
the finest point; and, some time before he was 
seen, his perfumes announced his approach. 
The youthful prince was just at the age when 
love of dress is a passion. The first appre- 
ciation of one's own face and figure is a very 
delightful feeling; and as the youth outgrows 
the boy, it seems as if so much lost time had 
to be made up. The duke embraced his cou- 
sin with extreme cordiality, which was greatly 
increased by her ready compliments on his 
growth and appearance. 

A {ew minutes afterwards the cardinal was 
announced ; and Francesca was not the only 
one who was curious to observe the meeting. 
They had been such declared, such personal 
enemies, that, even in a court, it seemed won- 



derful how a decent external could be given to 
their reconciliation. The difficulty was, how- 
ever, only imaginary. Mademoiselle was the 
first to salute the cardinal, who returned it 
with an air of great empressement ,• then address- 
ing the queen, she said, " Really, I do think, 
your majesty, after all that has passed, should 
bid us embrace ; I am sure on my part, it will 
be with all my heart." 

The cardinal immediately approached and 
knelt. This was, however, not suffered by 
the princess, who, extending both "hands, 
raised him, and they embraced with great .ap- 
parent good-will. 

" The times are changed," said de Join- 
ville, in a low tone to Francesca, " since ma- 
demoiselle promenaded the terraces of the 
Louvre, with her fan ornamented with bunches 
of straw, tied with blue riband, and half Paris 
shouting at the sight." 

Francesca made no reply ; mademoiselle 
was so overflowing with happiness at her re- 
turn to the court, that it was absolute cruelty 
to make an allusion to the dangerous past. 
Refinement and amusement, like knowledge, 
are so diffused now-a-days, that an exile from 
the royal circle would be a nominal punish- 
ment; but it then included every species of 
privation. The theatre—at that era such a 
resource — balls, fetes, &c, to sa} r nothing of 
worldly influence, were all forfeited by a ba- 
nishment from court, the centre of all the 
pleasures, variety, and ambition of society. 

"I look upon to-day, mademoiselle," said 
the cardinal, " as the reward of rny anxiety 
for your return. I have, indeed, not been 
master of the obstacles which opposed it." 

" I can assure you," replied the princess, 
"you are but little aware how I used to take 
your part, when my father was most enraged 
against you. I always said things would be 
exactly as they are." 

Memory has many conveniences, and, 
among others, that of foreseeing things as 
they have afterwards happened. 

The dinner-hour being near, mademoiselle 
departed. Louis handing her to her carriage, 
Francesca could not but admire her noble de- 
meanour, her easy, yet stately walk, and the 
finely turned head, placed so gracefully on 
her shoulders ; certainly no one ever more 
completely looked her high descent. 

" The comedy has gone off to perfection," 
exclaimed Madame de Mercosur. I am glad 
she is allowed to return; she is no longer 
dangerous, and her exile has been sufficient 
punishment." 

"Alas," replied Francesca, "I look upon 
the self-possession, the readiness of reply, the 
ease, I daily witness, with such hopeless- 
ness — " 

"All in good time," answered her friend, 
laughing; "you are quite young enough to 
blush a little longer. Wait till you have a 
motive for dissimulation. I am afraid it is 
intuitive to us all." 

Truly, society is like a large piece of frozen 
water; there are the rough places to be shun- 
ned, the very slippery ones all ready for a 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



2G5 



fall, and the holes which seem made expressly 
to drown you. All that can be done is to 
glide lightly over them. Skaiting well is the 
great art of social life. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

" Many falsehoods are told from interest, many from ill- 
nature, but from vanity most of all." 

The return of the Due de Mercosur added, 
if possible, to the gayety of Compiegne; and 
the duchesse gave a fete in its honour. Every 
thing then was expressed by a fete ; saints 
were worshipped, mistresses flattered, minis- 
ters courted, victories celebrated, sentiments 
affiched— and all by a fete. Francesca 
greatly enjoyed the preparations — the plea- 
sant part of a festival. For the truth of this, 
ask any young person you please. No enter- 
tainment, however brilliant, to which you 
merely go, can at all equal the delights of one 
where you have assisted from the original 
idea of the giving to the actual accomplish- 
ment of its being given. Your taste has been 
consulted, and your self-love enlisted in its 
cause; your advice has been asked, and con- 
sequently you have a personal interest in its 
success. Your time has been taken up by a 
thousand details — and occupation is the life 
of time. Who shall deny that u /es avenues 
de la bonheur sont delicieuses d parcourzr ?" 

Francesca was somewhat shocked to find 
it was thought " charmant" that all the foun- 
tains for the occasion were to flow from dol- 
phins' mouths, instead of from the classic urn 
of some marble naiad. Neither could she 
perceive the absolute necessity of fastening 
all the wreaths with blue and white ribands, 
the colours of the house of Mercosur. More- 
over, she could not help thinking that the 
congratulatory verses were rather profuse in 
their Mars', Hercules', Alexanders, Julius 
Cassars. Still, these were very small mat- 
ters — as nothing, beside the display of fire- 
works which were prepared, and the rose-co- 
loured taffeta brocaded with silver which was 
to be her own dress. 

The important night arrived ; an unusually 
hot day had been succeeded by a cool fresh 
evening, with a slight wind just enough to 
stir the orange flowers, till the air was redo- 
lent of their perfume. The gardens were il- 
luminated, and a striking effect was produced 
by the large pieces of water, which spread 
like immense mirrors, filled with the light 
which they reflected. 

Enjoyment is the least descriptive of all 
feelings ; and Francesca, who by this time 
had formed many slight and pleasant ac- 
quaintances, no longer found that a crowd 
was such very dreary solitude. She passed 
from one gay companion to another, greeted 
with numberless slight flatteries, alike "listen- 
ing and forgetting with a smile ; honoured by 
a few words of compliment from Anne, and a 
look still more flattering from Louis, who at 
\ ol. I.— 34 



that moment found the homage which sur 
rounded him on such a public occasion some- 
what irksome, when a glance only could fol- 
low the lovely creature who flitted past. 

I believe there are few who have not, even 
in their gladdest hours, felt how nearly gayety 
and sadness are allied ; a shadow steals over 
the spirits, like a cloud over the moon, soft 
and subduing, perhaps transitory, but not the 
less dark for the moment. 

It was with a sensation of relief that Fran- 
cesca parted with her last companion, and 
glided away to a lonely spot in the garden. 
The lamps, the music, came softened from 
the distance; the turf before her was silvered 
only by the moonlight. The moss at the foot 
of an old chestnut served her for a seat ; and a 
trellis-work covered with honeysuckle sepa- 
rated her from the adjacent walk, the arch 
opening into which was j ust beyond. She sat, 
her beautiful head leaning upon her hand, — 
now listening to the sweet tones floating on 
the wind, and now lost in a vague and pensive 
reverie. 

" I know not," thought she, " why I should 
feel so sad — -it seems the very wilfulness of a 
child ; and yet what an unutterable depression 
is upon me at this moment ! Why should 
there arise so vividly before me all that is 
most painful in my destiny — its uncertainty, 
its dependence, its emptiness 1 How unsa- 
tisfactory has my life been of late ! I have 
been divided between petty mortifications, 
which I have blushed to confess even to my- 
self, and vain feverish amusements — for I 
cannot call them pleasures. I wish I could 
look beyond the smiling faces which meet me 
on every side, and see whether they conceal 
feelings like my own. Madame de Mercosur 
is happier than I am, and has more causes 
for happiness. She has so much kindness in 
her power — is so beloved, and so secure of 
that love ! Alas, I am so very, very grateful 
to her ; and yet I cannot help asking, what is 
my gratitude to her, and of what consequence 
is my affection'? Ah! how foolish — nay, 
worse, is this repining ! It is as if I wished 
some misfortune to befall Henriette, merely to 
prove my attachment. Not so — but surely I 
may contrast our situations without wishing 
hers to change." 

And Francesca was drawing a contrast as 
contrasts are usually drawn, namely, as un- 
fairly as possible. We take some most fa- 
vourable portion of another's existence, and 
compare it with one of the darkest in our own, 
and then exclaim against the difference. 

Gradually the young Italian's reverie be- 
came emerged in one of the sweet Venetian 
barcarolles which had been familiar to hei 
from infancy, when her attention was first at- 
tracted, and then fixed, by the conversation 
carried on by two individuals in the walk be- 
hind her, and whose voices she at once recog- 
nised to be those of the Chevalier de .Toinvilje 
and Evelyn. There is not much to be said in 
defence of her overhearing; but is there a girl 
in the world who would not listen to her own 
name, and from the lips of her lover 1 ?— 4 
it 



266 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



must be so pleasant to hear him confirm to 
others what he has first said to yourself. 
Curiosity would be quite motive enough ; but 
vanity and curiosity together are irresistible. 

" What," asked the Chevalier, " will your 
beautiful Italian do V 

"Console herself," replied Evelyn. "To 
be very candid with you, I am getting heartily 
tired of my connexion in that quarter. It was 
a very amusing dclassement during her resi- 
dence with that most amiable of artists, Bour- 
nonville ; but now that some childish acquaint- 
ance with the Mancinis has induced them to 
try the dear delight of patronage, my beauty 
assumes ks grands airs, and actually, the 
other day, gave a distant hint of marriage !" 

"The forgetfulness of women is really 
charming," observed De Joinville. 

"What say you to taking my place? — 
many a heart is caught in the rebound ; and 
and La Carrara's is worth having for a little 
while." 

" I thank you," replied De Joinville ; "but 
I have a foolish prejudice against ks belles 
delaissees — I have no talents for consolation." 

" Between ourselves, Francesca will find 
consolation in ambition. With her beauty 
and hypocrisy she may yet make a brilliant 
match. Well, I wish her all possible suc- 
cess; and, by-the-by, De Joinville, we really 
must keep her secret." 

"Any secret of mine that you possess, you 
are at perfect liberty to reveal," said Fran- 
cesca. 

The sudden turn in the walk had brought 
the whole party face to face. For a moment 
the three stood in perfect silence. Evelyn — 
for falsehood brings its own cowardice — was 
speechless. De Joinville watched the scene 
with curiosity — perhaps with deeper interest; 
for in his secret soul he disbelieved what his 
companion had just asserted. There was a per- 
fect simplicity — a clear purity — a frankness — 
in Francesca's whole demeanour, that no art 
could have assumed — it was too natural to be 
adopted. Moreover, his attention was riveted 
as if on an exquisite picture ; the moonlight 
fell full on her face, which was pale as death, 
for her emotion was far too strong for confu- 
sion ; her fine upper lip curled with unuttera- 
ble scorn, while the blue veins on the temple 
rose distinct. The large dark eyes seemed 
filled with light, while her recreant lover 
cowered beneath their flashing disdain ; and 
yet he was the first to speak. 

" My dearest Francesca must forgive what 
a moment's jealousy — " 

"I do indeed forgive," exclaimed she, 
while a smile of the most entire contempt 
rested on her beautiful features, " what I de- 
spise too mucn to resent! But as even the 
most cowardly liar may have his own misera- 
ble poition of influence, I owe a formal dis- 
avowal to myself." Turning to De Joinville, 
she continued, " As you have heard so much 
*X this discourse, you may have patience for a 
moment more. My engagement with Mr. 
Evelyn has been open and avowed — approved 
by my only friend, Madame de Mercosur, who, 



as a girl, was the confidante of an attachment 
whose origin she witnessed ; why still unful- 
filled, has been in consequence of my feeling 
that it was a duty we owed to Mr. Evelyn's 
father, not to marry without his consent. 1 
pray your pardon for troubling you with what 
can so little interest a stranger ; but every 
man must have some feminine tie near and 
dear to his heart; and for the sake of such, 
he owes somewhat of courtesy to all who 
bear the name of woman. As for you, sir," 
again addressing Evelyn, " I must say, our 
parting will to me be only a relief. Youi 
right has for some time been your only claim 
on affections that have long ceased to be 
yours — I felt your unworthiness before I 
knew it. My only sense at this moment is 
thankfulness." She turned away, and passed 
De Joinville with a slight bend, and in an- 
other instant was hidden by the trees. 

" I must follow her," exclaimed Evelyn, 
" and even try a little flattery ;" but De Join- 
ville observed that he did not take the same 
path. 

" Ma foi /" exclaimed the chevalier, " he 
must try his flattery on himself." 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

' 'Tis a hard lesson for the heart to learn, 
That it can give itself, but give in vain." 

Francesca hurried through the winding 
paths that led unperceived to the chateau, 
and, once safe in the solitude of her own 
chamber, gave way to the choking tears she 
sought not to repress ; and yet she felt it a 
relief to look back to the events of the past 
evening. She no longer reproached herself 
for the change of her feelings towards Eve- 
lyn — how completely was it justified ! her 
growing dislike had been, as it were, a natural 
warning — the good revolting unconsciously 
from the bad. Then her cheek burned, and 
her brow darkened, when she recalled the 
imputation he had cast upon her; shame, in 
the first instance, had been merged in sur- 
prise and anger — shame can never be the first 
feeling of the innocent; but even the falsest 
accusation brings the burning and bitter 
blush, to think that such can even have been 
imagined. To this was added deep humilia- 
tion ; for Francesca's worst mortification was 
to remember that she had loved him. How 
had her ingenious and trusting affection been 
requited! Deeply within her inmost soul 
Francesca felt that thus she could never love 
again. 

It is no " romantic phantasy," no " eternal 
constancy-," no " dying for love," no "blighted 
affection, " — phrases so strongly misunder- 
stood, and still more strangely misapplied— 
no vain dreaming sentiment, when I say, 
deeply is that woman to be pitied whose first 
attachment has been ill requited. The quali 
ties most natural to youth are at once destroyed 
— suspicion takes the place of confidence 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



267 



>cserve cf reliance, distrust instead of that 
ready belief in all that was good and beauti- 
ful. Knowledge has come to her too soon — 
knowledge of evil, unqualified by the general 
charities which longer experience infallibly 
brings ; but her age has lent its own freshness 
to this first great emotion ; it becomes uncon- 
sciously a criterion, and the judgment is harsh, 
because the remembrance is bitter. Another 
affection may, and in nine cases out of ten 
does, supersede the first; and it is well that 
it should — the daily contentment of life, the 
household happiness of hourly duty and hourly 
love, are not to be offered up in vain sacrifice 
to the unpityingpast. But not the less at the 
time did the disappointment appear too heavy, 
not the less cruel was its influence over the 
mind ; the ideal of love is gone for ever — its 
poetry a dream, its fairy land a departed 
vision. 

Francesca felt as if life had suddenly lost 
its interest; yet it was not the lover that she 
regretted, but the love. Never more could 
the future be one vague but delicious hope ; 
never more could she turn away disbelieving 
from the tale of treachery and inconstancy ; 
never more take refuge in the depths of her 
own imagination, and find comfort in her 
own belief of perfect love 

Her taper sinking in the socket, warned her 
how late, or rather how early, it was ; for a 
shadowy light made the chamber dimly visi- 
ble. She drew back the heavy curtain, and in 
came the bright sunshine, and the cool fresh 
air. Below lay the garden, where arches of 
gathered flowers drooped, discoloured and 
withered, beside the fresh growth on the na- 
tural bough. Most of the lamps were extinct, 
but they glittered golden in the morning 
light, and in some few a pale white flame yet 
struggled with day. As she left the window, 
the mirror opposite caught her eye — that 
mirror which she had left the evening before 
radiant with the graceful aids of dress. She 
started back at the contrast ; her hair was 
dishevelled, and pushed from the forehead 
in tangled masses, while the wreath add- 
ed to the unseemliness by the contrast of 
finery; her face was wan, and the eyes red 
and heavy with watching, to say nothing of 
tears ; while the parched lip had not a vestige 
of colour. Her dress, too, had lost its fresh- 
ness ; and its gayety, the bare neck and arms, 
were strangely at variance with the broad 
daylight and quiet morning. The very fir-st 
glance suggested the propriety of going to 
bed. Leaning for a few minutes at the open 
casement, she breathed the pure and sweet 
air, which at once revived and soothed her; 
then, closing the curtains, she retired to rest, 
and, thoroughly worn out, body and mind, 
was soon asleep. 

There are few but must recollect the first 
awakening after any event; the unconscious 
rousing, the gradual remembrance that some- 
thing unusual has occurred, the half reluctance 
to recall it, till suddenly it flashes full upon 
your mind, and you start up in astonishment 
at even your momentary oblivion. One part 



was indeed disagreeable to Francesca — tho 
necessity which existed of telling Madame de 
Mercosur: not but what she was certain of 
the most affectionate sympathy ; but it was 
painful to be the herald of her own mortifica- 
tion, and the disgrace of him who, at least, 
had been her lover. Still the disclosure was 
inevitable — she would be obliged to explain 
the cessation of intercourse between Evelyn 
and herself; and even without that, she owed 
confidence to Madame de Mercoeur's kind- 
ness. 

The account was received with more regret 
and surprise than she had expected; the 
duchesse could scarcely listen for her own 
exclamations — all the while begging Fran- 
cesca to go on. Suddenly she started from 
her seat, for the duke entered the room ; pass- 
ing her hand through his arm, she made him 
sit down in the fauteuil, while in the same 
breath she told Francesca to tell her story, 
and at the same time went on telling it for 
her, only interrupted by the angry or con- 
temptuous ejaculations of her husband. 

" Mademoiselle da Carrara," said he, when 
the narrative was ended, " I never heard of a 
more gratuitous insult — of a more unmerited 
calumny ; allow me at least to say, that your 
friends feel that it is offered to themselves. 
But now let us dismiss so worthless a sub- 
ject. We will find you a better cavalier in 
our belle France." So saying, he rose to de- 
part ; while a most painful suspicion, sug- 
gested by the sudden paleness of the duchesse, 
arose in Francesca's mind ; and yet to give it 
words, should she be mistaken, would be cru- 
elly embarrassing. 

"It must not go unpunished," exclaimed 
the duchesse, as if answering to her own 
thoughts. " Yes, mine is the best plan ; I 
will instantly go to my uncle, and ask him 
for a lettre de cachet. Solitary imprisonment 
in the Bastile will be the very thing for Mr. 
Evelyn." 

" I think," replied Francesca, " that to 
give me pain is the farthest in the world from 
your wishes ; and yet what could be more 
painful to me than any thing like revenge on 
Mr. Evelyn '?" 

" Good Heavens !" interrupted Madame de 
Mercosur, " you cannot retain one spark of 
affection for him V 

" Indeed I do not. I speak from motives 
of pure selfishness. I wish, now, nothing of 
or from Mr. Evelyn but forgetfulness. I dis- 
dain his miserable conduct too much to resent 
it; and the only proof my friends can give 
me of sympathy in my feelings, is to show 
how unworthy they consider it to be of no- 
tice." 

" Ah, but Francesca, a few months' solitary 
meditation would be of such infinite service 
to leperfide! it would bring him to his senses 
— perhaps to your feet again ; and the plea 
sures of rejection would be something." 

" To me less than nothing. No, dear Hen 
riette, I never wish to see or hear of Mr. Eve- 
lyn again ; it is sufficient mortification to 
think that I ever could have loved him. Be- 



268 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



sides, may I add, that I have my own little 
vanity on the occasion, and its suggestions 
whisper perfect discretion. Confidence, en- 
tire confidence, I owed to your friendship; 
but I am not bound to extend that confidence. 
A subject like the present must be annoying 
in the months of indifferent people ; their 
comments, whether of wonder or pity, would 
be intolerable. An)' notice of Mr. Evelyn's 
conduct must excite them, and from such I 
do entreat to be spared." 

" Rely upon me, that it shall not be talked 
of," replied the duke. "And now, Henri- 
ette," addressing his wife, "do let us praise 
her. In such a case I should have expected 
tears, faintings, and a most ready acceptance 
of your kind offer of the Bastile." 

"Now, see the selfishness!" exclaimed 
Madame de Mercceur, laughing; "he is 
charmed with you because you have given 
him no trouble — he has not had even to offer 
you a glass of water. But I do say you are 
a dear creature, and quite worthy to be one of 
those much-enduring heroines of your line, on 
whose merits it so delighted your poor old 
grandfather to dwell." 

"And when I remember," said Francesca, 
" the stiff red and blue figures he used to ex- 
hibit, the saints and my forefathers forgive 
me for saying, the blessed virgin keep me 
from the resemblance !" 

" But see what it is," cried the duchesse, 
" to enact the part of confidants ! I am ac- 
tually forgetting, and you too, Francesca, the 
important duties of the toilette. Come, come 
— we must make haste ; for in a little while 
I expect to be overwhelmed with congratula- 
tions on the success of my charming fete ; 
and you must prepare for not a few compli- 
ments on your own appearance — and, indeed, 
I never saw you look better." 

So saying, the little knot broke up ; Fran- 
cesca greatly relieved to think the disclosure 
W"fts made. 

The following evening was the one previous 
h> their meditated return to Paris — a resolu- 
tion somewhat suddenly taken, in consequence 
of the king's intention to visit Sedan, and in- 
spect the proceedings of the army. Among 
the visiters who crowded in to express their 
regret that Compiegne, still so beautiful, was 
about to be deserted, was the Chevalier de 
Joinville. He took the earliest opportunity 
of addressing Francesca — who, in spite of 
herself, could not help blushing as she saw 
him approach, partly, it must be owned, from 
apprehension. He had usually contrived to 
say or to imply something disagreeable — and 
now he had such an opening ! 

She was pleasantly mistaken. His man- 
ner was respectful, and even kind, as he said, 
" I cannot depart for Sedan, without entreat- 
ing Mademoiselle la Carrara's forgiveness." 

"A forgiveness most readily granted, did 
she know what there was to forgive." 

" An unjust opinion. Is the offence quite 
unpardonable ?" 

" If concerning myself, I can assure you it 
Is already forgotten," 



" That is to say, you do not care what my 
opinion is, was, or may be^-' 

"That is a very sweeping assertion," re- 
plied Francesca, hesitating, for the best reason 
in the world — because she really did not know 
what to say. 

" Now," continued the chevalier, " I fee' 
sufficiently sorry for past injustice to be very 
desirous of both explanation and amendment. 
Mr. Evelyn—" 

" Perhaps," interrupted Francesca, " you 
will allow me to speak, and in so doing, put 
an end forever to a very painful subject. I 
have myself not a remark to make on Mr. 
Evelyn's conduct — and I wish to hear none 
I ow r ed it to Madame Mercosur's kindness to 
have no concealments from her ; — the expla- 
nation given, the subject will not again pass 
my lips. On yourself I can have no claim 
but for that general courtesy which I think 
authorizes me to request that here the topic 
may be dropped." 

"You are right; and, I can assure you, 
my own remembrance is too disagreeable to 
dwell upon. But it is a gratification to have 
friends ; and I must be permitted to tell you 
how warmly the Due de Mercceur took up 
your cause." 

Francesca's anxious look now betrayed her 
attention. 

" He called on me this morning to request 
me to be the bearer of a challenge to Mr. 
Evelyn." 

" Good God !" exclaimed Francesca. 
" You need not look so pale ; Mr. Evelyn 
is half-way to Holland by this time — a fact 
which was my answer. Mercceur then bade 
me to be silent for once in my life. I pro- 
mised, and, what is more, intend faithfully to 
perform." 

Observing that his companion smiled, he 
went on, — 

" And you do not consider this communica- 
tion any great proof of my discretion "? On 
the contrary, it is its seal. I could not help 
gratifying you, by telling- you what sincere 
friends you had; and myself, by entreating 
permission to remain at least in their outward 
rank." 

What answer but a gracious one could be 
made to such a speech 1 And the chevalier, 
with obvious discontent, obeyed Mademoiselle 
Mancini's signal, who wanted to ask some 
question respecting the royal departure, on 
which he was to be an attendant. 

Francesca remained, rather marvelling in 
her own mind at the change in De Joinville. 
With all her recently acquired experience in 
society, she scarcely arrived at the right con- 
clusion. The truth was, her last words to 
Evelyn had done her great service with the 
chevalier, who was charmed to have her say, 
that it was no preference that had insured her 
fidelity. No man likes to hear that any wo- 
man is in love with his friend — it seems a 
sort of personal affront to himself; and, with- 
out being epris with Francesca, De Joinville 
admired her quite enough to have an unde- 
fined resentment at. her favour to another. 



FRANCESCA CARRARA 



269 



And here we cannot but note the less selfish 
nature of woman. In nine cases out of ten, 
a girl is delighted in her companions' con- 
quests — to be confidante is almost equal to 
having the lover her own. This, we grant, 
is confined to the very young, and perhaps 
they may consider it as an augury; still, this 
mere satisfaction in confidence is a purely 
feminine feeling. Besides, to do De Joinville 
justice, he felt, too, a degree of kindly com- 
punction for the former harsh judgment enter- 
tained of one who so little deserved it ; and 
— for there is no such thing in the human 
mind as an unmixed sensation — he was struck 
both with the spirit with which she resented, 
and the proud humility with which she for- 
gave the affront. 

The idea of the parting so near, gave rather 
more than usual animation to the circle. The 
visit to the camp — the hope of meeting with 
the enemy, were but stirring excitements; all 
were too young, too happy, too prosperous, 
for fear. The room was crowded and warm ; 
and, stepping from the window, Francesca 
leaned on the balustrade which looked on the 
garden below, silvered over by the quiet moon- 
light. 

"I hope," said a voice by her side, " your 
absent brother will not engross all your ori- 
sons." 

" No one will offer them more fervently 
than I shall do for your grace's success," said 
Francesca, who instantly recognized her royal 
companion. A minute's silence ensued — the 
young Italian always required encouragement 
to converse ; and Louis was struck by the 
beauty of her profile, whose pure and sculp- 
tured features seemed so much more than fair 
in the soft clear radiance. 

A burst of laughter now came from the 
chamber. 

"How this perpetual gayety," exclaimed 
Louis, "jars upon the ear! Good heaven ! is 
farewell to be said so gladly ! I sometimes 
start when I think upon the hollowness of all 
that surrounds me. I often wish my eye had 
the power of searching the inmost depths of 
the bosoms whose watchword is my name." 

"And amid, perhaps, some disappoint- 
ments, how many hearts would you not find 
faithful and devoted to your majesty !" 

" I wish but for one." 

Francesca looked down and blushed, first, 
at the earnest gaze of Louis's face ; and, se- 
sondly, but still deeper, at her own folly in 
having individualised a general expression. 

" It were against all rules, whether of his- 
tory or romance — whether I look to my grand- 
father Henri Quatre, or to the less veracious 
chronicles of Scuderi, and copy Oroondates — 
to depart without some favour." So saying, 
he took a little bunch of white violets from 
her hand, and then raised the hand itself, after 
a moment's half hesitation, he kissed it, and 
left her side. 

Francesca was at first surprised at the 
youthful monarch's gallantry; — but her 
thoughts soon wandered to other subjects — 



for thoughts usually wander when neither va 
nity nor interest fix them. 

" I have news for you !" exclaimed Ma- 
dame de Mercosur, when they retired for the 
night; "Marie is going to be married — in 
another week she will be Countess of Sois- 
sons. A splendid fortune — the blood royal — 
I think even her expectations must be satis- 
fied." 

" I hope she will be happy," said Frances- 
ca. " But what will the king say ?" 

" Whatever his mother pleases — the pre- 
sent visit to the camp is, I suppose, by way 
of consolation. Perhaps, though it has been 
kept so quiet, to prevent interference : we ne- 
ver understand the value of things, hearis in- 
cluded, till we are about to lose them. I was 
not aware of the alliance till this afternoon. 
My uncle's presents, I hear, are magnificent." 

The image of Guido naturally arose in his 
sister's mind — how would this marriage af- 
fect him 1 Surely it were best, if any vain 
and unavowed hope — unavowed even to him- 
self — lurked in his dreams, that it should be 
utterly destroyed. " Alas, my brother !" 
thought she, " we are alike in this — each 
must part from the first idol which the heart 
set up ; and each, too, with a deep sense of 
its unworthiness, and a late, sad knowledge 
of the falsehood of our early creed !" 

A stronger affection seemed born of the con- 
viction. Each was yet left to the other — Italy 
still remained : and Francesca fell asleep, and 
dreamed of returning to all the hopes, plea- 
sures, and scenes of her childhood 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

" To people who have naturally very intense feelings, 
nothing is so wearing to the heart as the curtailed affec- 
tions which are the offspring of the world."— Devereux. 

Marie Mancini returned with her sister to 
Paris, and, for the next week, the whole hotel 
w r as hurry and confusion with the approach- 
ing nuptials. Her manner to Francesca was 
very unequal. Sometimes it had all the frank- 
ness of their early intimacy ; at other times it 
was forbidding, and even petulant. On the 
very night before her marriage, when, at a 
late hour, Francesca was seeking her own 
room, as she passed along the corridor. Ma 
rie's door opened, and Marie herself appeared. 

" I knew your step — do come in, for the last 
time here." 

Francesca, softened by the kindly tone, and 
still more by observing that the other had been 
weeping, entered immediately ; and Marie, 
drawing one fauteuil into the large old win- 
dow, motioned to her companion to take ano- 
ther already there. After amusing herself for 
a brief time with picking to pieces some mig 
nonette which filled a box on the window 
sill, Marie threw the flowers from her, and 
exclaimed — "And here we are seated toge 
ther, as we used to talk away half the nigh? 
z2 



270 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



n Italy. Good heavens! how we are al- 
tered !" 

" I am sure I am altered," replied Fran- 
2esca. 

" Not so much for the worse as myself," 
continued the other; "and yet, perhaps, I am 
not changed, as I said — I was always vain 
and selfish. I have only lately had good op- 
portunities of displaying my amiable qualities. 
Still, I have had my moments of compunction, 
though I own the fits have at every recurrence 
briefer duration and longer intervals. I dare 
say I shall soon not feel them at all, and shall 
therefore make the most of them when they 
arrive, as I have done to-night. How unkind 
I have been to you, Francesca ! — how I have 
envied and hated you !" 

" Ah, Marie ! I cannot understand your hate 
—what cause have I ever given ! and envy — 
what could you find to envy in the lot of one 
who, save for yourselves, were a friendless 
orphan !" 

" Don't say yourselves — say my sister, at 
once. Henriette has been your friend, not I; 
and as to envy — look at your face in yonder 
glass — wasted on you, I must say ; for beau- 
ty, properly managed, is woman's power. 
Now I understand the management, while 
you have the means, and, as I said before, 
quite wasted upon you." 

Francesca could not help laughing, as she 
asked, " Why, what would you have me do ?-" 

"It is not to be taught! — but how many 
opportunities have I seen you throw away ! 
Ah ! beauty without, vanity is but a sort of 
barbaric gold, unfit for any of the purposes of 
civilized life. I can only supply its place by 
the delusions of self-love — by deceiving peo- 
ple into the belief that they are thinking of 
me, when they are in reality thinking of them- 
selves. How often am I obliged to speak 
mal a propos, because my features are not suf- 
ficiently charming in a state of repose! how 
often is my ingenuity racked to find a word, 
when a look would have been far better ! I am 
compelled to be amusing, in my own despite." 

" A great misfortune, truly." 

" Yes, it is; for amusement destroys inte- 
rest. There is nothing for which people are 
less grateful than for being entertained ; in 
their hearts they are ashamed of not being 
able to entertain themselves, and therefore 
seek consolation in despising, or at least un- 
dervaluing, those to whom they owe that very 
entertainment." 

" But, dearest Marie, thinking as you do, 
of what avail is your exertion 1" 

" Why, life's high places have many paths, 
and we do not choose our own. I must make 
the best use I can of my own gifts, even while 
those of others are better. I desire as much 
of the w T ealth and as many of the honours of 
this life as I can obtain ; and in France, their 
royal road is royal favour. It was a brilliant 
dream which you, Francesca, destroyed !" 

"I!" exclaimed the other, in amazement. 

" Yes. Louis's admiration of those superb 
dark eyes, opened mine to the perils and 
chances of the way I was pursuing. 



" You allude to the bracelet. Blessed Ma* 
donna 1 how little admiration had to do with 
a gift dictated by a most generous courtesy !" 

" I believe you were simple enough to think 
so — I was not. I saw at once I was mistaken 
in my calculations of Louis's feeling. At the 
very age of fantasies, he was likely to be 
caught by one, and* then another; nothing 
short of une grande passion could have an- 
swered my purpose. For the first time, I 
steadily reviewed the obstacles — and to con- 
sider them was at once to see they were insu- 
perable. I penetrated my uncle's ambition 
by my own. I felt convinced, had there been 
even a probability, he would have aided me — 
his opposition showed me that he thought the 
attempt hopeless. In the mean time, the 
queen's jealousy was aroused. Had my ori- 
ginal project remained, I would have concili- 
ated ; as it was, I irritated. Her fear led di- 
rect to my establishment ; and the more that 
was excited, the more brilliant would the 
terms be by which she might purchase secu- 
rity. I made but one error — giving way to 
petulance in the earlier instance ; that lost me 
the Prince of Conti. Temper is a bourgeois 
indulgence, though I own to a predilection for 
it. However, I corrected myself in time. I 
tormented my uncle still, but it was on prin- 
ciple — it is the best method of managing him. 
I frightened the queen, the best method of 
managing her ; and, having lost the chance of 
Louis's heart, tried for his confidence. I as- 
sure you, though you may not think it, I have 
told him such charming things about you! — 
the subject has its interest, ma belle. 11 

"To me, none," said Francesca, somewhat 
gravely. 

Without noticing the interruption, her com- 
panion continued. 

" Well the denouement has succeeded be- 
yond my expectations. To-morrow, I am 
Comtesse de Soissons. The comte is a fool, 
like the Prince of Conti, but of a more ma- 
nageable kind. He is avaricious, and yet os- 
tentatious; I shall always make him hear 
reason through his interests. I see already 
the advantages of my early friendship with 
the king — the habit of confidence, once ac- 
quired, is indeed difficult to break. I shall 
try that best of flattery — divining his tastes, 
and adapting myself to them. Attraction will 
be the secret of my society ; and let who will 
be Queen of France, I shall be queen in my 
own circle." 

" And does not this anticipation of perpetual 
intrigue, anxiety, and exertion — this want of 
affection — this utter severing of all the deeper 
and dearer ties of life, weary you even in con- 
templation ?" 

" The deeper and dearer ties of life ! — what 
ties can be so deep or so dear as those which 
bind me to myself"? or what is there so very 
depressing in the anticipation of a brilliant 
and animated future]" 

" With nothing to really interest — nothing 
on which the heart can rely." 

" Ah ! you are romantic — it suits your style 
of countenance ; my features do not express 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



271 



superb disdain with any effect. That is the 
reason, I firmly believe, why Cleopatra poi- 
soned herself, while Zenobia walked in the 
triumph of the Roman conqueror. The one 
knew she would not look well — the other 
knew she would.*' 

" And can you be contented to pass through 
life, unloving and unloved ?" 

"Unloved? — I don't know; unloving, cer- 
tainly; but feared, admired, and courted. I 
believe we must all sacrifice quelque petit brin 
de sentiment,' and, thanks to my early fancy 
or your brother, my sacrifice is made." 

Francesca bit her lip, while the colour came 
into her cheek; nothing said of herself could 
have inflicted half the pain of this careless 
allusion to one whose feelings were so strong, 
and ought to have been so sacred. 

Marie in an instant observed her change of 
countenance. 

" Poor Guido! how like you look to him at 
this moment — with those large dilating eyes, 
I never saw but in yourselves. I know you 
think me very unfeeling — and so I am ; and 
yet, at this very moment, I am sadder than I 
seem. I shall never be so loved again — no- 
thing can evermore call, even into momentary 
existence, the many kind and good thoughts 
which I had then. Tell me, does Guido ever 
speak of me T' 

" Nay," answered Francesca, " your pity 
is unavailing even if I wished to excite it. 
Whatever may be Guido's emotions, to me 
Ihey are holy." 

Marie remained a short while in silence, 
and then said, — "After all, it was not my 
fault ; circumstances threw us together, and 
over these circumstances I had no control. It 
was from no choice of my own that I was 
brought up in an out-of-the-way pallazzo, with 
nothing to do but to fall in love. Constancy, 
to say nothing of its not being in my nature, 
would, in my case, have been insanity. You 
might, but I could not pass my life among 
myrtles and ruins filant le parfait amour. But 
come, I must show you the queen's present;" 
and, first retrimming the lamp, she opened a 
casket, containing a lustrous set of emeralds. 

"There are some pleasures in matrimony," 
said she, twisting her necklace round her fin- 
gers. 

" How beautiful their colour is as you catch 
the light upon them !" exclaimed Francesca, 
examining the various ornaments with a very 
natural delight. 

" It is four o'clock, I declare !" cried Marie. 
* Good night, for, as it is, we shall look like 
ghosts to-morrow." 

Her prediction was not accomplished ; for 
when Francesca saw her enter the chapel, 
glittering with jewels and radiant with tri- 
umph, she thought that she had never seen 
Marie look so handsome. Both Anne and 
Louis, who had returned the day before from 
Sedan, were present ; and Francesca marked 
the queen's quick eye turn more than once on 
her son, as if she would fain read his inmost 
Ih oughts. It was very otvious he had no 
umotion ta conceal 



Marie went through the ceremony rathei 
with the appearance of elation than of timi- 
dity. But when it was over, and the bride- 
groom approached to lead her forth, Francesca 
saw her change colour, and a slight shudder 
ran through her whole frame, and saw, too, 
that Marie's eyes were fixed on herself, as if 
recalling the resemblance of another. It was 
but for a moment; and she instantly turned 
to the Comte de Soissons, and took his offered 
hand, with a glad smile and a slight gesture, 
which made up with courtesy what it wanted 
in tenderness. 

Nothing could exceed the ease and grace 
with which she accepted the congratulations 
of Louis. Those of the queen were met with 
less empressement — it was not her good favour 
that the countess intended to conciliate. A 
group of the noblest of the court crowded 
round ; and as Francesca's gaze dwelt on the 
waving plumes, the golden embroidery, the 
many-coloured lights flashing from the profu- 
sion of gems, she involuntarily asked herself, 
" Can Marie, now the centre of this gorgeous 
circle, be the same with whom I have so often 
o-athered wild flowers and wood strawber- 
ries !" 

The star of Cardinal Marazin's destiny had 
rays for many beside himself. Let a fortu- 
nate man do what he will for his own fate, he 
nevertheless works the most for the benefit of 
others. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

" The scenes through which of late I have conducted 
my readers, are by no means episodical ; they illustrate far 
more than mere narration the period."— Devereux. 

Brief as had been the young king's cam- 
paign, it was quite sufficient to produce a sen- 
sation at Paris. Henri Quatre was in every 
body's mouth in the way of presage and com- 
parison. In reconnoitering the trenches, Lou- 
is's temple had been grazed by a bullet; and 
the exaggeration of praise and anxiety would 
have been ridiculous but for its entire sin- 
cerity. From that period may be dated the 
rise of that personal devotion which marked 
all the earlier part of his reign. 

It has been said, with that degree of truth 
which is necessary to give effect to point, that 
the French character has been determined b}*" 
two rhymes, gloire and victoire. Of this cha- 
racter Louis was the beau ideal. Young, 
brave, chivalrous, handsome, and graceful he 
was every Frenchman's perfection of himself. 
One proof of a great man is fitness for the 
circumstances in which he is placed. That 
talent may reasonably be doubted which is 
never exercised ; but no one could be more 
suited to his station than Louis. He pos- 
sessed the genius of representation, — a genius 
especially requisite among a people who re- 
quire to be both excited and impressed. His 
ambition was but the then voice of the nation 
carried into action — his wars were the public 



272 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



will ; change was only brought about by the 
humiliation of defeat. His tastes were mag- 
nificent — such as belonged to the monarch of 
a rich and great country ; and a more enlight- 
ened age would have added utility. His 
original character was generous and high- 
minded, though tried in after years by the 
too severe ordeal of constant gratification 
and unvarying success, whose certain result 
is selfishness. 

We cannot understand what we have never 
experienced ; and we need pain, were it only 
to teach us sympathy. It is a good lesson of 
mortal instability; and we should be sorry to 
lose the touching spectacle of the noble firm- 
ness with which the aged king met the de- 
feats and disasters which overwhelmed him 
m his old age. But, for his own sake, Louis's 
misfortunes should have happened earlier in 
life ; what wholesome corrections they would 
have been to his overmuch prosperity ! As, 
in after-time, we read the annals of his court, 
we are revolted by his self-indulgence, his 
utter thoughtlessness of others, his ingrati- 
tude, his cruelty — and all is summed up in 
the conviction. This man knows nothing of 
suffering — he cannot measure the pain which 
he inflicts. Truly, we need human infirmity 
to teach us human nature, and that to Louis 
had been as a sealed book ; he had only seen 
the coloured and gilded outside : too late he 
had to decypher the rough and gloomy page 
within. His natural impulses w T ere good, and 
these are all most manifest in youth — the 
truth is, time wears them out; and manhood 
needs principle, which he had not. The be- 
ginning was promising. Look at his constant 
and attentive affection to his mother ; his un- 
varying gratitude to the cardinal ; the energy 
with which, on Mazarin's death, when go- 
vernment came to be necessity, he devoted 
himself to the duties of his high station. No 
pleasure, no idleness, ever trespassed on the 
hours given to business. 

But it is the earlier and lighter part of his 
career with which our readers have to do ; and 
the present period at Paris was as gay as 
fetes of every kind could make it. The youth- 
ful monarch was, of course, the centre of all ; 
but Francesca could not but perceive, that 
while others addressed their flatteries to him, 
his were addressed exclusively to her. 

The attention of which she was now the 
object would have amused if it had not em- 
barrassed her. It was as if some spell had 
changed both herself and her situation. Every 
one seemed suddenly to have discovered some 
merit in the once neglected stranger. Homage 
came from every quarter, and adulation from 
every lip. No one was more ready to caress 
and bring her forward than the Comptesse de 
Soissons, who appeared to think every party 
incomplete without her early friend ; and 
Louis passed almost every evening at her 
house, where restraint and ceremony were 
equally banished. 

Madame de Mercoeur's health now scarcely 
allowed her to stir from home ; and Francesca 
would never willingly have left her. But this 



her good-natured friend would not hear of: 
" No, no ; Marie has come to her senses. She 
is as fond of you as I am, and very much 
gayer ; so go about with her. When will you 
ever enjoy yourself, if you do not now V 

It was useless contesting the point; and 
Francesca secretly longed for the period of 
the duchesse's confinement, when she would 
have an undeniable excuse for remaining with 
her. " And by that time," thought she, 
"Guido will be returned; we w T ill then fix 
our future plan of life. Ah ! I should be hap- 
pier in our old dwelling than here. Guido, I 
know, loves his native land the best; and we, 
in seeking each others pleasure, shall both 
find our own. Surely we have both said fare- 
well for ever to the vain dreams with which 
we came to Paris." 

There was vanity and pleasure enough 
around her now to have turned many a young 
head, and to have supplied many excuses for 
the turning. But Francesca was thoughtful 
beyond her years. The traces of her early 
disappointment were indelible ; not that she 
sunk or pined away under the blow — she 
owned, after the first shock was past, and the 
beating heart severely tasked, that life had 
still many duties, and even some enjoyments. 
Were it only as a debt to Madame Mercoeur's 
kindness, some appearance of cheerfulness 
was necessary ; and assumed cheerfulness 
often becomes more real than is always ac- 
knowledged. But, unlike the generality of 
her age, love now occupied no place in the 
future. How could she ever believe in the 
worthiness of any one? or, if she believed, it 
could never so interest her again. 

One morning she accompanied Madame de 
Soissons to the fair, then the favourite lounge 
and amusement. The comptesse bought every 
trifle that caught her eye, while Francesca 
looked on. Now it is not in human nature — 
at least, in feminine nature — to see pretty 
things, yet not wish for them ; and while her 
look lingered on many a graceful toy, the 
young Italian, conscious they were far beyond 
her slender finances, could not help contrast- 
ing her own necessity of debarring herself 
even from the slightest purchase, with the 
lavish expenditure of her companion. 

She had scarcely returned home an hour, 
and was giving Madame de Mercceur a full 
account of how Madame de Chatillion found 
out that it was so cold whenever l'Abbe Fou- 
quet approached, and put on her black velvet 
mask, thus not allowing him to see her beau- 
tiful face even at a distance, — how the Due 
d'Anjou was inseparable from la belle cousine, 
who consulted his taste in all her purchases ; 
when several packages were brought in, di- 
rected to Mademoiselle de Carrara. They 
were opened, and found to contain all kinds 
of toys, gloves, laces, ribands, &c, till the 
floor was strewed with their glittering con- 
tents. Not the slightest indication appeared 
as to who was the donor. 

" Some anonymous lover," exclaimed Ma- 
dame de Mercceur. This is really too delight- 
ful. Who can it be?" and she began to 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



273 



guess every person she could remember as 
having- even spoken to Francesca. 

"For pity's sake," said the latter, laugh- 
ing-, "do stop; fori am really alarmed lest 
you should end with l'Abbe Fouquet himself ; 
and I have really no ambition to succeed Ma- 
dame de Chatillion." 

"Now, out upon such a supposition?" re- 
plied the duchesse ; " I am too much charmed 
with the gallantry to wish to destroy the illu- 
sion. But is not this fortunate'?" continued 
she, taking- up a superb plume of white os- 
trich feathers, fastened by a small agraffe, 
enamelled so as to represent a bunch of vio- 
lets ; "this is just what you wanted for the 
velvet cap you are to wear at Madame de 
l'Hopital's masked ball." 

" O ! but I do not like to wear it. It is 
so disagreeable to accept favours from you do 
not know who." 

" On the contrary, you are saved from all 
obligation; for what is the use of being grate- 
ful, and to a wrong person, perhaps % Wear 
these exquisite feathers you must." 

" I would much rather not." 

"How very ridiculous! But I shall not 
argue the point, — I shall only command ; and 
you know how contradiction disagrees with 
me. I will not be made ill, that you may 
look well ; so, silence, ma mignonne. Here, 
Mariette," continued she, addressing one of 
her women, who had just entered; "place 
this plume in Mademoiselle de Carrara's cap, 
— and, remember, in the most becoming man- 
ner." 

Both parties had their differing convictions. 
Madame de Mercosur, who always looked to 
what she wished, instantly recalled the admi- 
ration she had observed her beautiful protegee 
had excited in the Due de Candaie, and im- 
mediate! 3?" determined that lie was the gene- 
rous incognito. Francesca's suspicions were 
less pleasant, but more true. She never for a 
moment doubted but that Louis was the donor, 
while the Comtesse de Soissons was the 
purchaser. She was certain that she recog- 
nised many of the toys. The feathers she 
did not recollect; but she remembered her 
own bunch of violets which Louis had taken 
the evening previous to his departure for Se- 
dan. Should she mention her belief to Ma- 
dame de Mercosur] — her natural, frankness 
prompted this course; but it was opposed by 
every reason that could suggest itself. If she 
were mistaken, and it was just possible that 
she might be so, how monstrous, and, worse, 
how ridiculous, would her vanity appear ! 
and, even if it were true, Madame de Mer- 
cosur was scarcely the person to consult — in 
her circle, the king was every thing; who 
there would think of gainsaying his pleasure 1 
She felt, rather than acknowledged, that be- 
tween their ideas of right and wrong and her 
own, there was, indeed, a wide gulf. She 
considered, too, how slight was her claim 
upon the kindness of the Mercoeurs ; she had 
no right even to run the risk of embarrassing 
them : — on herself, therefore, must be her sole 
dependence. The comtesse evidently was 

Vol. I.— 35 



making a tool of her, by encouraging the 
king's predilection. Provided he was at- 
tracted to the Hotel de Soissons, she cared 
not how ; Francesca, or any one else might 
be the magnet. 

Madame de Mercosur had herself arranged 
her dress, which was splendid white silk, 
damasked with silver flowers ; but it was 
with much internal misgiving that she put on 
the graceful cap and plume. 

At first, she had resolved to wear none of 
the other gifts; and then it struck her, that 
this would indicate a secret preference for the 
telltale agraffe, — better choose amid the 
others, avow her present openly, and take 
refuge in unsuspecting pleasure and gratitude. 

On her arrival at the Hotel de Soissons, she 
saw that the keen eye of the comtesse scan- 
ned her from head to foot. She evidently did 
not recognise the plume ; but a peculiar smile 
passed over her face as she noticed the gloves, 
fan, and bouquet ; still, she made no remark 
beyond the general exclamation, " How well 
you look to-night ! 'tis a pity to put on your 
mask !' 

Francesca immediately began to tell her of 
the good fortune of yesterday. She listened ; 
but added, with an incredulous sneer, " And 
so you have not an. idea who sent them 1 
You are fortunate in such an anonymous 
lover !" 

Francesca made no answer, but followed 
the comptesse in silence, whose manner con- 
firmed all her previous suspicions, and who,, 
during the drive, turned the conversation on 
the most general subjects. They arrived at 
Madame la Marechale de l'Hopital's, where 
the scene was equally gay and gorgeous. 

Let no one dispute the influence of good 
and evil stars, after witnessing the roogress 
of Madame la Marechale. She commenced 
life as a washerwoman, and now, in its meri- 
dian, was residing in one of the best hotels in 
Paris, wife to a man of the highest rank, sur- 
rounded by the elite of the court, Louis at her 
fete, and herself wearing a set of pearls larger 
than the queen's; but this was a delicate 
subject, for it was well known that Anne 
piqued herself on the size of her set. Now, 
it is not so much La Marechale's matrimonial 
achievements that prove the good graces of 
her ruling planet, as her success in society. 
It was not so wonderful that the very pretty 
girl should marry a man whose years and 
wealth had alike multiplied ; nor that the still 
prettier widow should turn the head and heart 
of de l'Hopital, both being a little the worse 
for use. The wonder was, how well she suc- 
ceeded in her new element. Her house weft 
one of the most frequented in Paris, and even 
la superbe Mademoiselle deigned to pronounce 
that she was " une bien bonne femme ;" and 
yet nothing could be more prominent than 
her ignorance, more pronounced than her vul- 
garity. Perhaps, if she had been more re- 
fined, she would have been less successful 
Though there was a want of information, 
there was no want of talent. She had a good 
sort of coarse cleverness, admirably fitted to 



274 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



get on in the world ; she possessed those two 
first requisites, a good constitution and a good 
temper ; she had little feeling, and less deli- 
cacy ; she soon saw that even people of the 
utmost refinement sometimes permitted them- 
selves to he amused by its very reverse — and 
she cared little for affording amusement even 
at her own expense. Let those laugh who 
win, is the very axiom of vulgar policy, and 
on that hint she acted. It was now settled 
that everybody was to be amused by her 
coarse jest and her odd expressions, and there- 
fore everybody was amused. Moreover, 
there was another great secret of her popular- 
ity ; all in her company luxuriated in a little 
complacent sense of their own superiority, — 
one of the most agreeable of the senses to in- 
dulge. Such was the enterprising individual 
whose saloon was to-night a representation of 
the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Among 
other things understood of the Marechale was, 
that less ceremony was to be practised at her 
house than elsewhere. All were to do as they 
pleased ; if they could , for, verily, to please 
one's self is no such easy task. 

Dancing commenced ; and during the course 
of the evening, Francesca and the Comtesse 
de Soissons paused for a moment to rest them- 
selves in a small room fitted up as a tent 
with amber-coloured silk. The king and the 
Due d'Anjou entering at the same minute, a 
lively conversation began, which the comp- 
tesse almost entirely supported. Suddenly 
the due caught sight of himself in a mirror 
opposite; " Mon Dieu !" exclaimed he, "I 
am too fair to remain here — I am quite over- 
powered by this colour; for mercy's sake, 
madame, come and dance with me, in pity to 
my complexion." 

He took Marie's hand, and they quitted the 
tent, thus leaving his brother and Francesca 
to an inevitable tete-a-tete. Louis was silent, 
and seemingly somewhat embarrassed ; and 
it was not till a slight movement of his com- 
panion indicated an intention of rising, that he 
said, " Pray do not go, Mademoiselle — I want 
to know how T you like the fete." 

" It is very gay," replied she. 

" I have not enjoyed it till this moment," 
exclaimed her companion. "Ah! it is so 
'rksome to have your attention distracted by 
every one excepting that one to whom it is 
devoted." 

Francesca could only bow with as little of 
the air of taking the speech to herself as pos- 
sible ; but a young lover, like a child in the 
dark, gains courage from the sound of his own 
voice. Louis proceeded rapidly, showing her 
%e little bunch of violets which he had taken 
the evening before he left Compeigne, though 
so dry and faded that nothing remained to in- 
dicate that they once were flowers but their 
perfume lingering round the envelope. 

" You see how precious I have held even 
these few withered leaves — and your bouquet 
to-night is formed again of violets." 

"They w r ere an anonymous present, sent 
this mornincr." 



" And you do not the least suspect the do 
nor?" said the king, smiling. 

" My suspicions," replied Francesca, " are 
far too presumptuous for utterance." 

" Presumption is not a word for a mouth so 
lovely — it belongs rather to the one who ven- 
tured on such unworthy offerings, more than 
repaid by the happiness of their acceptance." 

" Your grace forgets," answered Francesca, 
" that there might be circumstances which 
made their refusal more embarrassing than 
their acceptance, however painful that was 
and is." 

" Ah ! you fear my mother, or the cardinal's 
anger," exclaimed Louis ; " but I am, and, 
when I choose, can be, the master. Madame 
de Soissons told me how timid you were ; but, 
surely, my power is absolute — you may com- 
mand rank far beyond your utmost expecta- 
tions — wealth — " 

" I pray you hear me for one moment," in- 
terrupted Francesca ; " the Comtesse de Sois- 
sons has somewhat misinformed you as to my 
timidity, for I find that I have courage to tell 
you the truth." 

" And truth made beautiful by coming from 
your lips." 

" It is a pity to waste any thing so graceful 
as your flattery — and on me it is wasted. It 
would be affectation were I to misunderstand 
your meaning ; and I tell you frankly, that, 
so gained, I should despise wealth and loathe 
rank." 

Louis's brow wore its deepest gloom, as he 
said, "There are few in yonder room who 
would so cavalierly reject my love." 

"Love!" exclaimed Francesca; "do not 
use the word — say a vain and passing fantasy 
— ay, and bom of the flattering instigations of 
others — unworthy, I must hope, of me, and 
still more unworthy of yourself." 

" I see nothing so unworthy in the admira- 
tion of beauty." 

"A truce to these compliments, which suit 
me as little to hear as you to offer. Allow 
me to address myself to you earnestly and 
seriously. I do implore your forbearance. 
Look through your whole court, you can find 
no one so unprotected, so friendless, as my- 
self. A dependant on your dependants, what 
refuge have I but in your own sense of right'? 
Madame de Soissons may show what I have 
to expect from an early friend — my happiness 
is nothing compared with the advantage of 
attracting you to her house for even a few 
passing evenings. I repeat to you calmly and 
truly, your pursuit may annoy, but it cannot 
alter me. The worst thing that I shall have 
to forgive will be your own destruction of my 
high and respectful admiration." 

" Who is the flatterer now ?" asked Louis, 
but with a much less moody aspect. 

" I do but give utterance to the universal 
feeling; and I can only entreat your pardon, 
and throw myself on your generosity." 

" Allow me, mademoiselle, to lead you to 
the ball-room ; and the only pledge I ask of 
your forgiveness is, that if ever I can rendei 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



275 



you favour or service, you will not forget that 
I shall venture at least to place myself on 
Vour list of friends." 

Francesca's eyes were filled with tears of 
gratitude ; she could not trust her voice to 
speak, but a look was sufficient answer ; and, 
with marked and kind courtesy, the young- 
monarch took her hand, and led her into the 
adjoining- chamber. 

" If I had known that your dread of the 
yellow silk was equivalent to positive banish- 
ment," said Louis, addressing- the Due d' An- 
jou, " I should not have waited so long- for 
your return, for I wanted to consult Madame 
de Soissons about the ballet to-morrow. My 
mother, with the Pere Vincent's good leave, 
has decided en honouring' it with her pre- 
sence." 

So saying-, Louis led the comtesse a little 
apart. Francesca saw them talking — the king 
earnestly, his companion at first sneeringly, 
but the sneer subsided into silent attention. 
No one knew better than Louis, even at that 
early age, how to insure obedience. 

As she returned home, Francesca observed, 
under the veil of more than ordinary polite- 
ness, a concealed constraint in her companion. 
Both were glad to separate: and, to the shame 
of a good conscience be it spoken, the em- 
barrassment of the injured, as usual, exceeded 
that of the injurer. 



CHAPTER XXX. 

•' For what will love's exalting not go through 
Till long neglect, and utter selfishness, 
Shame, the fond pride it takes in its distress!' 

Leigh Hunt. 

"A traveller sees many wonderful 
sights," said the Chevalier de Joinville, as 
he entered Madame de Mercosur's apartment; 
" and such have I seen at Fontainebleau — De 
Bethune and his Armida filant Vamour par- 
fail, in a style which it would be worth Scu- 
deri's while making a journey there to study. 
I was riding through the forest, when sud- 
denly (pray correct my phraseology if too 
worldly — you know I am not well read in 
these epics of the heart) I saw a knight and 
his lady traversing one of the glades; the 
golden sunshine fell athwart the green leaves, 
and showed their white steeds and whiter 
plumes, while the air around grew musical 
with their gentle words and laughter." 

" Gage!" exclaimed Madame de Mercosur, 
" that you have been rehearsing this descrip- 
tion at the feet of Mademoiselle Scuderi her- 
self." 

" Pardon me," replied De Joinville; " your 
presence has been my sole inspiration. But 
to return to my Amadis and Oriana ; you 
know I am not a selfish person, so I could 
not keep the pleasure of my company to my- 
self; and urging my horse into a more rapid 
pace, I overtook them, rich in all the news of 
Paris, garnered for a week or more." 



"Well, in spite of le parfait amour, I can 
readily believe you were gratefully received. 
Ah ! the country teaches us to appreciate peo» 
pie." 

" For once in your life you are mistaken. 
By-the-by, is not the novelty of the sensation 
rather agreeable ] But the case is sufficiently 
extraordinary to leave even your sagacity at 
fault. I was actually de irop" 

"Pray," interrupted Francesca, "did you 
find the novelty of the sensation agreea- 
ble?" 

The chevalier laughed, and said, "Yes, one 
likes to add to one's experience, and to find 
that the impossible does sometimes occur. I 
began telling them the wonders of the world 
which they had quitted ; but they had no 
smiles but for each other, no ears but for 
honeyed words — each sank into a tender si- 
lence, and had I come from the antipodes in- 
stead of Paris, they could not have listened 
with less interest to my tidings. I soon took 
pity upon them and on myself, and rode off; 
but before I had crossed the aforesaid green 
glade, I heard their voices and laughter rising 
gayly as before. Very impertinent!" 

"I hear," said the Due de Mercosur, "that 
they are extremely poor." 

" Most imprudently so," replied De Join- 
ville; "what a neglect of the future in them 
to marry !" 

" Were there not some unusual circum- 
stances connected with the marriage'?" asked 
Francesca. 

"Why, the chevalier, finding the parents 
on both sides inexorable, ran off with the fair 
lady ; and really that was a degree of viplent 
exertion to which now-a-days we are little ac- 
customed. Both in the desperation before, 
and in the love afterwards, they are at least 
a hundred }'ears behind their age." 

" I propose that they should be maintained," 
said Mercosur, " at the public expense, for set- 
ting so good an example." 

" They certainly," continued De Joinville, 
" cannot be maintained at their own. Ah ! 
the Roman emperor, who desired that his sla- 
very might be alleviated by his fetters being 
made of gold, was a very rational person. I 
have always considered it an allegory, show- 
ing the necessity of marrying for money." 

" I prefer lighter chains," said the Due de 
Mercosur ; " it is strange that we should affect, 
as we do, to undervalue that love, which is at 
once the ideal of the heart, and the daily 
sweetener of common life." 

"It were still more strange," replied «De 
Joinville, looking for an instant towards the 
duchesse, " were I to question your expe-* 
rience; but I was speaking of ordinary cases. 
Now, I hold that,' in most matrimonial in- 
stances, it is as well to provide for repentance , 
and wealth has its advantages and its allevia- 
tions in affairs of the heart, as in all other af- 
fairs. It was by means of a golden bough 
that JEneas passed the evil spirits of Tartarus, 
and gained elysium in safety." 

"1 believe," said Madame de Mercosur 



276 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



11 they will find in their own strong attach- 
ment the best resource against whatever evils 
may await their choice." 

" That is," added de Joinville, " if they do 
not exhaust that resource en avant. But I 
consider that all individuals have but a cer- 
tain portion of love in their composition, and 
it is a pity to exhaust it at once. Who are 
the persons with whom we remain on good 
terms to our old age? — why, those whom we 
never cared much about." 

" What a selfish idea ?" exclaimed Ma- 
dame de Mercceur. 

" I am only speaking the truth, which, to 
be sure, I might have put into finer words. 
Had I talked of inconstancy, the misery of 
unreciprocated feelings, of love enduring as 
love never yet endured, both yourself and Sig- 
nora Carrara would have been equally charmed 
and touched. Ay, ay, merge the selfishness 
in the sentiment, and it will he sure to take ; 
people will be so thankful to you for a decent 
excuse !" 

" Have you, then, no belief," asked Ma- 
dame de Mercosur, " in disinterested and last- 
ing attachment ?" 

" Passe pour cela" exclaimed the chevalier ; 
" I will not answer for all the vain beliefs 
that may have passed through that receptacle 
of confusion called the human mind ; but this 
I will say, that the causes of inconstancy are 
much misunderstood. It is commonly said 
that love never lasts. Now, that is not so 
much from change, or that it exhausts itself, 
as that it is mixed up with the paltry cares 
and daily interests of life ; thus losing its 
ideality, which constitutes its great charm. 
Two lovers begin by reading poetry, and end 
by casting up bills together. The real reason 
why an unfortunate attachment outlasts the 
one more happy is, that it is less confounded 
with the common-place of existence." 

"I must say," cried the Due de Mercceur, 
" you are the very last person I should have 
suspected of thus subtilizing on sentiment." 

" Ah !" replied De Joinville, " the truth is, 
that nobody knows any thing sfbout anybody. 
Our nearest and dearest friends have a thou- 
sand thoughts and feelings which we have 
never even suspected. We look in them only 
for what reflects our own. Our very sympa- 
thy is egotism." 

" Nay," said Francesca ; " there is nothing 
which appears to me so much exaggerated as 
the common exclamation about the selfishness 
of human nature. We are a great deal better 
than we make ourselves out to be." 

' If Mademoiselle Carrara speaks from her 
own personal experience, I for one will not 
contradict her." 

" Nay," answered she, "I will not be com- 
plimented out of my position — mine was a 
general assertion. Kind and generous im- 
pulses are rife in our nature. Look at the 
pity which springs spontaneously at the sight 
of affliction — witness the admiration so ready 
to welcome any great action ; and call to 
mind the tnousand slight acts of kindness, 



almost unmarked, because of such daily oc- 
currence." 

"I felicitate you on your experience," said 
the chevalier, rising, " and will now depart, 
and at least try to preserve so agreeable an 
impression." 

True enough was the chevalier's assertion, 
that we know but little of even our most inti- 
mate friends — and yet this does not originate 
from want of sympathy ; it is rather owing tc 
the extreme sensitiveness of all our more ima- 
ginative feelings. How many emotions rise 
in every heart which we never dream of com- 
municating! They are too fine, too fragile, 
for expression, like those delicate hues on the 
atmosphere, which never yet could painter 
embody. Moreover, there is an odd sort of 
satisfaction which we all take in making our- 
selves other than we are. This is a species 
of deception which defies analysis, and is yet 
universally practised. Some make themselves 
out better, some worse, than they really are ; 
but none give themselves their exact likeness. 
Perhaps it is that the ideal faculty is so 
strongly developed in us, that we cannot help 
exercising it even upon the reality of ourselves. 



CHAPTER XXX . 

" There, talking witli the ladies, you may se?, 
As in some nest of faery poetry, 
Some of the finest warriors of the court.'"' 

Leigh Hunt 

But the grand subject of discussion — the 
perpetual theme to which all referred, was the 
fete about to be given by Mademoiselle de 
Montpensier. It was to be a bal costume ; 
and the taste and ingenuity of the whole court 
were to be taxed to their utmost. So, although 
every fete to which she had gone had been 
duly declared to be the last, yet Madame de 
Mercceur felt obliged to attend this one, as the 
very last indeed. It was a sort of visible 
sign that the heroine of La Fronde was rein- 
stated in royal favour, and meant to be, as 
she had no longer any hopes of being queen, 
a loyal and devoted subject for the rest of her 
life. 

Mademoiselle Montpensier's history and 
character could only have belonged to her 
time, — a period devoted to, and distracted by, 
the very smallest interests that ever agitated 
a whole country. High-born — and, heavens ! 
how, at that time, the privilege of noble blood 
was honoured ! the world seemed but made 
for " nous autres grands ,-" rich — for she was 
the greatest heiress in France; handsome — 
for she possessed that high and superb style 
of beauty which suited so well with her state, — 
it would seem as if fortune had delighted in 
heaping all her gifts on a favourite. 

But fortune takes a strange pleasure in 
mocking herself, and sometimes bestows all 
her gifts only to show how unavailing she can 
make them. Few lives have had more mor- 
tifications crowded into their brief space than 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



27? 



that of Mademoiselle la Grande, Mademoiselle 
Princesse, Duchesse, et Comtesse of domains 
and denominations enough to escape any me- 
mory save a herald's or her own. The usual 
history of the heart was reversed in her case. 
Generally speaking, ambition grows upon the 
ruins of disappointed love ; and we ask from 
honours and interests that delusion which we 
can no longer find in affection. But with her, 
ambition came first, and love afterwards. A 
throne was the vision of her youth ; and the 
Cardinal Mazarin's soul must have much to 
answer for in purgatory for the many disap- 
pointments which originated with him. The 
war of La Fronde was the festival of her life, 
and, like most other enjoyments, dearly expi- 
ated. Some slight degree of personal predi- 
lection for the Prince de Conde perhaps dic- 
tated her celebrated order for the cannon of 
the Bastile to fire on the king's troops ; but 
not much — only that transitory flutter of grati- 
fied vanity which is so often mistaken for a 
deeper sentiment. If Madame la Princesse 
had died — as nobody does die — precisely at 
the very moment to please others, the alliance 
might have taken place, but with as little ex- 
pense of mutual feelings as could well bring 
two people together. The prince would have 
allowed the principalities of Montpensier, 
Doubes, d'Eu, &c. &c. to exclude for the time 
ks beaux yexix of Madame de Chatillion ; and 
mademoiselle would have considered "man 
devoir a moi-meme" •* rnes justes pretensions" 
satisfied by a marriage with the head of the 
house of Conde. 

A long, dull exile, only alleviated by house- 
hold dissensions ; and quarrels are the common 
resource of the unoccupied — followed the ex- 
citing period of her brilliant career in Paris. 
At length she returned to Paris, still to see 
crowns passing by, which rested not on her 
brow, till religion or romance became her only 
refuge. 

It is a great error for the heart to hoard up 
that romance which is only graceful in youth — 
and it is dangerous, too; for the feeling is as 
real and as keen, though no longer likely to 
meet return or sympathy. 

Still beautiful, surrounded by flattery, and 
well aware of all that she had in her power 
to lavish on the man she loved, Mademoiselle 
de Montpensier may be pardoned for believing 
in the reality of his attachment, and for loving 
M. de Lauzen. Love him she certainly did, 
with the most earnest and disinterested pas- 
sion. I know nothing more melancholy than 
the vain regrets, and vainer hopes, still raised, 
and only to be disappointed, of her lonely and 
irritating condition during her lover's weary 
imprisonment; unless it might be his return, 
achieved by her at such a price, and then to 
find herself neglected, duped, and reproached. 
It was the almost inevitable consequence of 
their disparity of years ; but I never, for the 
life of me, could discover what consolation 
there is in knowing that we are suffering 
from our own folly. To my taste, it rather 
aggravates the ill ; for there is always a sort 

Vol. I 



of comfort in being able to lay the blame on 
others. 

But the period of which we are writing 
belongs to one of the pleasanter episodes in 
her existence. Mademoiselle was but just 
returned to court, and enjoying all the gaye- 
ties of its brilliant scenes with the double 
relish of long seclusion ; and that evening, 
as she walked up and down the terrace of the 
Luxembourg, waiting the arrival of her guests, 
she looked indeed native to the atmosphere. 
The lightly powdered hair sparkled with dia- 
monds ; and her fair pure skin needed no con- 
trast to set off its transparent whiteness. The 
plumes which she wore suited well with the 
stately turn of her head ; and if there be one 
thing more than another which marks the in- 
herent aristocracy of gentle birth and breed- 
ing, it is the grace with which feathers may 
be worn — but a grace to be found, like truth, 
in " ah, how few !" Her scarlet satin robe 
swept the ground, trimmed with pearls and 
black ribands. A gold chain descended from 
her waist, and from it was suspended a curi- 
ously chased smelling bottle ; while the 
stomacher, arms, and throat, glittered with 
gems. There was a consciousness, too, about 
her, which is infinitely becoming — she felt 
that the mademoiselle of to-night sustained 
her reputation. Her's was not the only brow 
brilliant with its own belief of beauty, nor the 
only toilette destined to be too charming! 

It is curious, in any great festival, to note 
the various motives that animate its crowd. 
Some — and these are the very young — are 
joyful in the mere delight of being dressed, 
and of going out ; some — and these are the 
very happy — look forward to meeting the in- 
dividual at once their dream and their destiny. 
Ah! the anxiousness of the question, "Will 
they be there V and the delicious knowledge 
of seeing them the first, the only object in the 
throng ! A third set go for the credit of the 
thing — it is a sort of social trophy to be seen 
at such a place. Others go as a matter of 
course ; society is the business of their life, 
and attendance on a fete is a moral duty. 
Some go to see — more, to be seen ; some to 
be flattered — others, to flatter. Some go for 
the sake of their jewels — others, for them- 
selves ; and at the close of the festival, how 
few come away but worn out with lassitude 
and discontent ! 

Poor Francesca set out with these feelings. 
She had none of those pleasant, vague hopes 
which know not what they ask or what they 
seek, but which give such buoyancy and such 
gladness to youth. True, that her broken 
engagement with Evelyn was a relief; but it 
had been dearly bought, at the price of many 
illusions — of gratified vanity, of agreeable 
expectation, and an emotion the deepest and 
the tenderest that life can ever know. She 
felt such an utter want of interest in what 
was going on, that it was with difficulty stui 
kept her attention sufficiently alive to go 
through the common routine of societ)'. 

As she stood before the mirror, gathering 
2 A 



278 



MISS LaINDON'S WORKS. 



up her rich black tresses into the silken net 
which formed part of the Italian costume as- 
sumed for the evening, how often did the 
glossy braids escape from her hand! Climax 
of feminine indifference, she did not care how 
she looked ! 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

" This is to be alone ; this— this is solitude." 

Byron. 

I have heard a great deal said of the cheer- 
fulness of music, lighted rooms, and a gay 
crowd. I only know, that the most melan- 
choly moments of one's life are passed in such 
scenes. There is such a feeling of solitude — 
so much conversation going on in which you 
can take no interest — so many persons who 
care not whether you are living or dead — so 
many forced words and smiles — so much 
fatigue — such a mockery of gayety — such a 
drao-o-incr together of strangers, who can have 
nothing in common — and so much neglect, 
impertinence, and indifference. A large festi- 
val always appears to me a funeral on a grand 
scale of all human graces, affections, and kind- 
linesses. Like dancing, it is a remnant of 
ancient barbarism — fit for the days of the 
Chaldeans or the Babylonians, when people 
were only amused through their eyes — the 
sole entertainment of which savage nations 
are susceptible. 

Madame de Mercceur and Francesca pro- 
menaded through the crowded rooms till they 
gained a seat near where mademoiselle was 
standing. One of the diamond buckles of her 
sandal was unfastened. 

"Ah!" exclaimed the Marechal d'Hopita], 
" voild une demoiselle proprement chausee a 
faire la fortune d'un cadet !" 

Mademoiselle gave him one of her haughtiest 
frowns, and turned away. In so doing, the 
glittering buckle dragged on the ground, and 
a youtn° strikingly handsome, and dressed 
with just coxcombry enough to indicate that 
he was not indifferent to the opinion of others, 
stepped forward, and, dropping on his knee, 
entreated permission to fasten the buckle. 
Scarcely looking at him, the princess accepted 
his services ; the cavalier fastened the clasp, 
and, bowing profoundly, drew back. 

" Splendid diamonds !" said some one at 
his side. 

" Mon Dieu !" exclaimed the youth ; " I 
saw nothing but le plus jolt pied du monde!" 

A personal compliment paid from the sud- 
den impulse of the minute, no woman ever 
yet resisted ; and mademoiselle, turning round 
with a most gracious smile to her young as- 
sistant, for the first time remarked how very 
handsome he was. 

Ah ! the slight things in life are the irrevo- 
cable. The actions on which we calculate 
*nd decide never bring the important conse- 
quences which we expected from them. It is 
the thouo-htless. the careless, the unmarked of 



the minute, that set their seal upon our fate — 
that are the final and the fatal in their results. 
That youth w r as Lauzun. I do believe, that 
the rule of love at first sight, like all other 
rules, admits of exceptions — while so many 
characters and temperaments exist, no one 
law can extend to all ; but this I also believe, 
that love at first sight belongs to the highest 
and most imaginative order of passion— it 
stamps it at once with the seeming of des- 
tiny. All my readers may not assent to the 
truth of this assertion ; but there must be 
some who will acknowledge, that at the first 
introduction of an individual, they felt that 
one was fated to influence all their after-life — 
and when did such presentiment prove errone- 
ous ? 

" You really," said the Chevalier de Join- 
ville, " must come into the next room — Ma- 
dame de PHopital is astonishing us all by 
her skill in fortunetelling. Do pray go, and 
be introduced to the future." 

He handed Madame de Mercceur, and the 
Due de Candale conducted Francesca. 

" Are you very anxious," asked he, " to 
consult the sibyl?" 

" Nay," replied Francesca; " I want faith." 

" You will," replied he, " nevertheless be 
amused with Madame de l'Hopital's tact ; 
she knows enough of the history of the indi- 
viduals around to give a shrewd guess at the 
favourite fantasy of each, and that it will be 
successful is the summing up of hei pro- 
phesy. She tells each what he wishes, and 
so obtains an easy belief." 

" She would be puzzled to tell mine," an- 
swered his companion, " for I am sure I wish 
for nothing." 

" I cannot emulate your philosophy," said 
the due, in a hurried tone. But a sudden 
movement of the crowd interrupted their con- 
versation, and brought them directly in front 
of the table. The Chevalier de Joinville was 
in the very act of having his futurity unveiled. 

" A most monotonous piece of business 
this," said Madame la Marechale, " to have 
only good to prophesy — nothing but hearts 
and diamonds. You are sadly uninteresting, 
chevalier; I wish I could foresee a few mis- 
fortunes, but your whole life is en rose — very 
sweet and very insipid. How r ever, I must do 
you the justice to say you find thorns your- 
self." 

"For the benefit of others, I hope," replied 
the chevalier, laughing. 

"Madame de l'Hopital has been quite- la 
fee hienfaisante" said Lauzun, who, like 
others, had been consulting the oracle. "1 
am bewildered by my future good fortune. 
I quite anticipate being married, if it is to 
bring me all that she predicts." 

Mademoiselle blushed deeply. Now, the 
necessity for such a blush must have been in 
her own thoughts, to dissipate which she be- 
gan talking, with great animation and little 
connexion, to the Due d'Anjou, who stood 
near. Fortunately, he was too much occu ■ 
pied in observing the folds of his azure silk 
cloak, bordered with silver stars, in a glass 



J 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



279 



opposite; and the incoherency of his cousin's 
discourse was lost in the regularity of its or- 
naments. 

"Shall I tell your fortune, dear]" asked 
La Marechale of Francesca, who would fain 
nave refused ; but a negative would only have 
drawn more attention, so she submitted to her 
fate with as much resignation as could be as- 
sumed, with a good grace. The marechale 
spread out the cards, looked at them with a 
sudden change of countenance, and then, with 
a forced smile, swept them all together again. 

" I cannot tell your fate — it is beyond my 
art. I suppose my science is limited to my 
own country." But her manner was evident- 
ly constrained ; and, with a momentary super- 
stition, it struck Francesca how unusually 
dark the cards appeared when spread out — 
while the next moment, she smiled at her own 
folly. 

The Due de Candale followed, and again 
the ominous pack was shuffled and cut; again 
madame, the sibyl, seemed disconcerted. 

"You must beware of long journeys," said 
she ; " but really I am getting stupid and tired 
— I will finish your fortune some other night, 
mocker. You are young enough to wait." 

The dancing, which had been suspended, 
now recommenced with additional animation, 
and De Candale claimed Francesca's hand ; 
but the rooms were crowded, and they stood 
for some time loitering on one of the terraces. 

" How beautiful are those orange flowers!" 
said Francesca, pointing to a superb stand of 
that most lovely shrub, where the golden 
fruit, the snowy flower, and the polished blos- 
som, hung together. "I know no other plan 
that brings my own country and early child- 
hood so immediately before me. We had 
them in such profusion round the old palaz- 
zo !" and, unconsciously, her eyes filled with 
tears as she stood gazing on the well-known 
boughs. 

" Do you like France ?" asked De Candale ; 
" has it equalled your expectations I" 

Francesca shook her head as she answered, 
" Ah ! expectations are such unreasonable 
things ! It was impossible for even France 
to realize the dreams of youth and solitude i 
What ever embodies our idea of perfection?" 

" I have seen mine realized," said he, gaz- 
ing upon her earnestly. 

Nothing so completely excludes the idea of 
another lover as being already occupied by 
one; and Francesca had been too utterly en- 
grossed by Evelyn ever to believe in the pos- 
sibility that she could be loved, and not by 
him. The Due de Candale's admiration had 
been remarked by all but herself. Perfectly 
indifferent, she never thought about him ; and 
she now listened to his words, quite uncon- 
scious that they had any latent meaning as 
regarded herself. 

De Candale misconstrued her gentle si- 
lence ; and the downcast eyes before which 
were flitting far-off scenes, gave him more en- 
couragement than any other expression that 
she could have worn. Naturally impetuous, 
disappointment was to him better than sus- 



pense. They were alone on the terrace ; and 
Francesca started from her dream of early and 
betrayed hopes, to hear the passionate avowal 
that was being uttered by her unsuspected 
lover. 

Surprise for a moment kept her silent; but 
to surprise succeeded a bitter sense of regret. 
" Not to me," exclaimed she ; " pray do not 
address these words to me ; you cannot think 
how they are wasted." 

"Do you love another!" asked De Can- 
dale, in an altered voice. 

She hesitated ; under any circumstances a 
woman is reluctant to own her affection — it is 
so difficult to say what it is so easy to feel; 
and, in her place, how painful was the confes- 
sion ! How can the heart bear to own that it 
has been given, and in vain"? 

Again her silence was misunderstood. " I 
have heen too sudden," whispered he, in a 
gentler tone ; " only sav that you will let me 
hope." 

Francesca felt that not to speak now was, 
indeed, giving false encouragement; yet, 
scarcely could she command her words. She 
was so grateful — so touched ; but the very 

! name of love conveyed almost an impression 
of terror — it was a word which she never 

j wished to hear again. Briefly, but decidedly, 

i she told the Due de Candale that his suit was 

j in vain. 

With him, anger was rapidly taking the 

I place of softer emotions. " Certainly," he 
exclaimed, in no very gracious tone, " the 

I folly of woman exceeds all that has ever been 
said about it. What can or do you expect 
beyond what I offer you ?" 

Now, when you have acted upon impulse, 
there is something exceedingly provoking in 
being suspected of acting from some interest- 
ed motive ; and Francesca rather warmly re- 

j plied, "I am not aware of any right which 
you have to question me; but my expecta- 
tions can have little to do with what is mere 

I matter of liking." 

" Well," said the due, with that outward 
calmness of manner which anger often affects ; 
" so you do not like me? I am sorry for your 

| bad taste ! and I bid you good night, quite 
convinced that you will repent your refusal; 
and I daresay you will never get married at 
all." 

So saying, he left the terrace ; while Fran- 
cesca remained for a few minutes, bewildered 
by the suddenness of the scene, and half in- 
clined to laugh at the due's parting denuncia- 
tion. " The very idea of my repenting my 
refusal! his rank were too dearly purchased 
by himself. I can imagine no lot in life more 
wearisome than a union of interest and indif- 
ference ! The contrast were too terrible, think- 
ing of what hope once dreamed, such a union 
could be made by mutual attachment. Ah, 
love has henceforth no part in life for me! 
Deceived, slighted, humiliated ! — I loathe the 
very name !" 

They say many a heart is caught in the re* 
bound; — not when the heart has been really 
won. Pride may be soothed by the ready 



180 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS, 



devotion of another; vanity may be excited the 
more keenly by recent mortification. But the 
great characteristic of deep and true love is its 
entire indifference to all feelings and opinions 
except its own ; and, in such a case, and es- 
pecially to a sensitive and reserved temper 
like Francesca's, the first disappointment is 
final. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 



" The hour of sacrifice 
Is near. Anon the immolating priest 
Will summon me."— The Hunchback. 



The usual circle were assembled the follow- 
ing morning at Madame de Mercceur's apart- 
ment, when the due himself entered. 

" What have you been hearing, seeing, or 
saying 1" asked madame ; "for you look as 
if you had something extraordinary to tell 
us !" 

" I have, indeed !" was his answer ; " but 
even more shocking than surprising. The 
Queen of Sweden has had her chamberlain 
murdered — executed, as she calls it — at Fon- 
tainebleau ?" 

His intelligence was received with a uni- 
versal exclamation of horror! 

"How very dreadful!" cried madame; 
" and to think that such an act should have 
been committed by anybody that we all 
know !" 

" Why, to be sure, our knowing her is a 
great aggravation of the offence," said her 
husband, half smiling at what was, neverthe- 
less, a very natural conclusion. 

We daily hear of crimes of all kinds — we 
are perfectly aware of their existence ; but 
we never think of their being perpetrated by 
those whom we actually know. We always 
deem oar own circle secure. 

" But what led to this atrocious deed ?" 
asked Francesca. 

" Some act of treachery on the part of Mo- 
naldeschi, regarding some letters which he 
ventured to open, is assumed as the reason. 
The truth seems little known. But I have just 
had a letter from the Comte l'Escars, detailing 
all the circumstances that came to his know- 
ledge ;" and, taking out the scroll, the due 
read as follows, adding, "I have omitted the 
first part of the letter, as being on my own 
business." 

" You must pardon my thus hurrying over 
your affair, to say nothing of its being so in- 
complete ; but my whole mind is so impressed 
with the strange tragedy of yesterday, that I 
can think, speak, write of nothing else. The 
ex-queen of Sweden has had one of the gen- 
tlemen of her suite put to death in a manner 
equally sudden and barbarous ; and what ex- 
cites in me a strong personal feeling on the sub- 
ject is, that Monaldeschi, the cavalier in ques- 
tion, dined with me the very day of his murder, 
as I must call it. Such a gay dinner as we had ! 
tor Monaldeschi — lively, unscrupulous and sar- 



castic — was a most amusing companion. His 
spirits, far higher than his usual bearing, car- 
ried us all along with them ; and 1 remember 
saying to him, ' I envy your gayety ; why, 
Monaldeschi, you are as joyous as if there 
were nothing but sunshine in the world.' He 
changed countenance, and becoming suddenly 
grave, exclaimed, ' Do not call me back to 
myself. I feel an unaccountable vivacity, 
which I know is the herald of disaster.' But 
again he became cheerful, and we rallied him 
on the belief, which he still gayly maintained, 
that great spirits were the sure forerunners of 
misfortune. ' Well,' was my answer, ' I 
should like mine to be so announced.' The 
dessert was being put down when a messen- 
ger came from the palace and commanded his 
immediate attendance on his queen. He 
turned pale as death, but prepared to obey the 
summons; and, taking up a glass, filled it 
with wine. The slender Venetian glass shi- 
vered in his hand before he could raise it to 
his lips. 'Are you superstitious, count 1 ?' 
asked some one at the table ; ' the delicate 
crystal of Venice is said to shiver when trea- 
chery is at hand.' This careless observation 
seemed to affect my guest far beyond what a 
slight pleasantry could be supposed to occa- 
sion. His face became livid ; and snatching 
up a silver cup, he filled it to the very brim, 
and drank it down ; then he stood for a mo- 
ment, as if lost in thought, when, flinging his 
cloak around him, he hurried from the room, 
utterly forgetful of our presence, without even 
a gesture of farewell. His strange agitation 
left its own gloom behind, and our party soon 
broke up. 

" Have you never, Mercosur, felt that vague 
fear, that feverish restlessness, for which you 
can give no rational cause ; but which seems 
as if something extraordinary must happen, 
though you have not the slightest ground for 
expectation 1 I ordered my horse, and rode 
out ; and the pleasantness of the evening led 
me farther than 1 intended, so that the moon 
was up as I returned homewards. On my 
way I had to pass the churchyard, which is 
about a quarter of a mile from the town. The 
moonlight was shining full on the lowly 
graves, over which the branches of an old 
yew tree swung to and fro mournfully. To 
my great surprise, from the lateness of the 
hour, when the funeral rites are but rarely 
performed, I saw a group of persons gathered 
round a grave which was in the very act of 
being filled up. I distinctly heard the falling 
of the clods. 

" Reining up my horse beside the low stone 
wall — prompted by I know not what curio- 
sity — I asked who it was that had been bu- 
ried 1 ' Count Monaldeschi, — executed this 
evening for treason against his rightful sove- 
reign, Queen Christina,' replied a man in the 
uniform of one of her guards. I let the bridle 
fall from my hand. Good God ! had he then 
gone forth from my dinner table to his death ! 
Could my cheerful companion of but a few 
hours since be lying there, cold as the damp 
earth they were trampling down upon his 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



281 



body 1 Were those brilliant spirits but lights 
of destruction'? 

" I know not how I regained the town, for 
the image of Monaldeschi floated before my 
eyes; now animated with all the warmth ami 
hues of life — now pale as I could fancy him 
after the faial blow; but brought vividly be- 
fore me, as objects are brought only in periods 
jf strong excitement. I afterwards learnt the 
following details, partly from a page of his 
own, partly from le Pere Mantuony : — 

"On arriving at the palace of Fontainebleau, 
Monaldeschi was shown at once into the 
queen's presence, who, with quick steps, was 
pacing the apartment, holding in her hand a 
packet of letters, which she had only just re- 
folded. The count dropped on his knee; 
when, hastily turning toward him, she bade 
him go to the gakrie aux cerfs. He obeyed, 
and there he found the Chevalier di Sentinelli, 
the chief captain of her guards. Sentinelli is 
a man who never changed feature or colour in 
his life ; and now, with the utmost coolness, 
he br.de the unfortunate count address himself 
to the priest in attendance;, 'and,' added he, 
' make your confession short, for my orders 
for your execution are immediate.' 

"Monaldeschi staggered against the wall, 
and remained for a few moments in a state of 
almost insensibility, when the chevalier, draw- 
ing his sword, pointed to the father, who stood 
nearly as pale and aghast as the man whose 
confession he was called upon so suddenly to 
receive. The prisoner sprung forwards, and 
throwing himself at the confessor's feet, im- 
plored him piteously to hasten to Christina, 
and intercede for his life. At first the Captain 
Sentinelli objected to Mantuony leaving the 
room with his penitent unshriven ; but respect 
for the holy man at last induced him to allow 
his proceeding on what he warned him would 
be a fruitless mission. 

" The priest found Christina in the same 
apartment, apparently entirely occupied with a 
volume of Swedish history. 'You come,' 
said she, rising from her seat, ' to announce 
that my orders have been obeyed.' ' I come,' 
replied the father, ' on a more fitting errand 
for the minister of our Saviour; I come, in 
his name, to entreat your pity and pardon for 
yonder miserable offender. Please your grace 
to think, that you may take life away, but 
cannot give it !' ' You will leave your peni- 
tent to die unconfessed,' was her only answer; 
' 1 w r ould not destroy both soul and body; but 
on your own heads be the sin, if you waste 
the time allowed to prepare for eternity.' 
'Lady, for your own soul's sake,' cried the 
agitated old man, ' be merciful ! remember, 
his blood will rise to the skies, and cry aloud 
for judgment, even at the last day!' 'Be- 
tween me and heaven be the reckoning,' ex- 
claimed she, resuming her seat. ' For the love 
of our lady, be pitiful ! Only see him ; you 
cannot order a fellow creature from your own 
presence into eternity!' The queen started 
from her chair. ' I have,' said she, white 
with anger, which yet affected not her calm 
and measured wcrds, — ' I have laid down most 

Vol. I.— 36 



of the possessions of my ancestors ; but once 
a queen always a queen ; and treason shall not 
pass in my household unpunished while I re- 
tain but one faithful follower to avenge the 
cause of his queen and of his mistress. Ay, 
by my own hand !' continued she, in a louder 
tone, half drawing a sabre that lay on the 
table, and returning the glittering blade to the 
scabbard with a force that made it ring again, 
' by my own hand should the traitor perish, 
rather than his daring treachery should go 
unpunished ! Now, will you back, and shrive 
the coward 1 or must he die with his guilt on 
his head? Yonder clock wants five minutes 
of the hour, — when that hour strikes, it will 
sound the knell of a traitor — as it strikes, he 
dies !' 

" The father left the room, and found the 
count in a state of stupefaction. In vain he 
adjured him to turn his thoughts to prayer; in 
vain he offered to him the cross, and implored 
him to think on Him who died to save; but 
the agony of his fear was too great for prayer. 
The clock struck, and Sentinelli drew his 
sword ; the noise roused Monaldeschi, who, 
springing up, rushed to the window, and en- 
deavoured to throw himself out, — it was fast- 
ened. Sentinelli followed, and tried to stab 
him. The first blow only resounded against 
the chain armour which he wore under his 
clothes ; but at the second, the blood rushed 
in torrents from his side; the third brought 
him to his knee, and then Sentinelli passed 
his sword through him. The miserable man 
dropped on the floor, which was dyed crimson 
with his struggles, for still he writhed; when 
the executioner, pressing him down with his 
foot, extricated the blade ; and as he drew it 
forth, Monaldeschi sunk back — dead ! 

" The corpse was immediately put into a 
coach, and buried in the churchyard -with all 
possible speed ; and, but for the horror in 
men's minds, there would not be a trace left 
of the unfortunate, even if guilty, Monaldes- 
chi. I hear, however, that one horrible trace 
does remain : the floor was so saturated with 
the blood, shed in his dying struggles, that no 
efforts can efface the stain ; in vain buckets 
upon buckets of water have been poured upon 
the place, — the crimson is there fresh and red 
as ever." 

It was some time before any one broke the 
silence that followed upon the gloomy narra- 
tive. 

" And what do his grace and the queen say 1 
for I believe you come from their presence," 
asked Madame de MerccEur, at last. 

" Why, the queen proposed that it should 
be notified to Christina, that her presence was 
no longer desired in France ; but to this Louis 
objected. 'The power,' said he, ' of life and 
death is in the hands of the sovereign. Chris- 
tina is still queen in her own household. It 
only behoves us, by some sign of coldness, to 
show that we resent the indignity ot having 
our palace made a slaughter-house.' " 

" Settled with his majesty's usual sense of 
the royal dignity — wonderful in such a youth!' 
said an officer of the household ; one of thoso 
2 a2 



282 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



elderly courtiers, whose whole life had been 
an adulation. 

Bat Francesca, unaccustomed from her 
childhood to the ideal reverence with which 
the royal person and power were then regard- 
ed in France, could think of the ex-queen's 
act as murder only, not as a judgment. Was 
it possible, then, that such an offence against 
the laws of humanity — a human being's life 
sacrificed with such vindictive cruelty — that 
this crime against nature and womanhood, 
was held as light in the balance when weigh- 
ed with a want of respect to one of the royal 
residences ! Well, custom is a surprising 
thing; and .when we think how, from earliest 
infancy, we are surrounded by false impres- 
sions, undue rights, privileges, and prejudices, 
we may well marvel that there is such a thing 
as truth in the world. That it should be con- 
cealed, is far less wonderful than that it 
should ever be discovered. After all, the 
great error in human judgment is not so much 
wilful perversion, as that we judge according 
to situation, and always make that situation, 
our own; while the chances are, that we 
really have not one thought, feeling, or habit, 
in common with those on whom we yet think 
ourselves qualified to decide. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

"You know I am fond of the news, though I have as 
little curiosity as any man."— The Wife. 

" We have always some reigning mania," 
said the Chevalier de Joinville, when, in com- 
mon with others of the court, he came in to 
Madame de Mercosur's on his way to a fete 
given by Madame de Soissons, whose hotel 
was more than ever the rallying point of the 
court. Everybody now is making what they 
call portraits of themselves and of their friends. 
Pastoral phrases are called into requisition ; 
and under some name just stepped out of an 
eclogue, our dames and cavaliers flatter them- 
selves and their friends, and are tant soil pea 
maligne." 

" I heard one or two of these candid confes- 
sions read the other evening," replied Fran- 
cesca ; "and I could not but smile at the 
modest avowal of one lady, that she had the 
very whitest teeth in the world ! qualifying 
it, however, by the regret, that she really had 
not spirits enough to show them ! While 
another takes up a graver tone, and thanks 
God, who gave her only inclinations conform- 
able to her duty, and confesses to une grande 
vassion for pictures, jewels, and furniture !" 

"I could soon give my own portrait," said 
Madame de Mercceur ; "I should at once can- 
didly confess that I thought myself very pret- 
ty, very amiable, very good ; and trust to my 
friends' kindness to take the assertion for 
granted." 

" I would never," cried the chevalier, " trust 
to my friends' kindness for any thing. We 
all in our hearts hate each other!" 



" What a monstrous assertion !" exclaimed 
she. 

" All profound truths startle you in the first 
announcement." 

" I am sure," replied the duchesse, "I hate 
no one." 

"You are too young. But wait a little; 
have a few mortifications, a few disappoint- 
ments — a few of those surprises of falsehood, 
slander, and treachery, with which all expe- 
rience is well supplied — -and you will be asto- 
nished to find what a stock of hate you have 
for use. But you are sitting quite absorbed," 
continued he, turning to Francesca; " are you 
sketching portraits in your own mind 1 I hope 
it is one of our cavaliers 1 What do you say 
to that of the Due de Candale'?" 

The truth was, De Joinville, who took that 
constant interest in the affairs of others, called 
philanthropy or curiosity, according to circum- 
stances, had noted Francesca's tete-a-tete of 
the former evening, and wished to draw some 
conclusion of its results from her manner. He 
was disappointed — she was too indifferent for 
confusion ; and, far above the singularly small 
vanity of conquest, she answered him with 
entire composure. 

" I would describe him in three words — 
chivalresque, romanesque, and pittoresque. I 
heard Madame de Mercosur say that he was 
going to Spain, and he appears to me an ad- 
mirable specimen of your court — he will do 
you credit." 

" Have you seen Madame de Soissons' por- 
trait of herself?" asked de Joinville, who now 
thought that the subject of the Due de Can- 
dale was too uninteresting for further ques- 
tion. 

" No," said Madame de Mercosur : "I sup- 
pose Marie felt that she could tell me nothing 
new." 

"I have a copy ; so, if you please, you can 
judge for yourself," and the chevalier read as 
follows : — 

" Portrait of Madame de Soissons, by her- 
self. — Portraits are just now the rage ; and as 
others are drawing theirs, I will also draw 
mine, for I hold it expedient to follow what- 
ever may be the ruling fashion. Singularity 
is never forgiven ; it is taken as a personal 
affront by all from whom we differ; it is an 
assumption of superiority ; and why should 
the general taste not be good enough for the 
generality 1 I, for one, am content to do like 
the rest; thereby escaping that responsibility 
which is at best, an invidious, and, worse — a 
useless distinction. 

" I am not pretty, though I pass for such ; 
for my face always flatters who ever looks at 
it. I have a slight and manageable, rather 
than a positively good figure ; and I dress to 
perfection. 

" Why should so much skill in colouring, 
so much taste in arrangement, be bestowed on 
a picture, when half the same attention would 
produce a still more charming effect bestowed 
upon real life ? A careful toilette is a perpe- 
tual flattery — it shows that you desire to please, 
and people like that; for we all attach an 






FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



233 



undue value to our own suffrage. I would 
here observe, as one of the results of my ob- 
servation, that all gentlemen prefer bright 
colours in feminine attire ; it is on the princi- 
ple of contrast, — their taste is dedicated by 
their vanity. A woman in sombre hues does 
not sufficiently throw out their own dark 
dress. 

"I am j 'ranch, coquette, and I confess it; 
and sometimes my adorateurs are disappointed, 
from an expectation of my constancy, which 
it is not in my nature to realize. Yet, me- 
thinks their complaints are unreasonable; 
their worst reproach is that of being indebted 
to me for some agreeable hours. I beg to 
plead the excuse offered by some Athenian 
orator, who, announcing a victory to the peo- 
ple, induced them to proclaim a fete, crown 
themselves with flowers, and to pour out liba- 
tions, both on the gods' account and their 
own. The next day, the tidings arrived of 
defeat, and loud were the exclamations against 
the deceitful Cleon. ' Nay, my friends,' re- 
plied he, ' can you blame me for making you 
pass a pleasant day 1 — rather give me your 
thanks.' 

"I have very buoyant spirits, and hence 
am easily amused. This makes me a charm- 
ing companion ; for many seeing me enter- 
tained, set down the entertainment to their 
own powers, and admire me out of compli- 
ment to themselves. 

"I am obliging and caressing, and really 
do like people very much when I see them. 
I own my memory is not good ; the fact is, 
that life is too short to be occupied by aught 
but the present — hope and remembrance are 
equally a waste of time. 

" 1 am given to flattery, not from any inte- 
rested motive, but because I like to say agree- 
able things. My own vanity, which is gre,at, 
makes me sensitive to that of others. And 
here I would observe, that love of admiration 
seems scarcely to be properly appreciated ; it 
is the only bond of society — we could not 
otherwise endure each other. It is the true 
source of the sublime, and my conscience 
obliges me to add, of the ridiculous. Still, it 
is the strong necessity of admiring each other, 
and the being admired in our turn, that has 
built cities, congregated multitudes, and or- 
ganized what we 'call our present state of ci- 
vilization. 

" I am lively — a sort of temper very popu- 
lar, for it makes no troublesome demands 
upon our civility ; and am entirely carried 
away by the impulse of the minute. Hence, 
I am incapable of every profound or lasting 
attachment. I should forget my own identity, 
could I be parted from myself for a week. 

'* I incline mostly to look at things on the 
ridiculous side, and this makes me an amus- 
ing companion ; and I rarely think much of 
my trouble, for anybody's applause is better 
than nobody's. Novelty has to me a great 
attraction. A new acquaintance and a new 
silk alike rapidly lose their gloss. Unfortu- 
nately, I am soon wearied ; for most indivi- 



duals, resembling short stories, are soon read 
to the end. 

" I am more easily entertained than inte- 
rested, and rather object to having my feelings 
much excited, emotion being bad both for 
constitution and complexion. I am heedless 
of getting into scrapes, but very ingenious 
at extricating myself. My genius is 5 fertile 
in inventions, excuses, and remedies. I con- 
sider myself clever ; have tact and shrewd- 
ness ; and whatever wits 1 may possess, T 
have them always about me." 

"Good," exclaimed Madame de Mercceur; 
"se non e vero, e ben trovato" 

" After all," said the chevalier, " these 
portraits — Madame de l'Hopital's fortunetell- 
ing — the pleasure we take in a lover or a phy- 
sician — may all be referred to the same cause, 
— we do so enjoy talking about ourselves ; 
and yet we feel some sort of excuse necessary. 
It must be admitted, that we are ready in 
pretexts." 

"Is this declaration," asked Francesca, 
" preparatory to sketching your own portrait V 9 

" Nay," said he, " I feel quite inadequate 
to my own merits ; or, to be candid in my 
confession, I have a conversational reputation 
to support, and cannot venture upon paper. 
Half the character of wit must rely upon wlat 
is forgotten." 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

" Near and more near 
They bent, with pale inquiry and close ear : 
Her "eyes were shut,— no motion— not a breath,— 
The gentle sufferer was at peace in death." 

Leigh Huxt. 

" The very image of his mother," — " but 
with his father's eyes," — "a perfect picture." 
Such were the usual run of exclamations that 
greeted the little Marquis de Mercosur. For- 
tunate it is for the tranquillity of the new-born 
infant, if he have any turn for philosophy, 
that he understands none of the nonsense con- 
secrated by old usage to the commencement 
of existence. The birth of an heir seems a 
sort of security taken of fate, 

" For the old honours of some ancient line;" 

and the young heir of the illustrious house 
De Mercceur was received with due joy and 
reverence. Ihe satin curtains of the cradle 
were heavy with the many quarterings of the 
broidered arms, and were put aside by no less 
a hand than that of Anne of Austria, who, 
gazing on the speck of humanity enveloped 
in cambric and lace, pronounced that it " was 
a most promising child." Her majesty is not 
the only person who has decided on unseen 
merit. The mother was as well as possible ; 
and perhaps that week there was as much 
hope and happiness in the Hotel Vendome as 
under any other roof in Paris. 

The christening was to be unique in its 
splendour, and the duchesse had fallen asleep 



284 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



during its details. There had been a slight 
shower, when suddenly the sun shone out, as 
it shines in that bright uncertainty which pre- 
cedes another rain, and Francesca, fearing that 
the light should foil on Madame de Mercosur's 
face, rose to draw the curtain. She was not 
sleeping, for her eyes were open; and as her 
companion approached, they looked up with 
a strange and earnest expression. Francesca 
went to the bedside, and asked, in a gentle 
whisper, "Did she want any thing]" No 
answer was returned, but the features still 
wore the same appearance. She took the 
duchesse's hand ; but when she loosed her 
hold, it fell quite powerless on the bed. 
Again she spoke, and. aloud ; but there was 
no answer. Seriously alarmed, she called to 
the attendants, one of whom was instantly 
sent for the physician. He was scarcely five 
minutes in arriving; but these five minutes 
seemed an age. A slight change, came over 
even his guarded countenance, as he looked 
upon his patient. He withdrew without ut- 
tering a word, and Francesca followed him to 
the antechamber. 

" Young lady, there is no hope; one side 
of the duchesse is struck with palsy; she re- 
tains her senses, and will, most probably, to 
the last; but she cannot live through the 
night." 

" Good God !" exclaimed Francesca ; " and 
the Due de Mercceur left Paris this morning !" 
For a moment all command over herself was 
lost, and she sank on a seat, sick and faint 
with sudden agony. 

" You must not give way to your feelings, 
at least now," said the physician, kindly tak- 
ing her hand. "Madame is sensible, and 
you seem to be the only near friend about her. 
Go you to her room, while I send to the car- 
dinal, and summon my colleagues." 

Francesca wrung her hands in suppressed 
anguish, and seated herself by the bedside; 
it was evident, from the look of gratitude, 
that her friend recognised her; and she never 
afterwards moved from her sad watch beside 
the dying sufferer. 

The physician soon returned, with two 
others. After a few minutes in silent obser- 
vation, they retired to the adjacent apartment, 
for the purpose of consultation; it was evi- 
dently but nominal ; there was no power on 
earth that could close the grave now yawning 
for the young, the lovely, the beloved, and, 
but an hour since, the seemingly healthy 
Duchesse de Mercceur. 

A thousand confused images arose in 
mournful succession as Francesca bent over 
that melancholy pillow. Who could tell the 
husband, who had that morning left her with 
no other anxiety but that gentle solicitude in- 
separable from love, — who could tell him that 
his idolized wife had breathed her last — and 
not in his arms 1 Who, in after years, could 
supply a mother's place to the bereaved child, 
in whom affection's sweetest fountain must 
remain for ever unstirred 1 There was some- 
thing inexpressibly painful in the monotonous 
nursery song with which the ancient nurse 



I was mechanically soothing its unconscious 

1 sleep. 

A momentary restlessness in the features 
of the duchesse induced Francesca to attempt 

! altering her position ; and with the aid of the 
attendants, this was soon accomplished ; but 
observing that Henriette followed her with an 

j anxious gaze, she seated herself on the bed, 
and supported her head with her arm, so that 

! she could, watch the slightest change. Ma- 
dame de Mercceur looked up with a t faint 
smile ; her lips moved, yet no sound was au- 
dible ; but Francesca felt the pressure of her 
hand returned. 

It was a strange instance of the contrasts 
wherewith Fate delights to mock her toy and 
prey — the human race — to mark the opposite 
scenes of that night, the Duchesse de Mer- 
cceur lay palsy stricken on her death-bed ; 
while her husband was full of his occupation, 
exerting his utmost powers of persuasion in a 
secret and difficult negotiation with the Due 
d'Orleans — one of those intrigues whose suc- 
cesses are such certain steps in the ladder of 
ambition. Madame de Soissons was full of 
triumph, to find that Louis admitted readily 
her plea of unbounded devotion to his lightest 
wish, as full excuse for somewhat of dupli- 
city practised towards, not only Francesca but 
himself. He' was to sup with her that even- 
ing, and it would not be her fault if the young 
Italian was missed, as she had assembled 
every various attraction of wit, youth, and 
beauty. Her supper would be brilliant, while 
her sister was dying. 

The cardinal, as he stood beside the queen's 
chair that night, during the performance of 
the ballet, would seem to have drawn around 
himself a charmed circle of prosperity ; he 
was the real sovereign of that gorgeous court 
— wealth and power were in his right hand ; 
and his enemies — where were they? — who 
now was bold enough to call himself Maza- 
rin's enemy 1 — all was submission, varnished 
by flattery. Some passing allusion on the 
stage was adroitly turned into a personal com- 
pliment, and the whole audience marked their 
perception by their applause. Just then one 
of his suite entered, and whispered a few 
words; — the cardinal became deadly pale; 
he muttered some hurried and inaudible apo- 
logy, and rushed from the box. He attempt- 
ed to open the door of the first carriage he 
saw — his hand trembled too much. The ser- 
vants, seeing a stranger, were about to re- 
pulse him, when some one recognised him. 
He was assisted in, and they drove with all 
speed to the Hotel Vendome. 

Rapidly he passed through the silent and 
lonely chambers, till he reached one the most 
silent of all. For her sake who was suffering 
there, he paused to repress his emotion; bu; 
his step was unsteady, and his face ghastly 
as he approached the bed. His niece knew 
him instantly ; and a gleam of joy passed over 
her countenance, too beautiful for sickness or 
death. The fever which consumed her gave 
a deep colour to her cneeks — a flashing light 
to her eyes ; while the disordered braids of 



FRANUESCA CARRARA. 



Z3'. 



t& .-ich auburn hair lay like dark gold round 
heL vhite l)ro\v and throat. 

'• My darling — my own sweet child ! speak 
to me !" She smiled ; but though the lips 
moved, not the faintest whisper was heard. 

Still he gazed earnestly upon her; a joyous 
and deceitful incredulity sprang- up within his 
heart. He drew the physician aside. 

" Is there no hope in that bright and bloom- 
ing face ]" 

" None," was the low, but decided answer. 

Mazarin again approached the bed, but the 
effort was too much ; he bowed his face down, 
and wept like a child. 

Franceses, who still maintained her w T atch 
by the pillow, saw Madame de Mercosur's 
face, that she observed her uncle's distress — 
the large tears gathered on her own eyelids. 

" For her sake," whispered Francesca, " I 
pray your grace's composure." 

The cardinal had not been aware of her pre- 
sence till that instant. He rose, w r alked across 
the room, and, drawing a chair forwards, seat- 
ed himself, with one of Henriette's hands in 
his own. 

" We will watch together," said he. 

Madame de Mercoeur looked from one to 
the other with a grateful and affectionate gaze, 
and again reclined with closed eyes on Fran- 
cesca's shoulder. How long did that silent 
and dreary night appear! At last the dim ta- 
pers grew pale before the warm red light that 
came in gleams through the curtained win- 
dows. 

" Give us air !" exclaimed Francesca ; " she 
is faint ;" for the drops stood on the duchesse's 
forehead, while a low gurgling sound in the 
throat indicated some inward struggle. But 
again she sunk, reposed, in Francesca's arms. 

" Holy Virgin ! the hand I hold is cold and 
stiff!" said Mazarin, starting. 

An aged attendant drew nigh, and looked 
on, — " Mademoiselle, it is a corpse you are 
embracing!" 

Sick, faint, and weary, for the first time, 
Francesca relaxed her support. The woman 
laid the duchesse back upon her pillow. 

" It cannot be !" cried her uncle, gazing 
upon her features, whose fevered colour still 
lingered. 

" Bring a looking-glass !" 

They brought a little mirror, one which had 
often reflected the smiles of the living — it now 
reflected the fixed image of the dead. The 
eyelid had closed for ever; the crystal gave 
back the yet red lip, the still rose touched 
cheek; but it gave them back unstained — no 
breath, as in former times, came from life to 
sully life's image. The mirror placed before 
the mouth was clear as at first. The silence 
was sacred no longer. Whose ear now could 
be disturbed by the voice of lamentation and 
of weeping] 

A woman's office is always to support and 
to console ; and Francesca was roused from 
her own stupor of sorrow by the cardinal's 
agony of regret. It was needful to perform 
the last offices of the dead ; to fasten the drop- 
ping mouth, to straighten the convulsed limbs ; 



bnt still Mazarin knelt by his dearest relative, 
and wasted on the inanimate ear his passionate 
entreaties, that his most beloved child would 
not leave him desolate in his old age. Fran- 
cesca took his hand, and led him to the nex* 
room : exhausted by grief, he submitted U 
her gentle control like an infant. He asked 
for a glass of water, but the medical attendant 
gave it him with a strong opiate : he was 
scarcely conscious when led, or rather carried, 
to his carriage. At that moment a horseman 
galloped, as if for life or death, into the yard. 
Francesca's heart misgave her — it was the 
Due de Mercoeur. In an instant he had 
reached the duchesse's chamber — they had 
just finished laying her out. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 



" And that should teach us 
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, 
Rouqh-hew them how we will." 



Life has no experience so awful as our first 
acquaintance with death; it comes upon us — 
that which we never really believed till we 
witnessed. It has, as it were, a double know- 
ledge to acquire — when it visits old age, and 
when it visits youth. Francesca had once be- 
fore wept over the sudden severing of all hu- 
man ties, save the sad and fragile links of 
memory. She had been equally shocked and 
grieved by the sudden and violent end of her 
grandfather; but death is expected of old age 
— we anticipate its approach even before we 
know what, it is; the full of years seems but 
to have fulfilled his destiny. Sorrow is sub- 
dued by strong necessity; there is no cause 
why life should be lengthened for our love ; 
and Ave feel that the worn and the decrepit do 
but go down into that grave which had re- 
ceived youth, health, beauty — all that made 
existence precious — long before. But when 
the blow comes down in the fulness of ex- 
pectation ; w T hen the bough is smitten while 
green, and the flower cut down in its spring; 
when the young and lovely perish, w T hile the 
eyes, full of light, were fixed on the -future — 
then, indeed, is the visitation heavy to bear. 
Alas for the home which they leave desolate 
— or the hearth beside which is their vacant 
place ! We ask of destiny, Wherefore has it 
dealt so harshly by us 1 Why should our be- 
loved one be chosen for the victim, while 
length of days is given to so many to whom 
existence is a void or a burden 1 " It was 
too soon to die," is the vain repining of many 
a fond heart mourning over the early lost. 
Existence has its ordinary allotment — why 
should ours be the cruel exception 1 

Francesca listened to the Due de Mercoeur 
pacing for hours his solitary apartment, or she 
watched the sleep of the orphan, trusted ut- 
terly to menial hands, and struggled fruitless 
ly to repress the constant thought, — " Why 
was not I taken '? — what matters my worth' 
I less, my neglected being 1 Husband, child 



286 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



kindred, friends — I have none of these to re- 
gret me : and Guido, poor Guido ! ah, we 
should not have parted for long!" 

In the anguish of her loss, Francesca forgot 
all which that loss was to herself. Grief 
brings with it somewhat of stupor ; and she 
lived on mechanically from day to day, tak- 
ing, indeed, no thought of the future, as if her 
present existence were to last of itself for 
ever. She was seated in the duchesse's 
dressing-room one morning in listless sadness, 
endeavouring to recall some last word or look 
of her friend, when a domestic announced 
that his eminence the Cardinal Mazarin re- 
quested to see her. She started up in sur- 
prise ; it seemed wonderful now that any one 
should wish to see her ; however, she hastily 
obeyed the summons. 

The apartment into which the cardinal had 
been shown was Madame de Mercceurs usual 
sitting-room ; and the marks of recent habita- 
tion and present neglect were strangely blend- 
ed. The curtains had been hurriedly with- 
drawn to receive the unexpected visiter ; and 
the glad sunshine gave light, but no cheerful- 
ness, to the desolate chamber. The dust de- 
stroyed the gloss of the silken draperies, the 
gilding was already discoloured, and the mir- 
rors, dim and tarnished, threw a coarse shade 
over the fairest face. Yet, on one table, lay 
the embroidery, hastily thrown aside ; but the 
bright colours were faded, and the silks tan- 
gled ; on another stood a vase, wherein the 
cluchesse herself had placed the flowers; the 
water had long since dried up, and the black 
and withered stalks were all that remained. 
Francesca entered unperceived by the cardi- 
nal, who stood gazing on the vacant chair 
which, the last time he was in this room, had 
been the seat of his beloved niece. Her sha- 
dow fell on the wall, and the cardinal's atten- 
tion was instantly aroused ; he paused, as if 
unwilling to give way to any appearance of 
emotion, and approached his young country- 
woman with a kind but calm demeanour ; 
when, gazing upon her face, pale with tears 
and close confinement, — "My poor child," 
said he, taking her hand gently, " how ill you 
look ! — we must not allow you to neglect 
yourself." 

Unexpected kindness, though it be but a 
word or a glance, goes direct to the heart; it 
did to poor Francesca's, — so lonely, so un- 
cared for, it was doubly sweet. Her lip 
trembled, she felt the tears gushing up, and 
dared not trust her voice. 

"I am come to talk to you about yourself; 
sit down :" and he led her to the w T indow. 

" You are very good," whispered Fran- 
cesca. 

" I am grateful ;" and then, as if unwilling 
to dwell even in allusion to the past, he con- 
tinued, "I am commissioned by the queen to 
offer you the place of Italian reader ; and I 
assure you the offer was made with many 
kind expressions of interest. You will enter 
upon the duties, which are almost nominal, 
immediately." 

Francesca felt at first too much affected to 



utter the negative which suggested iuelf ; for 
an instant she was silent, but the necessity 
of acknowledgment was imperative. 

" I cannot thank you," exclaimed she, after 
a brief struggle with herself; "if you could 

know how unutterably grateful I am But 

as to the place you offer me, add to your kind- 
ness by forgiving my refusal." 

Mazarin looked astonished. 

" What do you then wish for — what do you 
expect 1 ?" asked he, more coldly. 

" Nothing — indeed nothing," interrupted 
his companion, deeply pained by his altered 
manner. 

" I think you are scarcely aware of the ad 
vantages of your post ; it places you immedi- 
ately about the queen — it gives you every 
opportunity of pleasing, and I," — with a slight 
stress on the words, — " need scarcely tell you 
of the importance of the royal favour. Be- 
sides,'.' added he, w T ith a smile, " you cannot 
fail eventually in securing for yourself a bril- 
liant settlement." 

"As much beyond my merits as my wishes," 
answered Francesca, who had been gradually 
gaining courage. "Will your eminence 
vouchsafe to hear me — the only favour I have 
to ask '?" 

" Why, that my curiosity alone would in- 
sure ; for I cannot understand what can induce 
a young woman to refuse such honourable 
protection or a beautiful one such a prospect." 

" Ah, your grace ! I have never been happy 
in France. I dislike the life I must lead at 
your" — she hesitated — " gay court. My plai 
is fixed. W T hen Guido arrives, we will at 
once return to our native country ; we have 
sufficient independence for our few washes, 
and we shall at least be content." 

" I do not perceive," thought Mazarin, 
" one single motive the girl can have for dis- 
simulation ; — she must, therefore, be a fool. 
Still, there is something about her that inte- 
rests me ; and she was poor Henriette's dear- 
est friend." 

Then again addressing Francesca, he conti- 
nued : "You are not well — depressed, too, in 
spirits ; and I can readily believe the very 
thought of exertion is odious. I shall not, 
therefore, take an answer now. Give a few 
hours' calm reflection to my proposal, and 
send me your decision this evening." 

Francesca could only utter her thanks — it 
had been ungracious to urge her refusal. 

" Here you cannot remain," resumed the 
cardinal ; " but Madame Soissons is coming 
to see you, in the hope that for the present 
you will consider her house your home." 

"0 no!" cried Francesca, hastily. 

The cardinal looked surprised. " You can 
scarcely purpose a longer stay under the roof 
of so young a master'? But perhaps" — and 
this rose from a sudden and secret suspicion — 
" the Due de Mercceur may have proposed 
some more agreeable place 1 ?" 

" I have not," answered Francesca, quite 
unconscious of the latent surmise, "seen the 
due since — " And she stopped with uncon- 
trollable emotion. 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



287 



The cardinal paused too, for his better feel- 
ngs reproved his momentary injustice. More- 
over, he knew the comtesse too well not to 
conjecture that many a slight and unkindness 
might have wounded both the pride and the 
affection of her former friend. Still, this was 
an evil beyond his remedy. The Signora de 
Carrara must bear it as well as she could, 
and her situation about the queen would soon 
place her in perfect independence; while he 
had the satisfaction of having- done all his at- 
tachment to Madame de Mercceur suggested, 
in the shape of kindness to her young and 
friendless protegee. 

"I will trespass on your time no longer," 
said he, rising ; " do not, in a foolish fancy 
of youthful depression, throw away the for- 
tunes of your future life. I shall expect your 
answer to-night." 

Francesca followed him to the door, offering 
the thanks she could yet scarcely articulate. 
The moment the cardinal was gone, she threw 
herself into a fauteuil, and wept bitterly. For 
the first time, the sense of her extreme isola- 
tion pressed heavily upon her; she listened 
to that constant and hollow sound in the air, 
which tells you at once that you are in the 
heart of a crowded city. 

" Great God !" thought she, " amid the 
countless multitude hurrying around, have not 
I a single friend 1~ -no, not one ! And 5 T et 
what the cardinal said is true — here I cannot 
remain — what right have I to intrude 1 But 
where am I to go — to the Comtesse de Sois- 
sons'? — a cell in their terrible bastile ! So 



false, so unkind, so designing — r 



)! de- 
pendence on her sufferance— kindness I will 
not call it — were too bitter. Then this place 
about the queen — ah! how little do I desire 
any such glittering bondage ! Why should I 
lay up for myself so much of future discontent 
and mortification? Ono! this court is well 
for those who have rank, fortune, and friends; 
but I, poor, a foreigner, without kindred or 
connexion — what have I to do here l There 
was a time when I desired to mix in society, 
to catch, if possible, its grace and its ease — I 
deemed that so much worthier should I be of 
Evelyn's love; but now that is all over. 
Why should I desire improvement — what, 
now, is success to me !" And she hid her 
face in her hands, as if to shut out even from 
herself the bitter consciousness of despised 
and misplaced affection. " Yet something," 
continued she, rousing herself, "I must do ; 
this" — glancing round the desolate chamber — 
"is indeed no more my home. Guido will 
be here in a week's time. Why not, for that 
nrief period, ta!:e up my residence in the Car- 
melite convent ? M. Bournonville will, I am 
sure, make the arrangement for me." 

She started from her seat, and sent a mes- 
sage to him. Fortunately the page found him 
able to obey the summons immediately, which 
he did with more readiness, as Francesca was 
a great favourite, and one who, during Ma- 
dame de Mercosur's lifetime, had seized many 
opportunities of conferring those slight obli- 



gations which are often more gratefully re* 
membered than more important, and therefore 
oppressive favours. He was flattered by hef 
consulting him — he was delighted to be em- 
employed on anybody's business but his own ; 
and in less than an hour he had been to the 
convent, seen the gouvernante, and settled 
every thing for Francesca's reception that very 
evening, when he also offered his services to 
conduct her thither, an offer thankfully ac- 
cepted. 

Her preparations were soon completed ; and 
after looking, rather than taking an affection- 
ate farewell of the sleeping child, she wrote 
a few lines of thanks to the Due de Mercceur — 
to request a parting interview appeared to her 
an unnecessary recalling of remembrances too 
painful. The letter to the cardinal took more 
time to write ; it was so difficult to express 
her deep gratitude for the favour she neverthe- 
less rejected ! But the more she reflected on 
the offer, the more she revolted from its ac- 
ceptance ; and her refusal was at last commit- 
ted to paper. She sealed the packets, gave 
directions for their delivery, and went to wait 
in the reception-room till Boumonville's arri- 
val. 

She felt a melancholy satisfaction in gazing, 
for the last time, on a scene so indelibly im- 
pressed with Madame de Mercceur's image. 
How many instances of her sweet and gentle 
temper rose so touchingly to memory ! A 
noise was heard in the antechamber; but be- 
fore Francesca, who believed it was Bournon- 
ville, could rise, Madame de Soissons entered. 
"Quite at home, I perceive," said she, "I 
should have called before, but that I never 
thought of finding you here still." 

" Whither did you think I was gone 1" ex- 
claimed Francesca. 

" O ! no where. I know young widowers 
require consolation. Pray, how is the Due 
de Mercceur ?" 

One woman instantly penetrates the drift of 
another; the allusion, which from the cardinal 
was lost, was understood at once coming from 
his niece. Francesca coloured, but only from 
indignation. " I should think his sister must 
know best," was her cold reply. 

" ! I really have no talents for soothing 
solitude, neither do I pretend to } 7 our powers 
of attraction. However, sorry as I am to in- 
terfere with so interesting and Christian a duty 
as consoling the afflicted, I am come to en- 
treat that you will favour my poor house with 
your company." 

" I deeply feel," answered Francesca, " the 
honour of Madame de Soissons' invitation, 
which it is, however, out of my power to ac- 
cept." 

" Nonsense ! Are you aware that the Duo 
de Mercosur joins his regiment the day after 
to-morrow ?" 

"I do not comprehend what the Due de 
Mercosur's joining his regiment has to do 
with me." 

" Why, you cannot stay here — you have no 
where else to go — so you must come to me 



088 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" T thank you ; but for the short period of 
my residence in Paris, I have decided on stay- 
ing at the Carmelite convent." 

The Comtessede Soissons stood silent with 
surprise. She had come to the Hotel de Ven- 
ddme out of temper, from two reasons ; first, 
because her conscience reproached her with 
her unkind neglect of her early friend ; and, 
secondly, she was angry that her uncle should 
be the person to remind her of it. She had, 
moreover, a vague jealousy of the influence 
Francesca might obtain in the royal house- 
hold. Any thing but temper would have been 
disarmed by the other's pale and languid ap- 
pearance ; but Marie could subdue, rule, and 
manage others, not her own mood. Still the 
declaration of the intended sojourn and de- 
parture astonished her out of her full resolve 
of annoying, she cared not how. " Have you 
not seen my uncle?" was her first question. 

"I have," replied Francesca; "and am 
most grateful for his kindness, but cannot ac- 
cept it. I wish for nothing but to leave France 
as soon as possible." 

" But surely," exclaimed Marie, relenting 
in her secret soul, "you can stay with me till 
you do 1" 

"I prefer the quiet of the convent; and 
Guido will soon be here." 

The conversation was interrupted by the 
entrance of Bourno'nville, looking half haste, 
Half consternation. " Signora, what shall I 
do — what will you do 1 I cannot accompany 
you to the Carmelite convent. You know the 
beautiful Italian grayhound his eminence gave 
mademoiselle'? It has been dangerously ill — 
it is now recovering, and her highness cannot 
rest till she has its picture. I alone, she is 
graciously pleased to say, can give that im- 
mortality to the cardinal's gift, which his 
kindness deserves. Even if Fido perish, its 
image will live in her memory and on canvass. 
She has sent for me three times." 

" If, Francesca," said Madame de Soissons, 
in an altered tone, "you determine on going 
to the Carmelite convent, at least, let me take 
you there." 

Francesca saw at a glance the change jn 
her companion's humour. "Why should we 
part unkindly ?" crossed her mind, and she 
accepted the offer. Bournonville hurried off, 
and the carriage was ordered to the convent. 

By no uncommon transition, Marie was 
now sincerely desirous of Francesca's compa- 
ny. She laughed herself into amiability by 
her ludicrous description of the conventual 
discipline ; and when she took leave of her 
companion it w r as with the utmost kindness, 
and a promise to come soon and see her, — a 
promise she never fulfilled. Neither interest 
nor amusement drew her to the convent ; the 
momentary impulse of feeling was past, and 
she as much forgot Francesca as if she had 
never existed. 

By one individual, the sister Louise, Fran- 
cesca was most affectionately welcomed ; and 
how grateful did she feel for those few whis- 
pered words ! We know not the worth of 
ldndness till we have known its want. For 



days she had wearied with unuttered thoughts 
pined with unshared feelings. Heavens! the 
relief, to say nothing of the gratification of 
sympathy ! The human heart was never 
made for solitude ; thoughts were meant to be 
expressed, feelings meant to be partaken. 
Neglect and suppression are, indeed, the cold 
and lonely process which turns them into 
stone. 

A few days after, Francesca was summoned 
to the parlour, where, to her surprise, she 
found the Due de Mercceur. He was altered 
more than she could have thought possible in 
so short an interval. " I could not," said he, 
" leave Paris without expressing my sense of 
all your kindness." 

" My kindness !" exclaimed Francesca, 
" who owe so much to you," — and yours, she 
was going to add, but the words died upon 
her lips. A painful silence ensued — her pre- 
sence recalled the sense of his loss so freshly 
to Mercceur's mind, that he could not com- 
mand his voice. In the hope of rousing him 
by awakening some more grateful thought, 
she asked of his child. 

" Do not name it !" answered he, passion- 
ately. " God forgive me ! I cannot yet bear 
its name. But for its ill-starred birth, Hen- 
riette might now be living. What is there in 
that unconscious infant to replace its mother V 

" Many years, I trust, of consolation and af- 
fection. Cherish the poor child in your youth, 
that he may be a comfort to your old age. 
Think, too, how Henrietta would have loved 
him, were it but for his likeness to j^ourself." 

The due shuddered ; and then, as if desi- 
rous of changing the conversation, asked her 
how long she intended remaining in the Car- 
melite convent. 

" Till Guido's return ; and then we shall 
go to Italy." 

"I am too wretched to wish you well. I 
feel as if some cruel fatality were on all I love. 
I must, however, say, it would give even me 
pleasure to serve you ; but this, I trust, need 
scarcely be said." 

"Indeed not," replied Francesca; "and 
most cherished will be the remembrances I 
shall take with me from France." 

Again the conversation sunk into silence, 
and the Due de Mercceur seemed to have for- 
gotten the presence of his companion. His 
loss was too recent to find comfort in those 
tender and sacred recollections with which 
time invests the dead. At last, rising abrupt- 
ly from his seat, he turned to bid Francesca 
farewell; a few sad but kind words, and his 
step was on the threshold, when he drew 
forth a small packet, which he placed in her 
hand : " You will value this — keep it for her 
sake." 

The heavy portals closed after him, and 
Francesca, hurrying to her cell, could not re- 
frain from tears. " A little while," thought 
she, " and I shall have left Paris forever ! P 
is but a few months since we arrived here 
full of eagerness and hope, expecting — w 
should have been puzzled to say what, but 
something of greater felicity than we had ever 



FRANCESCA CARRARA 



289 



known. How little of time — how much of 
life, has passed since then ! How changed I 
am ! — how much I have seen depart ! My 
love for Evelyn — but I will not dwell upon 
that; even here my cheek burns to think I 
could have placed my heart's dearest trust in 
such an unworthy idol. I disdain not him, 
but myself, that I could ever have loved him. 
But that I am glad to be thus well aware of 
his perfidious meanness, how I should regret 
that we ever left Italy 1 — we were happier 
there. Poor Henriette ! how little did I dream 
we came hither only to see you die ! Ah ! it 
is bitter to part with all that life held so pre- 
cious. Methinks death were better than life, 
but for their sorrow whom we leave behind. 
None would have been left to sorrow for me 
— yes, Guido, but not long ;" — and the ghastly 
apprehension which had of late so haunted 
her, made her pale with imaginary fear. But 
the presence of death surrounds all things for 
a while with its own terror, and the loss of 
one friend seems to forebode the loss of 
another. 

It was sometime before she opened the 
packet given her by the Puc de Mercceur. 
On breaking the seal, she found that it con- 
tained a small miniature of the duchesse, sur- 
rounded with large pearls, and suspended to 
an exquisite Venetian chain, with links fragile 
as those of life. 

It is a singular sensation the first time that 
we see the portrait of a friend after death. 
There is something of mockery in the very 
pleasure that it brings. The face, which we 
know to be mouldering in the dust, looks 
upon us, fresh with hues of health ; there are 
the jewels, and the robe round the graceful 
form, now decaying in its shroud. Why 
should the work of man's hand outlast that of 
his Maker's? — why should we have the sem- 
blance of life, whose breathing reality is no 
more 1 We are not half thankful enough for 
the forget fulness- inherent even in our affec- 
tions ; did the first agony continue in all its 
keenness, who could endure to live 1 

But the emotion exhausts itself — the pre- 
sence of our grief grows fainter; other 
thoughts force themselves upon the mind — 
other hopes involuntarily arise ; and grief is 
forgotten rather than consoled. But the me- 
mory remains, though in a darkened cell of 
the heart; though no longer a perpetual 
shadow, the dead are fondly and mournfully 
recalled. Then how dear is any token of 
their former existence ! The coloured ivory 
which bears their features is more precious 
than fine gold; and we take comfort in the 
calm and fixed smile which is now the sem- 
blance under which the beloved face rises 
upon the mind. 

But Francesca was yet in the first bitter- 
ness of her loss ; and she gazed upon the 
smiling and blooming countenance almost re- 
proachfully. Days passed on, each in expec- 
tation of Guido, who yet did not arrive. How 
wearily they passed ! Francesca found that 
she had indeed taken that first step across 
youth's threshold which tells that its first 

Vol. I.— ;r 



freshness has perished. She was no longer 
so easily amused as she had been — that cer- 
tain sign of the weary change which experi- 
ence is working within us. During her former 
stay in the convent, the unbroken and buoyant 
spirits of the girl threw their own charm over 
all ; she was either entertained or interested 
by all she saw ; even her very melancholy 
had its own peculiar enjoyment. Now there 
was so much that was tiresome — the folly, 
the ignorance, the monotony of the place, were 
so much more conspicuous ; the solitude of 
the garden had lost its poetry. She could no 
longer surround herself with a thousand vague 
but delicious dreams ; painful realities broke 
in upon imaginations whose spell was gone ; 
for she had learnt to anticipate the future from 
the past. 

The pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle Eper- 
non over, she found there was indeed a gulf 
between them — they had not a thought in 
common. ' The Soeur Louise was growing 
every hour more mystic and abstracted. The 
picturesque — for there was much in this early 
renunciation of the world, in the avowed sen- 
timent, in the costume, in the situation, which 
that w T ord only can express — once grown fa- 
miliar, Francesca saw not a little to deprecate 
and regret in those vain fervours, and round 
of useless penances. One useful lesson then 
sowed its first seeds within her mind — that, 
even more than pleasure, or sentiment, or re- 
flection, life requires to be filled with active 
duties. Time hung heavily on her hands; at 
last she began to wish that even Madame de 
Soissons would redeem her promise of coming 
to see her; but she never came. 

It is a mortifying conviction to arrive at, 
that of being utterly forgotten even by those 
to whom we are indifferent. Francesca had 
of late been much flattered and caressed, and 
was somewhat unprepared for this complete 
oblivion. Once or twice she thought, woula 
the cardinal renew his offer] Could she 
have looked over the records of Mazarin's 
memory, she would have found herself al- 
most completely obliterated from them. Un- 
der the impulse of strong and unusual feeling, 
he had been anxious to serve her : he marvel- 
led at the extreme folly of a refusal — perhaps 
regretted afterwards that he had given himself 
any trouble ; and there the matter and his 
recollection of it ended. As for Madame de 
Soissons, immersed in a round of gayeties, 
and petty intrigues for still pettier objects, she 
knew she had behaved unkindly to her former 
friend, and therefore dismissed her image, as 
she would have done any other unpleasant 
thought. Louis had discovered that Made- 
moiselle la Motte had eyes almost as bright, 
and much kinder than those of the young 
Italian. And as for the common run of ac- 
quaintance, who ever expects to be remem- 
bered by them ? 

At last Francesca was summoned to the 
parlour. She waited to make no inquiry — 
she felt sure who it was; and in a m/nute 
found herself clasped in her brother's 8 flee 
tionate embrace. 

2B 



290 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Let those who have passed their childhood 
and youth together, and then separated for the 
first time — a long and weary separation, — 
let them imagine the happiness of meeting 
again. 

" Francesca, dearest, you are pale !•' ex- 
claimed Guido, when the first confusion of 
joy was past. 

Francesca started — she had forgotten almost 
to look on Guido's face. Slowly, as if she 
were collecting her courage, she gazed upon 
him, more in fear than in hope. Ah ! her 
foreboding was right ; he looked ill, very ill 
— but so beautiful. The eyes were larger 
and brighter than ever, but sunk deeper in the 
socket; the skin was clear with unnatural 
whiteness; while on the cheek burnt a rich 
unvarying crimson. Only the lip w T as pale. 
The hand she clasped in hers was feverish, 
and she could feel the quick throbbing of the 
veins. 

Hiding her face on his shoulder, that he 
might observe no change of countenance, she 
was silent for a few minutes — minutes of 
mental prayer and resolve. Then, though the 
tears glittered on her long black eyelashes, 
her voice was steady, and her look almost 
cheerful. She answered his anxious inquiry: 
" and yet I am very well in health ; but, O ! 
I have so longed for your return!" 

"Are you strong enough to take the place 
of nurse 1 ?" 

She looked at him, pale with apprehension. 

" My own sister, what have T said to make 
you lose the little colour you had ] It is a 
stranger you must nurse. But I have a long, 
long story to tell you ;" and they sat down 
together in the window. 

We will shorten a narrative which, with 
them, was lengthened and interrupted by re- 
peated exclamations of joy. Everything else 
merged in the happiness of seeing each other 
again ; it w T as impossible, however their pity' 
might be excited, to fix attention wholly on 
the affairs of a stranger. Guido had joined 
company with this Englishman at a lonely 
inn, where many suspicious appearances 
warned the traveller to be on his guard. They 
had afterwards, finding that their road~ was 
the same, travelled together. 

" I cannot tell you," continued Guido, " the 
interest he took in my history, though, hea- 
ven knows ! I had little to tell him ; and there 
was something in his habitually sad frame of 
mind, and a vein of eloquence, striking, though 
gloomy, that harmonized with my own mood. 
When within scarce a day's journey of Paris, 
I observed he could scarcely sit his horse; his 
illness increased rapidly ; and it was with the 
greatest difficulty that we reached the city. 
When we arrived at the inn, I saw at once 
that so noisy a place was ill fitting for an in- 
valid. Late as it was, I went to Bournon- 
ville's, and with his aid took a lodging in a 
house near his own, and engaged a sister of 
Margaretta's to attend upon us. Thither was 
Richard Arden conveyed. For some time he 
was insensible ; from that he awoke in a de- 
'•rious state: the phvsician whom we sum- 



moned, said he was in a high fever. All night 
Katerina and I watched alternately, though, 
I shame to say, I slept more than I watched; 
and, having first ascertained thai there was no 
change, I came directly hither." 

" I have few preparations to make, ani >ut 
little leave-taking," replied Francesca; "J 
shall be ready in half an hour." 

" I will allow you rather a longer space," 
said Guido ; " for I must wait on his emi- 
nence, in executing whose commissions I 
have been completely successful." 

Francesca said truly that a little time would 
suffice to make ready for her departure. The 
ceremony of leave-taking with the abbess was 
a mere ceremony ; and the nuns were like 
children — all engrossed in preparations for the 
fete of St. Genevieve. Their only regret was, 
that Mademoiselle Carrara would taste none 
of the conserves and the pastry they were so 
busily concocting. 

The coolness of sister Louise's farewell 
wounded her the most. The heart of the 
young devotee had gradually weaned itself 
from all earthly affections ; in her eyes their 
indulgence was a weakness, if not a crime, 
and their utter sacrifice the most acceptable 
that could be offered up in the sight of hea- 
ven. Spiritual pride came in support of spi- 
ritual exaltation. Louise felt raised above 
her species ; a voice had spoken within her 
inmost soul, whose revealings were vouch- 
safed but to the chosen few; and what had 
been indifference, was now disdain. 

This species of mystical misanthropy is, of 
all states of mind, the least accessible to the 
affections. It distrusts them as human, 
dreads them as perishable, and despises them 
as degrading ; and their renouncement, at 
first so bitter, soon becomes a triumph. Fran- 
cesca. felt the indifference by which she was 
surrounded, overpowering in its depression. 
If it be sad to go where there is no welcome, 
it is equally sad to part where there is no fare- 
well. Hopes and regrets are the sweetest 
links of existence — we pine to attach and be 
attached ; and Francesca felt both angry and 
ashamed that the tears should stand in her 
eyes, while parting from those who cared so 
little at parting with her. 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 

"Alas! we make 
A ladder of our thoughts where angels step, 
But sleep ourselves at the foot !"— L. E. L. 

"And so you visited the old palazzo," said 
Francesca, as, leaving for a while the sick 
man to the sole care of Katerina, they sat 
down beside the hearth in the adjoining room, 
over which the embers of the wood fire cast a 
fluctuating light; now the long shadows fall- 
ing duskily around — now dispersing them with 
bursts of brilliant flame, as the lighter wood 
kindled into a short lived blaze. 

" So changed, so dreary !" replied Guido, 



, 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



291 



" Do you remember our favourite windows'? 
— yours the thick myrtle has completely filled 
— part of its branches creep mournfully along 
the discoloured wall. Mine has been broken 
in and shattered ; and the floor is covered with 
earth driven in by the pelting rains, and with 
fragments of marble, strewed with dried 
leaves. The floor has its mosaic overgrown 
with moss and weeds ; and — but I cannot tell 
you — the lonely wailing of the wind through 
the deserted chambers — I have started as from 
a human voice in its last extremity of an- 
guish ; and even now, I ask, is there no omen 
and no sympathy in sounds so like our own 
moan of pain — our own cry of despair '? Who 
may say that the invisible is also the inaudi- 
ble — or if the dead and the spirit world wait 
not in upper air]" 

" I fear," returned his sister, wishing to 
break in upon the thread of his gloomy ima- 
ginings, " that we should find our old dwell- 
ing uninhabitable." 

" And even were it not so, there, at least, 
I could never dwell again," interrupted Guido. 
"As I sat beside our favourite springs, and 
wandered through our old accustomed walks, 
I was haunted with the perpetual presence of 
change — and the worst of all change, that in 
myself. I sat beside the fountain, over which 
the old chestnut flung its shade, itself golden 
with the sun ; the blue violets looked out from 
their large leaves, and twined round the shat- 
tered marble of the wall, yet so graceful with 
the carved nymphs and gods from whom I 
had years ago cleared the moss; — there I sat, 
even as I had done but the very summer be- 
fore — all, to the one sunbeam touching the 
brink, but not the dark waters below — the 
hour, the place, the same — all but myself. 
Then 1 leant, dreaming of the future — now, I 
thought only of the present. Then I gazed 
on the Grecian relics at my feet, and said, 
even such forms are sleeping in my mind — 
such are the lovely creations destined to be 
the work of my hand. I looked forward to 
praise and achievement; now I feel listless 
and dispirited — nothing seems worth its toil." 
" And I," exclaimed his sister, " shame to 
see you give way to this unseemly despon- 
dency !" 

" Ah ! it is not I that give way — my imagi- 
nation is beyond me ; I can control its depres- 
sion as little as I could create its buoyancy. 
Is it my fault that the beautiful no longer 
haunts my solitude 1 ? And you, my sister — 
you, who lesson me on endurance, your cheek 
is pale, and your step languid ; even with you, 
how much has life lost its interest!" 

" Why, Guido, should we conceal that each 
has suffered from bitter disappointment'? We 
have early learnt that cold and harsh truth, 
that it is hard to brook the passing away of 
love — passing away, too, as ours has done, 
because it has been unworthily bestowed'? 
Yet, surely not for that are we to fancy that 
existence has been given in vain. I should 
despise myself, could I believe that my whole 
future was to be coloured by the vain remem- 



Evelyn." 

"Alas! my sweet sister, Robert Evelyn 
and Marie Mancini are but instruments in the 
hands of a remorseless destiny. The pain 
which they inflicted sinks into nothing befbre 
the knowledge which they brought. It is 
their work, that we are grown less kind, less 
trusting — that we look suspiciously on affec- 
tion, knowing that it has once deceived us. 
It is their work, that we seek to repress the 
warm emotions of the beating heart, lest the 
encouragement lead to future agony. It is 
their work, that falsehood, ingratitude, and 
wrong, are things within our own experience ; 
once we believed in their existence, but not as 
existing for us." 

" But, dearest Guido, what injustice to al- 
low these two to individualize the whole hu- 
man race !" 

" They are the symbols of the whole. The 
reflections which they first suggested have led 
to the inevitable conclusion, that evil is inhe- 
rent in our nature. I no longer believe in hap- 
piness, because I see the fallacy of my first 
belief; and the examination which that in- 
duced, has shown me the fallacy of all. Show 
me a heart without its hidden wound." 

Francesca did not interrupt the mournful 
silence that ensued — all that was sorrowful in 
memory rose to the surface. The image of 
Evelyn brought before. her the little reliance 
that could be placed in love. The faithless- 
ness of early friendship, how was it shown in 
the careless neglect of the Comtesse de Sois- 
sons ! — and the mockery of worldly prosperity 
rose like a phantom from the yet scarce cold 
grave of Madame de Mercceur. 

4i Is it my fault," continued Guido, " that I 
can no longer deceive myself? I hold nothing 
in life worth desiring, because I feel that no- 
thing in life can give happiness. W T ealth 
brings indolence and satiety — power its own 
terrible responsibility, but never the enjoy- 
ment we expected ; the struggle was feverish, 
but thereunto the possession answers not. 
And love! — What is it but the most subtle 
mockery ! — with the light and vain, perishing 
of its own inconstancy ; or, with the fond 
and true, betrayed by the deceit which has 
the gloom, but not the rest of death. As to 
what is called a life of pleasure and amuse- 
ment, its own inanity is its own rebuke. I 
loathe its vapid weariness — its yawns are 
sweeter than its smiles. Once I had higher 
dreams and nobler aspirations. I looked for- 
ward to the creation of grace and beauty, and 
believed in the immortality I was myself to 
create. Alas ! I feel unequal to the strug-gle. 
Happy are those who to the hope add the 



po 



but one of the many who see 



the distant goal, but who sink at the com 
mencement of the race." 

" The gloom of those failing embers," ox- 
claimed Francesca, "has infected us both !" 
and, rising from the low settle,- she lighted the 
lamp, and flung some smaller wood on the 
hearth, and a cheerful blaze kindled at once; 



292 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" How can we," said she, drawing- her seat 
close to Guido, and laying her hand tenderly 
on his arm, "disbelieve in affection while we 
remain to each other 1 Once let us leave this 
dreary city behind, and find a home in some 
lonely and pleasant place, and we shall have 
our old content come back. I shall have 
enough to do in keeping — even our little 
household in order; and you — why, the first 
graceful peasant that passes, half hidden in 
the foliage, will conjure up in your mind a 
world of dryades and lightfooted nymphs. 
Ah! of lato we have been too idle." 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

" Whither, O ! whither hath the world a home— 
The wide, cold world— for heart so lorn as mine ?" 

It was the third night after their arrival in 
their new T abode, that Francesca was seated 
watching the slumbers of their sick guest. 
They were quiet and deep ; and the physician 
had pronounced that he would, in all probabi- 
lity, awaken restored to sense. More than 
once she had approached the pillow, and 
bathed his temples with some aromatic es- 
sence, and moistened his lips with some re- 
freshing liquid. At length he stirred, and 
drawing a deep breath, she could perceive 
that he was rousing, and, as she hoped, to 
consciousness. Placing the screen carefully 
before the lamp, lest its light should flash too 
suddenly on his weakened eyes, she took a 
cup in her hand, and advanced to give the 
medicine it had been especially enjoined he 
should take when he awoke. She raised his 
hand on her arm, and, like a child, he impli- 
citly followed the motion of her hand, and 
swallowed the reviving draught. He looked 
feebly round, and murmured a few inaudible 
words ; but Francesca perceived that his hand 
was no longer feverish, and his temples, as 
she bathed them, were comparatively cool. 

The lamp was shaded, End the fire was dim, 
when suddenly the log, which had been burnt 
through, gave way; a shower of sparkles 
rose from the hearth, and a bright blaze illu- 
minated the room, falling full on Francesca's 
face, as she bent over the patient. He gave 
one wild look upon her countenance; she 
startled back at the expression of terror in his 
eyes. 

" Beatrice !" he shrieked, and attempted to 
rise, but fell back, and fainted in the effort. 

She called loudly for assistance ; and Guido 
hurried in, and aided in the recovery of the 
sick man, who lay pale as death before them. 
Gradually he revived : he gazed fearfully 
iound, as if the impression of seme awful 
sight were yet in his mind ; when, seeing 
Guido by the bedside, he whispered his name. 
" Thank God ! you know me again," ex- 
claimed the youth, not observing Francesca's 
sign. 
"I have been delirious, then?" exclafraed 



Arden, with a singular appearance of satisfac 
tion. 

" You must not talk," said Francesca, 
closing the curtains at the foot of the bed. 
But the patient had seen her, and again a 
ghastly expression of horror convulsed his fea- 
tures. The name Beatrice again died on his 
pale and quivering lips, and he grasped Gui 
do's hand convulsively. " Did you see her 
too V he whispered, at length. 

"See who]" exclaimed Guido; and a 
that moment Francesca again drew near with 
a glass of water. 

"Who is that?" cried Arden, speaking 
with a strong efforts and gazing with fixed 
eyes upon her. 

" My sister Francesca; — do drink this." 

The sick man allowed them to put the glass 
to his lips, and sipped a small quantity ; his 
look became more composed ; he lay down, 
as if exhausted, and in a little while slept 
again, leaving his youthful friends full of sur- 
prise at the strange terror which he had mani- 
fested. It proved, however, to be the crisis 
of his disease ; for from that time he rapidly 
amended, and was soon able to sit up for a 
few hours. 

In the mean time, Francesca had leisure to 
note the unrest, and unfixedness of purpose in 
Guido's mind. He would listen to all the 
plans she suggested, but she could get him to 
decide on none ; it was in vain to attempt to 
interest him in the future. He warmly en- 
tered into her wish of leaving Paris ; but 
where they were to go, and what course of 
life they should pursue s-till remained unset- 
tled. A straw would have turned him any 
way ; but orphans, so utterly unconnected as 
they were, where was that straw to be found ? 
They w T ere equally without motive or desire; 
only that Francesca saw the danger of allow- 
ing this apathy to increase, and would fain 
have laid down some determinate scheme, and 
sought some fixed home and employment, 
which must have brought its occupations, its 
habits, and, finally, its interests. 

The attention required by the stranger was 
a relief to both. They watched his most 
careless look, and anticipated his slightest 
wish, not only with a kindness, but a plea- 
sure, and a degree of attachment to the object, 
which alone would have proved how much 
affection they had still to spare — how much 
too young they were for indifference and inac- 
tivity. Richard Arden's singular deportment, 
too, stimulated their curiosity. Sometimes 
he received Francesca's attention with a de- 
gree of affectionate fondness, as if he derived 
from them the most heartfelt pleasure; then 
he would suddenly repulse them with an ex- 
pression of absolute horror, and remain for 
hours together lost in gloomy reverie. At one 
time he would gaze upon her face with a look 
of such deep yet sorrowful tenderness ; while 
at another, he would start and turn away, as 
if he could not bear to meet her eyes. 

" Do you know," said she to Guido one; 
morning, when, after asking her to sing, the 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



233 



Englishman had left the room in the very 
middle of her song, " that I have taken a fancy 
into my head, which quite accounts for Mr. 
Arden's singularities : it is, that I am like 
some tfne whom he loved and lost in early 
youth ; and though the loss is dreadful, the 
love is yet pleasant to remember." 

" I can imagine," replied her brother, " such 
a state of mind, acted upon by such a resem- 
blance; but, ah! the pain must be greater 
than the pleasure. Our youth recalled, when 
we are no longer young — our hopes brought 
back again, but side by side with the know- 
ledge that they were unfulfilled — our dreams, 
but attended by no accomplishment — feelings, 
the ghosts of themselves — and love risen, as 
it were, from the tomb, to meet us with a bit- 
ter and subtle mockery." 

" You take too dark a view," answered 
Francesca ; " the first fierce agony of grief 
gone by, it soothes us to dwell upon the me- 
mory of the departed. It sanctifies and puri- 
fies the heart, to know that it has one sad and 
sacred spot, unvisited by commoner cares a<nd 
meaner sorrows. We repose in the deep 
sense of our own faithfulness, and learn 
gradually to pass in thought to the other side 
the tomb, and parting is forgotten in the 
diviner hope of a meeting where there is no 
farewell !" 

" And that it is which makes my own 
thoughts so unendurable. Good God ! to 
think in what vain sacrifice I have offered up 
the best hopes, the fervent and young affec- 
tions of my heart ! Ask yourself ; would the 
tears shed over the grave be half as bitter as 
those which you have shed over the unwor- 
thy 1 The loss of mistress or lover is little, 
compared with that of love!" 

This was a subject on which Francesca 
liked not to converse, — nor, in truth, did 
Guido, unless carried away for a moment into 
the expression of angry disappointment. It 
is a solace to confide our hopes, our feelings, 
and our thoughts ; but none to impart our 
mortifications, — their shame is heightened, 
not subdued, by sympathy. 

It was a few days after this conversation, 
that Richard Arden entered the room where 
his young friends were seated, as had now 
become a favorite habit, by the glimmer of the 
twilight. Though Francesca urged it upon 
her brother, she had herself little inclination 
for exertion ; and hours often passed away, 
before the lamp was lighted, in desultory con- 
versation, only varied by long and thoughtful 
pauses. They were now, as usual, talking of 
their future plans, and, as usual, the dialogue 
had finished with the constant question of 
" Where shall we go V 

*' To England," exclaimed their companion, 
seating himself in an old arm-chair in the 
darkest nook of the room. " I have long," 
continued he, without waiting for an answer, 
" intended to disclose to you all that has long 
made, all that still makes, existence a bur- 
den. God open your hearts to mercy as you 
hear! How little, my kind and beautiful 
child," added he, turning to Francesca, " could 



you think that you watched by the sick bed 
of your greatest enemy ! But for me," ex- 
claimed he, rising and pacing the room in un- 
controllable agitation, " you had not now 
been an orphan — severed from life's dearest 
and sweetest tie, the love of a mpther! Can 
you forgive me 1 can you bear to hear my 
history V 

Francesca and Guido gazed with astonish- 
ment on the ghastly paleness of his haggard 
features, at the cold damp glistening on his 
brow, and then looked to each other. Each 
thought that their guest was stricken with 
sudden insanity; and under this impression 
rose, and endeavoured to soothe him with 
the kindest words of solicitude anrt good- 
will. 

" I cannot endure this," exclaimed he ; " I 
have long wanted resolution to reveal the fatal 
past — a past so intimately connected with 
your fortunes; but now, though you start 
from me in horror, it shall be told." 

At his instance they resumed their seats ; 
and after a few minutes pause, to nerve his 
mind to the task, he began the following nar- 
rative. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

"Loved with that deep love, which only the misesat3e 
can feel."— Maginn. 

It is singular how forcibly this passage in 
my narrative, brings to my mind a picture 
which used to be, some years ago, at a bro- 
ker's — that charnel-house of the comforts and 
graces of life. It had been taken out of its 
frame, and leant in a dark and dusty corner 
against a perpendicular arm-chair, whose rigid 
uprightness seemed suited only to the parlour 
of a dentist, repose being the last idea it sug- 
gested. The painting, for aught I know, 
might be the work of some great master, con- 
demned to that merit only appreciated in £ 
moral essay — that of modest obscurity ; or it 
might be a wretched daub, — be that as it may, 
the subject fixed my attention. The room 
was low, scantily furnished, and the gloomy 
wainscotings dimly shown by the red fire- 
light, which lit up but a small circle, and fell 
principally on a youth and a girl, seated on 
the same seat, with their arms around each 
other, as if they had drawn closer from some 
sudden impulse of fear and affection ; while 
their faces were turned with an earnest ex- 
pression of attention, wrought up even to pain, 
towards a figure scarcely visible at first ; but 
which once observed, riveted the gaze. It 
was that of a man, about forty or upwards ; 
handsome, but care-worn and emaciated, with 
large wild blue eyes, whose light was almost 
preternatural. He was speaking; but what 
ever might be the import of his words, they 
were such as send the blood from the cheek 
and the hope from the heart. Crime and sor- 
row were in that man's breath. 

That painting, whose real storv I know not 
2b2 



294 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



would give to very life the present scene. 
There was something' in the sepulchral tone 
of Arden's voice that had made the young 
Italians unconsciously draw together. There 
was something beautiful in the impulse of re- 
liance which induced the act. Let them hear 
what they might, they were strong in the con- 
fidence of their mutual love, and each clasped 
the other's hand with a feeling of affectionate 
security. 

EICHARD ARDEN'S STORY. 

" Myself and an only sister were left or- 
phans at an early age. My father fell fighting 
by Lord Avonleigh's side, whose life he saved 
in the low countries. My mother was the 
nurse of his two children ; and, as both were 
destined to perish in the service of that noble 
house, she died of a cold, caught while watch- 
ing the sickness of their infant heir. We 
were adopted into the family; and from that 
seeming prosperity, may I date the evils of 
my after-life. Alas ! we were in a place, not 
of it. 

" There are whole races marked out as the 
victims of a blind and terrible fatality; and 
circumstances, over which they themselves 
have no control, work out, unshunned and 
unsought, the wrong whereof they perish. 
The annals of many an ancient race testify to 
this truth; and so, were they but known, 
would those of a humbler lot, for fate, the 
dark and the cruel, presses alike on high and 
low. 

"I remember once, when as children we 
were playing together in the castle plaisaunce, 
a gipsy told us of our future. She mistook 
us for those of equal station; but she shook 
her head when my sister and myself held out 
our childish hands. ' Sorrow and early death 
are in those lines ; never good came of the 
star under which ye*were born.' Our two 
comrades thought not of the prophecy ; but 
Lucy and I kept it in our hearts. As we 
grew up, the difference between us and our 
companion became more marked. I could 
aspire to none of the honours which his mo- 
ther was for ever pointing out to the young 
Lord Avonleigh as the reward of his exer- 
tions ; my sister had no share in the homage 
of the many noble lovers who flocked around 
the Lady Emmeline. Lady Avonleigh, who 
had, by her lord, been left sole guardian, seemed 
to consider it quite natural that we should 
sink back into our original station : — she for- 
got that we were now unfitted for it. 

" It surprised many, none more than Lady 
Emmeline, when my sister married Lawrence 
Aylmer. They looked not into the secret re- 
cesses of a heart imbittered by discontent, 
harrassed by the petty jealousies of the coun- 
tess, and pained by the fancied neglect of 
Emmeline, who was just then in the early 
engrossment of her love for Sir Robert Eve- 
lyn, whom she soon afterwards married. In 
youth we deem any evil preferable to the one 
under which we are immediately suffering — 
any alteration seems for the better. Lucy 
said, ' I will return to the rank in which I was 



born; I will surround myself with household 
duties and cares ; surely I shall find happi- 
ness in their fulfilment. The lowliest roof 
is better than my precarious and dependent 
situation.' Alas, she had been too delicately 
nurtured for the reverse ; and the very day 
twelvemonth of being a bride saw her carried 
along the same green grass-path to the same 
churchyard. She left a daughter, who was 
adopted by Lady Evelyn, to share a like fate 
with her mother ; for when I saw Lucy Ayl- 
mer, her protectress was dead, and she had 
returned to her father's house, with a palo 
cheek and languid step, which showed how 
little her heart was there. 

" Of a surety, it is folly to say that our lots 
in life are cast, each even with its neighbour; 
there are some to whom sorrow is an heritage. 
Lord Avonleigh loved not his sister better 
than I did mine ; but to him it was given to 
see her pass from her first happy home to 
another, and but the lovelier and more beloved 
for the change. I saw mine condemned to 
one most unworthy of her grace and beauty, 
where she pined away, — a fair flower taken 
from its native soil, and taken to perish. And 
say not that we fancied and dwelt overmuch 
on the evils of our condition ; that we w r ere 
in reality more fortunate than our rebellious 
hearts would allow. Was it nothing that 
from earliest infancy we never knew the in- 
dulgent affection of a parent — that affection 
which makes so little of faults, which so ex- 
aggerates the germ of promise, which so de- 
lights even in the bright eye and cheek of the 
child 1 Our place was beside the hearth of a 
stranger, and its very warmth was cold. It 
matters little to recall this pristine bitterness ; 
but methinks I would fain enlist your pity ere 
you know my fault. 

" The death of Lady Avonleigh followed 
soon upon my sister's. Lucy died in the 
spring, when the first violets were putting 
forth, and the first roses drooped from the 
briar. There were flowers enough to strew 
over her lowly grave ; but the countess was 
laid in the damp stone vault, when not a leaf 
was on the bough, and the bleak wind of au- 
tumn swept the heath. Earth looked her 
loveliest to receive my sweet sister's gentle 
dust ; but all was harsh and sullen as her own 
nature when Lady Avonleigh's haughty ashes 
returned to their original element. Imme- 
diately after her demise, her son went abroad, 
and I accompanied him. He travelled for 
pleasure, I for knowledge; and utterly vain 
was the pursuit of each — both ended in vanity 
and vexation of spirit. 

" It was a bright morning when we reigned 
up our horses to catch the first view of fair 
Padua. We had been quoting quaint conceits 
and pleasant passages from a comedy of a 
countryman of our own ; merry jests, as to 
how Catherine was tamed and Bianca won, 
made the way short; and it was in the most 
mirthful spirit that we entered the town. O, 
cold and insensible hearts, that took no 
thought of the future, that mistrusted not 
their own gayety, — more limited in our wis 



FRAXCESCA CARRARA. 



295 



rfom tlun the bird and brute are in their in- 
stinct ! The mule knows the hidden pitfalls 
of the morass ; the swallow feels the storm 
ere it comes upon the air, and wings to the 
quiet shelter of its nest — they foresee their 
dangers, and avoid them ; while we blindly 
rush forward into the depths of the pit and 
the fury of the tempest; for we know not 
what evils await us. No kind foreknowledge 
gives us even the choice of avoidance. 

" We liked Padua. Lord Avonleigh found 
himself the centre of a knot of gay companions, 
who, rich, young, and noble, desired nothing 
better than present enjoyment. I saw but lit- 
tle of him — my temper was graver, my pur- 
suits different. I had began to form hopes 
born of my own exertions, that talent and in- 
would do more for me than birth and 
wealth had done for him. Ah, it is no good 
hen we refer to others, not to its "own 
precious possession, in our pursuits after 
knowledge. I found the small legacy of the 
late Lord Avonleigh amply sufficient for my 
support; and my mornings in the classes, my 
nights in solitary studies, passed as the hap- 
piest — the only happy part of my existence. 

" This course of life led to my acquaintance 
with your grandfather, then among the most 
celebrated of Padua's learned doctors. I soon 
found that he was given to abstraser science 
than he taught in the schools. The belief 
that there are subtle m in nature as 

yet unravelled, but accessible to patient hope 
and toil, suited well with my temper. Hither- 
to all that I had acquired had been nns 
tory — the reward was too distant ; but Car- 
rara's mystic eloquence brought the result of 
our midnight vigils visibly before me; and 
when I left him. it was to dream of the glo- 
rious secrets which, once penetrated, would 
lay all nature open to our eyes, and leave all 
its ministering spirits bowed to our rule bv 
spell and sign. But these dreams were haunt- 
ed by a sweeter and a lovelier vision. Car- 
rara had a daughter; and how would my look 
wander from the scrolls spread out before r.s 
to the fair face, half hidden by the long hair 
that reached the embroidering frsme over 
which she was wont to bend ! 

" Francesca. you are beautiful ! but. i 
not beautiful like your mother; the shadow is 
on your brow, and the sadness in your smile, 
which tells of sorrow; and in your loveliness 
is the association of pain. But hers was joy- 
ous and fresh as the morning. No care had 
ever furrowed that smooth = white brow; no 
tears, save those of gentle pity, had ever fallen 
from those clear and glad "eyes. You are 
pale; but her cheek was the" brilliant rose, 
untouched by the noontide sun — unstained by 
the heavy shower. Her light step was so 
buoyant; and, when alone, you ever heard 
her sweet voice breaking out into snatches of 
song. Her young heart was full of love ; and 
a world of kindly feelings were wasted on her 
delicate greyhound, her" bright winged birds, 
and her favourite flowers. I have%een her 
•reep when a sudden storm swept the earlv 
blossoms trom tne orange plants. Somewhat 



self-willed she was — a pretty resoluteness that 
had grown out of pure indulgence; but it was 
so graceful, so caressing, that her very caprice 
became your pleasure. I loved her, perhaps, 
the more for her contrast to myself. She look- 
ed to the bright side — it was the only one she 
knew. She believed the best of all, for she 
found it in herself. Her happiness was half 
ignorance; but I loved it in her. 

" The prosperous and the contented may 
take a tender pleasure in the mournful — to 
them tears are a luxurious melancholy; but I 
enjoyed the escape from my own dark thoughts 
— my sullen nature found relief in her joyous 
temper; it was not afflicted by gloomy like- 
nesses of my own moods. Nothing in her re- 
minded me of myself. 

" Weeks passed away, and every evening 
was spent in Carrara's studio. We spoke but 
little ; but the silence was charmed. I scarce- 
ly desired a greater delight than to know that 
her sweet breath was on the air,,and that I 
needed only to raise my eyes from the volume 
and they rested on her face. I did dream of 
a delicious future, and I was encouraged by 
her father's obvious predilection. My career 
seemed promising; for I had had the office of 
secretary offered me by the bishop of Padua, 
who needed one well versed in the modern 
tongues. 

'•But though this future haunted me till it 
became delicious certainty in my absence ; 
yet. when by her side, the moment grew all 
sufficient. I feared to disturb, even by in- 
crease, the perfect happiness of her presence. 
I accepted the place of secretary; its duties 
left the evenings still my own, and the thought 
of those few hours lightened the labours of the 
day. Every time I went to Carrara's house, 
I believed that some blessed chance would 
lead to the confession of my hoarded love. I 
invented dialogues, I imagined situations. 
They grew distinct to me like reality ; still 
the opportunity did not arrive ; but its hope 
was daily renewed, and daily more perfect in 
its confidence and content. 

" I saw little of Lord Avonleigh. I believe 
he entertained for me the affection of early ha- 
bit, and would have served me if he could. 
Our estrangement was my seeking; but 1 
loved him not. I never could forgive him his 
many advantages. Sometimes I wondered at 
his long residence in Padua; but I cared not 
enough about it to ask the cause. All society 
was irksome to me ; the commonest exchange 
of courtesy took me away from the one en- 
grossing thouorht in which I delighted to in- 
dulge. I could keep my attention to the du* 
ties of my post — they were the means of he? 
future possession ; but to be distracted by the 
questions of ordinary discourse was insup- 
portable. 

"Forgive me for thus dwelling on this 
bright and brief period. I need to tell you of 
the great passion of my love, that in pity for 
my wretchedness you may somewhat soften 
my guilt. 

"'"One evening a discussion with Carrara 
J had detained me unusually late, and Beatrice 



296 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



had left the chamber. At last I bade her fa- 
ther good night ; but when in the garden 
which surrounded their dwelling, a sudden 
impulse made me long to gaze in her window. 
More than once had I seen her shadow fall 
upon the lattice with a darkness lovelier than 
light. How well I remember the quiet beau- 
ty of the hour, the gentle rustle of the leaves, 
the changing perfume, as first one and then 
another scented plant imbued its fragrant at- 
mosphere, now redolent of the rich carnation, 
now of the voluptuous spirit of the drooping 
rose ! There was neither star nor cloud upon 
the sky, neither sign nor omen, but the deep 
blue air filled with moonlight — that clear flood 
of radiance known but to the southern cli- 
mates. The myrtle boughs hung in long 
wreaths over her casement, every leaf shining 
with the dew that rested glittering at the edge. 
I leant against the trunk of an ilex near. I 
heard my heart beat in the silent night, but it 
was with happiness ; a thousand voiceless 
blessings died on my lips, and all of them in- 
voked on one beloved name. I marvelled 
how hate had ever found place within me. I 
looked not towards the dark blue heaven, but 
its ethereal beauty was mirrored on my soul 
— all that was lovely, all that was loveable in 
nature, exercised their delicious influence on 
that charmed moment. That little window, 
half hidden by the odoriferous branches, was 
the vista through which the future broke, 
bright, tender, and certain. Years to come 
rose visibly before me. The happy home, 
thai, dearest face for ever beside my hearth, 
the successful pursuit, the honours, the wealth, 
which were to be gained and lavished for her 
alone, gathered round me in perfect certainty. 
J believed in the destiny I created. 

" Well may the human heart tremble in 
the presence of its happiness ; the angelic vi- 
sitant is revealed but in departing. Ay, child- 
ren who sit there, gazing upon me with the 
earnest eyes of youth, dread a moment of en- 
joyment — it will be dearly purchased; it is 
the bright sunshine which presages and is 
merged in the heaviest showers. I stood 
gazing upward at that room. I fancied its 
sweet inmate sleeping ; the black hair sweep- 
ing in masses over the pillow indented with 
the warm crimson cheek, which found a yet 
softer pillow on the fairy hand. I fancied the 
low and regular breathings of those fragrant 
lips over whose quiet rest I would have given 
worlds to watch. Suddenly a shadow dark- 
ened the lattice — it moved — she was not sleep- 
ing, then ; perhaps, as with me, slumber was 
banished by a delicious unrest; perhaps she 
might look forth, and ask for sympathy from 
the summer sky — from the dewy flowers. 
She might see me ! My heart stood still, 
and then beat with redoubled violence ! A 
world of fiery eloquence rushed to my lips ; I 
felt I could speak my love, — that I could tell 
ner for whose dear sake I stood a raptured 
watcher in the lonely night. I sprang a step 
forward, when two shadows were distinctly 
traced on the moonlit myrtle! Then two 
figures stood upon the balcony. A young ca- 



valier jumped from the balustrade, and hur 
ried down the path that led to the garden 
where I well remember a gate opened to an 
unfrequented lane. Beatrice watched his de- 
parture ; I could see her tearful eyes strain in 
the moonlight, to catch the last glimpse. ' He 
never looked back !' I heard her say, in the 
low whisper whose unutterable anguish haunts 
me yet. She remained for a few moments, 
pale, fixed like a statue, then, starting, she 
wrung her hands bitterly, and darted into her 
room. I heard the voice of smothered weep- 
ing ; but its agony was too great for suppres- 
sion. 

" I believe that night the fiend stood by my 
side ; I acted on an impulse over which I had 
no control. I took no thought of what I did ; 
yet every action seemed the result of planned 
deliberation. My soul was given over to the 
evil one; I did but what that power suggested. 
One suspicion had taken hold of me ; I re- 
solved to know its truth, and followed the ca- 
valier, whom I soon overtook, keeping at first 
at cautious distance, till my belief became 
certainty. Well I knew his light and careless 
step, pausing beneath the weight of no deep 
thought, heavy with no deep sorrow ; its very 
grace seemed to me unfeeling. The white 
plumes waved on his cap, his cloak reflected 
back the moonbeams from its rich embroidery, 
and the gems, too, glittered on his light rapier, 
' Now, mark the folly of the vain !' I inwardly 
muttered ; ' he is bound to concealment by 
every tie of love and honour; he should glide 
along his hidden path like a shadow, and yet 
he scruples not to draw every eye with his 
shining gauds !' Still, I wished to see his 
face ; against my full conviction I tried to 
doubt; — he turned suddenly round — it was 
Lord Avonleigh ! 

" We stood within two yards of each other 
in the full moonlight; I felt cold, pale — a 
shudder ran through every vein. Almost un- 
consciously my hand sought my rapier; a 
voice whispered me, One or other must die 
upon the place ! A strange longing for blood 
arose within me, mingled, too, with a painful 
shame lest he should reproach me as a spj r . 
I could not have spoken — no, though that 
one word would have obliterated the past. 

" Avonleigh immediately recognised me ; 
he advanced with unusual cordiality, and 
passing his arm through mine, exclaimed, 
' Arden ! how fortunate ! You must come 
home and sup with me — breakfast rather. 
But no — I hate the dull, undecided morning; 
night should always last till noon. Come 
quick ; I tell you fairly I want your advice ; 
It will not be the first scrape out of which 
you have helped me.' 

" I gasped for breath ; the ground reeled 
beneath my feet; my eyes closed, to shut out 
the fiery sparkles that filled the air. I loathed 
his touch, and j^et I grasped his arm, as 
drowning wretches do a straw, from the strong 
instinct of nature. 

" ' You are ill,' said he, supporting ma 
kindly. ' Those weary folios over which you 
pore, are enough to wear out the very soul 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



297 



I'll try you with the rosy medicine of the flask. 
To tell you the truth, we both need it.' 

" I have said that the devil stood at my side 
that night — he aided me now. The first 
agony was past, and I burned with a fierce 
desire to know the whole. Something- I mut- 
tered about fatigue, and followed Avonleigh. 
He suspected not my feelings towards him. 
Young, prosperous, he had known of life lit- 
le but its pleasures ; he dreamed not of its 
oitterness : floating lightly over the surface, 
the depths below were to him as nothing. 
Accustomed to be liked, as the rich, the no- 
ble, and the gay always are, it never occurred 
to him but that he must please ; moreover, he 
was attached to me by the two influences most 
prevalent in a nature such as this. Early as- 
sociation — it was as a duty to like those to 
whom he had been accustomed ; and a stronger 
understanding, where talent does not excite 
envy, is sure to exercise sway. Thus, strong 
in all adventitious advantages, it never entered 
his head to envy me — me, his dependant and 
his inferior. But he was often glad to have 
recourse to my ingenuity, or to be decided by 
my judgment. I saved him the trouble of 
thinking for himself. 

" We soon arrived, and his small but luxu- 
rious apartment showed how precious the 
master was in his own sight. He flung him- 
self on a couch, and, pouring out wine into 
his own cup, signed to me to follow his exam- 
ple. ' Pretty well for one of your sober stu- 
dents,' said he, pointing to the rapidly emptied 
flask. ' There, you may leave them in readi- 
ness, and go,' added he to the page, who had 
just brought in afresh supply. 'And, now, 
Arden, why the devil don't you ask why I 
brought you here V 

" Ay, it was with a smile that I assured 
him, that I waited his good pleasure. He 
was too anxious to share the weight of his se- 
cret to have much delicacy in its disclosure. 
But let me hurry over the accursed truth. 

"He had been some months privately mar- 
ried to Beatrice — how he could have been 
such a fool he did not know — he was sure he 
repented it enough now ; ' and this very morn- 
ing,' he continued, ' I have had a letter from 
my uncle, entreating my return; he has lost 
his eldest .son, and Madeline is sole heiress of 
his splendid fortune. He offers me her hand, 
and this union would still keep the property 
in our family; our estates touch, and he says 
she is grown up the prettiest blue-eyed fairy 
ir the world. And to think that I have, like 
an. idiot as I am, thrown myself away on the 
daughter of an old Italian doctor, who tor- 
ments me out of my life to acknowledge our 
marriage ! Arden, do contrive something — 
what shall I do?' 

" The devil found me both words and utter- 
ance. ' I really cannot see the affair in the 
serious light that you do. I thought that all 
you gay cavaliers had a thousand of these 
pleasant adventures, each dismissed more 
easily than the other.' 

" ' But I tell you I have been crazy enough 
o marry her.' 

Yc... 1 -33 



'"For the time. Why, a farewell letter, 
and a confession that your marriage is not le- 
gal in your own country, settles the busi- 
ness.' 

"'Arden, you are my better angel. But 
suppose they follow me to England 1' 

"'The most unlikely thing in the world ; 
England to them is at the other end of the 
earth. Women never doubt what a lover 
says ; so Beatrice will take you at your word. 
And Carrara, except in his own peculiar stu- 
dies, is as ignorant as a child. Besides, I 
will confirm the assertion, hint that you might 
hang him up with the crows in England, and 
will enforce my words with proper exclama- 
tions of horror, sorrow and sympathy.' 

"'Arden, you are my best friend. But 
poor Beatrice — so beautiful, so confiding, so 
loving.' 

" ' Very true. But are you quite sure these 
very estimable qualities are only called into 
existence by yourself? I am much mistaken 
if the pretty Beatrice will be left quite desti- 
tute of consolation. You flatter yourself.' 

" By heaven ! Avonleigh seemed absolutely 
relieved by the idea of his mistress's, nay, 
his wife's inconstancy. He was really good- 
natured, and glad to reVnove from his mind 
the idea of inflicting pain. But the next mo- 
ment his vanity was piqued. ' I will re- 
proach her to-morrow, and then leave her for- 
ever.' 

"'Reproach her with what? I hope you 
do not expect that I should surrender up a 
strict account of all I may have observed in 
Carrara's house? Or will you run through 
the town, collecting evidence of what gay 
cavaliers have been noted at its door? A 
wise method, to be sure, of preserving your 
secret.' 

" ' I do not know what to do. Think for 
me — whatever you advise I shall do.' 

" 'Write to her briefly — confess that you are 
married — implore pardon for the deceit — talk 
of the force of your passion, of inevitable cir- 
cumstances — w T ish her well — assure her that 
you will ever retain a tender recollection of 
her — and end by being her devoted and mise- 
rable. There is a model of a letter for break- 
ing off a love affair of which you are weary.' 

" Avonleigh drew writing materials towards 
him — he could make nothing of it; and I dic- 
tated, word by word, that most cruel letter. 
It was sealed and despatched by his page to 
her nurse, who had been their confidante. 
Once or twice some misgivings passed across 
his mind, but they were lost in the idea of his 
rivals, and the image of the blue-eyed heiress 
who awaited his coming in England. Besides, 
the hurry of preparations for departure were 
enough to distract any one's attention. Some 
of the young nobles of Padua, came in to 
breakfast, and two declared that they should 
see him on his journey — they wanted an ex- 
cursion of a few days. No fear, therefoie, 
that suddenly deprived of companionship, he 
should feel dull, and that dullness might tako 
the shape of remorse ; so repent, return, and 
be forgiven. Yet his brow darkened as ha 



296 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



whispeied, 'You will write to me, Arden?' 
But five minutes more, and he and his friends 
were riding full gallop down the sunny road 
that led from Padua; and the sound of their 
loud laughter came on the air. 

" And was it for the brief enjoyment of one 
like Avonleigh that my whole life was sacri- 
ficed 1 Why should fate in all things give 
him the mastery over me? I know not at 
that moment whether I most loved or hated 
Beatrice. I thought of her wretchedness, and 
pitied not; but I wished, to see it. Would 
she yield to her despair? and, so childlike, 
would she weep as a child ? Or would wo- 
man's sorrow teach her woman's strength, 
and could she lock her grief deep in her in- 
most heart? 

" I had accompanied Avonleigh beyond the 
gates, and I now hurried back impatiently, 
for I had resolved on seeing Beatrice. On 
my way to their house I met one of the stu- 
dents, who told me that sudden illness had 
prevented Carrara's attendance on his class. 
Was his illness of the mind ? Had his daugh- 
ter toid him every thing ? I had now sufficient 
excuse for calling, and that was all the sym- 
pathy I felt for the, grief of my kind old 
friend. I entered the garden, and for the first 
time paused ; its stillness smote upon my 
heart. Every thing I saw w r as associated with 
Beatrice's care, with Beatrice's happiness. 
There was the little fountain where I had so 
often seen her nymphlike shape reflected ; 
the waters glittered in the morning sun — 
what a mockery it would be were they to be 
her mirror now ! I remarked that she had 
been watering a bed of carnations; half were 
left un watered, and the water vessel stood in 
the walk, as if her labour had been suddenly 
suspended, and not renewed again. Had she 
been interrupted by Avonleigh's letter? 

" I had not courage to look my thoughts in 
the face, and hastened towards Carrara's 
study. Both were there, but neither at first 
perceived my entrance. The poor old man 
was leaning over the unhappy girl, who knelt 
at his feet, her face hidden on his arm, her 
hands clasped convulsively, and the slender 
frame trembling with emotion ; her strength 
was exhausted in endurance — none was left 
to resist. An ancient folio lay open beside 
thern ; I saw that it was marked by his tears, 
as if mechanically he had turned to its fami- 
liar pages for consolation, and found none. 
God of heaven ! how could his sorrow not re- 
buke my inmost soul ! But all humanity, all 
natural pity and affection, had left me. I 
gaaed on Beatrice's beautiful form, writhing 
in its agony and felt as if it were but fitting 
penance for having loved another. 

At this instant Carrara looked round and 
saw me. I started as if my heart was visible 
in my countenance. Misinterpreting my ac- 
tion, which he naturally supposed resulted 
from fear of intrusion, he beckoned me for- 
ward, and said in a broken voice, ' Do not go 
— I know you are very kind, and will help us 
if you can. Perhaps you may advise us.' 

"As he spoke, Beatrice slowly raised her 



head, and turned her face towards me. No 
spectre from the grave could have sent such 
ice through my veins as that ghastly and be- 
wildered countenance : the large eyes were so 
glazed, so wild ; and the red circle left by 
weeping was the only vestige of colour, for 
lip and cheek were both deadly white ; the 
features, too, were shrunken and older — it was 
as if years had passed by since I saw her last. 
I took a vacant seat in silence, when I felt a 
little hand put into mine, and a childish voice 
whisper, ' Nobody speaks to Guido to-day ; 
are you angry, too ?" I raised the frightened 
child in my arms, and hid my face in his hair, 
— it was to nerve myself for the coming scene ; 
now or never must be the parting between 
Avonleigh and his Italian bride be made final 
as death ! 

" Scarcely could Carrara command himself 
to tell me a history I already knew so w r ell ; 
yet I controlled myself. I listened, I pitied, 
and at the close, he bade God bless me for my 
kind heart! 'And now,' said he, 'tell us, 
you who have known this cruel Englishman 
from his birth, is there no pity in his heart? 
will he not return? is there no hope ?' 

" Beatrice raised her head : she looked at 
me as if on my words hung the fiat of life or 
death, fear and earnestness dilating her dark 
eyes — for an unconfessed hope had arisen 
within her. T met those imploring eyes, yet I 
answered, 'None!' Again she sunk back on 
her father's arm, and 1 saw the shudder that 
ran through her, by the tremulous motion of 
hei long black tresses. 

"'But,' continued her father, 'if there be 
no mercy, there may yet be justice. He has 
married my daughter both by the forms of our 
church and of his own; cannot he be forced 
to acknowledge her? ' 0, never!' exclaimed 
Beatrice, springing from the ground, her 
cheek flushing with momentary scarlet, and 
her lip curved with a scorn which I had 
dreamed not it could possess. ' What ! ask 
from the cold laws what his love refused ! 
force my way into his stately home — that 
which he once delighted to say I should share 
— and dwell there to witness his angry brow 
and averted eye — to know that he loathed me 
as a heavy and haled chain ! What would 
his name or rank avail me ? I to cause him 
trouble or vexation ! I, who even now would 
lay down my life but for his slightest plea- 
sure ! And yet he can leave me — can take 
pride in that which I share not ! I, who have 
grudged that the very flowers should spend 
their sweetness on the air, not on him ! O, 
my father ! have pity upon me, for God has 
none!' and again she sunk at his feet. 

" ' Hush, my poor child !' said the old man. 
'Alas! for another, if not for thyself, must 
thy claims be enforced: shame is a bitter 
heritage !' And even this moved me not 
from my cruel steadfastness ; I felt nothing 
but a sudden fear of Avonleigh's remorse. 
' Does he know it ?' I asked. Beatrice 
shook her head ; but the words were inaudi- 
ble : ' Perhaps,' I continued, ' the truth is 
best told at once; Lord Avonleigh, before he 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



299 



came hither, was wedded to his cousin ; and 
I do believe, despite of a temporary incon- 
stancy, tenderly attached !' ' Then he de- 
ceived me from the first !' shrieked Beatrice, 
and sunk insensible on the floor. She was 
carried to her chamber, which she never left 
till after your birth, Francesca. 

" Once I wrote to Lord Avonleigh, but it 
was to let him know of Beatrice's approach- 
ing- marriage. His answer told me he had 
embarked for England ; and it was a glad, 
hopeful letter, full of his English anticipations, 
and ending with a sneer against woman's in- 
constancy. 

" In the meantime, I exerted every effort to 
obtain an influence over Carrara. I spent 
every evening with him ; and the weakness 
ever attendant on great sorrow made him 
cling to my support, while I lulled my own 
conscience with the thought of this vain 
kindness. 

" It was long before I saw Beatrice ; the 
very thought of meeting any one threw her 
into such a state, that her father had not reso- 
lution to urge it; though, night after night, 
he would leave the unread scroll, and ask me 
what be should do to dissuade her from this 
obstinate yielding to grief, which was gradu- 
ally wasting life away ; and I listened — but 
the damned only could understand such tor- 
ture ! 

" At length I saw her. I had bidden Car- 
rara not expect me, as business would engage 
my whole evening. It so happened, that 1 
found myself at leisure earlier than I antici- 
pated, and, almost mechanically, my steps 
turned to his house. I entered unperceived : 
and there they were, seated, as if time had 
gone back on the last few months, and not a 
change had passed since the first evening I 
spent in that quiet chamber ! The lamp stood 
on the table, and Carrara leant by the huge 
tome spread out before him ; and opposite sat 
Beatrice, bending over her broidery — the 
small head, with its rich knot of gathered 
hair, so exquisitely placed — the slender figure, 
so graceful in its attitude. But, as I came in, 
she raised her face, and there was traced what 
seemed the work of years ! Could this be the 
bright creature whose beauty was so joyous — 
so redolent of bloom and hope 1 The chisel- 
led features were still left; but thin — so thin 
that, but for its delicacy, the outline would 
have been harsh ; — the transparent temples, 
Cr;m which the hair was put back, as if its 
weight oppressed them — the wild and sunken 
eyes — the white lip — the colourless cheek — 
the sad, shrinking expression of look and 
manner ! — 0, Beatrice ! that moment terribly 
avenged you ! 

" It was some time after this that I saw 
you. Francesca, for the first time. Poor 
child ! yours was a mournful infancy ! Though 
unwilling to let the feeling appear, your 
grandfather shrunk from your very sight ! — 
you brought all that was so painful immedi- 
ately to mind. With you for a perpetual me- 
morial, nothing could be forgotten ; and even 
your mother's shame and fear lay with a con- 



stant weight on her love, — not a caress but 
had its pang! The present gave no pleasure, 
the future no hope; you were linkt-J indelibly 
with the black and bitter past. There w T as 
but one exception, and that was Guido's affec- 
tion. Some kindly instinct seemed to teach 
the one child that the other was neglected. 
He would carry you in his little arms, grow 
quiet in his noisiest play if you were sleeping ; 
would kiss and soothe you when you cried, 
and devise, with pretty ingenuity, a thousand 
methods to amuse you ; while Beatrice, as if 
in secret gratitude, would lavish on him a 
tenderness she could not bestow on her own 
child ! But this state was too intolerable to 
endure : I loved her even more desperately 
than ever, — was it still to be without recom- 
pense 1 

" It will readily be supposed, that Carrara 
and myself could scarcely spend night after 
night together, and not speak of our mutual 
circumstances. 'I have been most unfortu- 
nate,' said he, one winter evening, when we 
had drawn close to the pine-boughs, whose 
flickering light illuminated his worn and pal- 
lid face at intervals ; 'I have ever limited my 
desires, yet, even into that narrow limit, dis- 
appointment has entered, — I have lived in 
humble and quiet loneliness, and still misfor- 
tune has come from afar to seek me ! My 
son — so gifted, so heroic, such were the 
creations of our old chivalric poets — dies in 
his first battle, and leaves me encumbered 
with his orphan boy, whose only heritage i3 
his father's resemblance. And now, Beatrice 
— my bright, beautiful Beatrice — haunts the 
house like a ghost — pale, spiritless, and de- 
jected ; with eyes that turn only to the past? 
And you, even you — so kind in your endur- 
ance — will go too : your fortunes will lead 
you away; and I shall be left alone in my old 
age, or left with those two children, — too old 
for their love, yet bour:d to them by ties I 
cannot break. I see it before me, distinct as 
if the time were come; — I shall be left deso- 
late !' 

"I know not what were the words in which 
I spoke; but beside that hearth my passionate 
love for Beatrice first found words. I told 
Carrara how long, how dearly, I had cherished 
her image — how I had accustomed my lips to 
silence, and loved her the more deeply for 
such restraint. I spoke of the future hope- 
fully — cheerfully. I dwelt on the results our 
united studies were calculated to effect. I 
painted Beatrice roused from her dejection, 
and the past half forgotten, or recalled but as 
a painful dream! Carrara entered into my 
plans with even more earnestness than I had 
expected. The poor old man shed tears 
of joy and thankfulness ! Will not those 
tears rise up in judgment against me 'I — they 
have darkened earth, — will they not shut me 
out from heaven 1 I left him almost before 
he had finished accepting my offer. His gra- 
titude was terrible! 

" I took that night the path through tha 
garden which led by Beatrce's window. I 
had never retraced it since that fatal evening 



300 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Then, the air was warm and languid, freighted 
with the odours of many flowers; there were 
gay colours spread over the ground, and the 
full rich foliage bounded the view with its 
depth of soft shadow ; — now, the eye could 
see far around ; for the branches were bare, 
and the distant roofs, no longer concealed by 
the green leaves in the summer, were visible. 
The cold moonlight gave no cheerfulness ; and 
even that was often obscured by heavy masses 
of cloud which swept over the pale chill disk. 
All was dreary — all was emblematic cf that 
change and barrenness which passe? away 
from nature, but never from the heart; — and 
yet Beatrice w 7 as at her window! I saw her 
head drooped upon her hand ; her whole atti- 
tude expressing that profound depression, 
whose lonely vigil wastes the midnight in a 
gloomy watch, which yet hopes for nothing 
at its close. 

" I hurried past; I could not bear' to see 
her ! I endeavoured to think of the future — 
to imagine the colour returning to that white 
cheek at my caress, that sunken eye lighting 
up at my approach ! How did my inmost 
soul vow to watch her slightest look, to win 
her from her memory by the gentlest cares — 
to soothe, to cherish her, till gratitude forced 
from her affection for me ! But a voice still 
asked, ' How dared I buy my happiness at 
the price of hers V Conscience forbade me 
to rely on the future. 

"As I entered my lodging, I caught sight 
of myself in a mirror that hung near. I 
started at my own haggard appearance ! — it 
was not the face of youth, but that of a wan, 
hollow-eyed conspirator, haunted by constant 
dangers, and worn with secrecy and watchful- 
ness. The last few months had been long and 
heavy years ! But it was too late now for re- 
pentance — there was room only for remorse; 
and that the God who implanted it in the soul — 
man's worst scourge for man's worst deeds — 
knows, has been as a vulture whose beak was 
for ever preying on my heart ! 

"The next day I marked, before he spoke, 
that Carrara's brow was gloomy. Alas! he 
had only words of reproach and refusal to tell 
me. But he bade me plead my cause for 
myself. 

"A delicious sensation overpowered every 
other when I first told Beatrice I loved her — 
my own words sounded so musically sweet ; — 
ah, they bore the magic of her name ! But 
she was cold — even unkind. Her temper, 
irritated by long indulgence in regret, could 
not brook being disturbed from the mournful 
solace of remembrance, — to awaken her to the 
present seemed cruel — to lead her on to the 
future impossible ! The only feeling I could 
excite was anger. 

" Still I hoped, and Carrara believed. For 
the first time in her life, Beatrice heard him 
speak in harshness ; but he had set his heart 
upon our union, and her refusal seemed both 
stubborn and ungrateful. He urged our mar- 
riage upon her by every argument ; he en- 
created, and, at last threaten^. Marry the 
only friend we have left,' exclaimed he, ' or 



leave my roof, disobedient and thankless as 
you are !' 

With even a paler cheek than usual, she 
quitted the apartment ; and Carrara, whose 
anger had evaporatad in utterance, reproached 
himself for his impatient words. ' Pooi 
thing ! the very name of love must be sad to 
her!' continued he; 'it is no easy task to 
soothe the stricken heart. This is an ill re- 
quital, Arden, of your generous affection; but 
I fear me Beatrice has chosen a lo,ver, con- 
stant, at least, — death ! We may bind her a 
bridal wreath, but its flow r ers will be scattered 
over her grave !' ' Urge her no more,' I ex 
claimed ; ' I will not again vex her ear with 
words of love, however true, how r ever deep ■ 
ours is an evil destiny, and we may not con 
trol it !' 

" The old man pressed my hand in silent 
kindness, and I left the house. An aged do 
rnestic, their sole attendant, followed me ojat. 
' My young mistress,' said she, ' bade me give 
you this note when you had quitted the sig- 
nor's room.' Here is the scroll !" cried Ar- 
den, rising from his seat and taking it from 
his bosom ; " for years these few words have 
made existence a curse, and death a terror ! 
I dare not face her beyond the grave. 

" I hurried on, frantic, when I saw a group 
approaching, with loud, exclamations of grief 
and dismay ! — I foreboded the cause. Four 
persons in the midst were carrying a bier, and 
on it was extended a female figure ! I marked 
the garments saturated with moisture — the 
long black hair dripping with water ! I forced 
myself to look on the pale, but still lovely 
face — it was Beatrice !" 

Arden sank back on his seat, and hid his 
face in his hands ; while his youthful hearers 
sat mute with horror, and looked on each 
other, and tried to speak; but their words 
failed, and Arden himself was the first who 
broke silence ; but his hollow and altered 
voice sounded strangely in their ears. 

" And, now, w T hat have I to tell you? For 
five years from that period I was a maniac — 
the sole habitant of a dreadful cell, where 
light and air were measured. The mark of the 
iron is still on my wrist; for I was chained, 
starved, and beaten, like some fierce and wild 
animal ! But I have no memory save of a 
pale figure that sat at my side day and night, 
wringing the water drops from the heavy black 
hair, and with a sad bright eye, which never 
moved from my face. O, the horror of that 
fixed and motionless gaze! It was Beatrice's 
countenance ; but I felt it was a fiend, to 
whom pow T er was given over my soul. 

" At length bodily sickness mastered that 
of the mind. I awoke from a severe attack 
of fever, weak as a child, but conscious — con- 
scious of the terrible past ! An old monk 
watched beside me ; his own sin, and his own 
sorrow, taught him sympathy*. He prayed by 
me : I could not pray myself — I never have, 
since that fair corpse was carried along the 
streets of Padua. In that convent I remained 
for some months; the energy of my mind was 
gone. I desired no employment; I enter 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



301 



.dined no wishes ; my existence was purely 
mechanical — dragged on, like a weary chain, 
from which I lacked resolution to free myself. 
Yet my health amended; and, no longer an 
object for charity to the convent, it behoved 
me to choose some future path. The monk I 
have named easily induced me to follow in 
his steps ; and he, as a last offering to offend- 
ed heaven, was about to make a pilgrimage to 
the holy land. I accompanied him: even to 
me migJit come the healing influence of that 
sacred soil where a Saviour's tears had fallen : 
there might 1 weep, too; and, humbled on 
the earth which he had trod, wash out mine 
offence with his blood ! 

"I will not detain you with our toils and 
our dangers. Worn and weary were we when 
we stood beneath the purple heights of Jeru- 
salem — so fallen from her beauty and her 
power, and yet so mighty in her desolation ! 
My companion joined in the hymns raised by 
the pilgrims ; but that very night he sickened, 
and, ere morning, my arms sustained a corpse ! 
I laid him to his last rest, in a cave among the 
mountains ; the stone was rolled to its mouth, 
and I sat down to keep that midnight sacred 
with watch and prayer. 

" Bare and bleak, the adjacent hills were 
yet turned to marble by the moonshine — black 
and white alternate, as the rays or the sha- 
dow predominated. The blue of the over- 
spreading sky was rendered yet deeper by the 
masses of vapour which the heat of noon had 
collected on the atmosphere; a lurid bright- 
ness kindled on their edges, as if the lightning 
slept within them. A few stars shone afar 
off; but with a faint decaying beauty, fading 
gradually, as the moon climbed higher in the 
heavens. Not a breath disturbed the still and 
silent air; but it was cool with the rising 
dews, and sweet with the breathings of leaf, 
grass, and flower, in the plains below. My 
spirit drank in the calm ; the rest which was 
on all things reached even to me. Methought, 
in that quiet hour, I might lift up my voice in 
supplication, and ask of that serene and pity- 
ing heaven a sign of pardon. 

" I knelt upon the earth ; when, lo ! there 
rose before me that frail and drooping form, 
that pale and reproachful face; while moon- 
beams glittered on the water that yet dripped 
from the long black hair. There she stood, 
wan and motionless, till I sprung from my 
knee ; and I saw the shape melt gradually 
away — the large dull eyes fixed upon me to 
the last ! I had asked for a sign, and one was 
sent me from the grave :. she came to tell me 
that my guilt was still remembered against 
me. , 

" Yet I continued to wander amid those 
gloomy rocks, till one hot noon I was resting 
beside a well, where a party of robbers sought 
refreshment also. They made me prisoner, 
and sold me as a slave. I could move your 
pity, were I to tell you of half the hardships 
I endured; but I ask no sympathy but for my 
ove and my sorrow. The last master into 
whose hands I fell was a follower of the oc- 
rult sciences ; and now my previous studies 

Vol. I. 



availed me much. Together we watched the 
stars, together pondered over their movements 
and their influences; and when the Mahome- 
dan died, he left me both liberty and wealth. 

" A yearning desire came over me to see 
my own country. Fifteen years had elapsed 
since I left its soil. I was now about to re- 
visit it, not as those who sought with toil and 
care wherewithal to realize some dream of 
their youth* and return happy in some fa- 
vourite project, in whose execution they are 
at last to find content. No; 1 went back 
broken in health and spirits, and vainly seek- 
ing relief in change of place. Alas ! I was 
myself my own world ; nothing without avail- 
ed to alter that within. 

" I arrived in England after a long and 
weary voyage, and went at once tn the New 
Forest. I found that Lawrence Aylmer had 
never married again — his whole soul was ab- 
sorbed in the desire of wealth ; and yet his 
voice giew gentle when he spoke to his child 
— she was so like her mother; but, ah! so 
pale, so languid, that you asked unconscious- 
ly, Can she be so young] They told me of 
Lord Avonleigh. His had been a life of con- 
stant prosperity. In the fierce struggle be- 
tween the royalists and the puritans he had 
temporized and yielded ; and while others lost 
life and land, he dwelt at peace in his ances- 
tral halls. He had married Lady Madeline, 
and was now a widower with one only boy; 
and report more than hinted that he was about 
to marry again. 

" I saw him in his owt; domains ; and light- 
ly, indeed, had years passed over his head; 
the step of the noble youth at his side was 
scarce more elastic than his own. His bright 
hair had lost none of its luxuriance, and the 
fair broad forehead bore no trace of time or 
care. Yet, there sba was at his side, the lost 
Beatrice! I saw her shadowless form glide 
along the sunny grass — that pale and mourn- 
ful countenance turned as ever upon me. I 
rushed away, but the image was still before 
me; I closed my eyes, but it rose upon the 
darkness, till, at last, I sank faint and ex- 
hausted. When i recovered, it was strange 
how distinct past events were pictured in my 
mind — and, stranger still, that, for the first 
time, I thought of you, Francesca! 

" I started from my seat. God of heavens ! 
what had been your destiny 1 were you still 
living? — perhaps in sickness, in neglect, and 
poverty ! Somewhat now of expiation seem- 
ed in my power : I would seek you out, re- 
store you to your father, and deem the agony 
of my confession fitting penance. 

" My search was long and vain. On my 
recovery in the convent I had been told that 
Carrara had left the place, and had depaited 
none knew whither. The lapse of so many 
years made it impossible for me to find the 
slight traces of those I sought; when, as if 
some good angel had suddenly taken pity on 
me, I met Guido. The likeness struck me • 
I asked the name — " Carrara !" and from *hai 
time I have been nerving myself to tell my 
wretched history. Even the deliverance of 
3 2C 



502 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



my late sickness was haunted by the thought ! 
Now I almost dare to hope, not for myself, 
but for you. My plan for the future — " 

" Shall be discussed to-morrow," said Fran- 
cesca, soothingly ; "you have exerted your- 
self beyond your strength : your cheek burns, 
your lip is parched. I pray you now retire to 
rest, and God pity and forgive you !" 

She poured out his medicine, and gave it to 
him. He drank from the cup,. and tried to 
speak; but his voice failed, and he left the 
room in silence. 



CHAPTER XL. 

" And are we English born ?" 

" Art thou the England famed in song V : — S. C. Hall. 

" Your father a rich and powerful noble, 
dear Francesca ! your future station will be 
worthy of you !" exclaimed Guido, as they 
drew their seats closer to the hearth, too much 
excited to retire to their usual rest. 

"I cannot rejoice," replied she; "I feel 
strangely oppressed, and am for once tempted 
to indulge those mournful presentiments which 
I reprove in you. What have I done that fate 
should deal more gently with me than with 
my mother ? I seem to believe with Arden, 
that there may be houses with whom ill for- 
tune abides as an heirloom. I tremble in 
thinking what humanity may be called upon to 
endure. Amid this vast and common misery, 
how dare we hope to escape !" 

"There are exceptions, dearest, and such I 
hope is for thee. You have known early care, 
and soon-coming sorrow. As a very child, 
you were the stay of our little household; 
and how, in our late worldly experience, your 
own kind and true heart has led you aright ! 
You look meekly forward — you indulge in no 
vain repinings — you exert yourself for others — 
your affections are hard to be chilled, and your 
belief in good, paramount. Fate forms its 
predestined wretches of other materials." 

"I now understand," continued Francesca, 
" the reason of our grandfather's dislike to 
Englishmen. How I ought to rejoice that 
some, T will venture to say, providence, ena- 
bled me to overrule the weak tenderness which 
urged me to be Robert Evelyn's companion ! 
His real nature would soon have shown its 
baseness; and, holy Madonna ! to have made 
such discovery as his wife !" 

" Had your mother so refused to participate 
in Lord Avonleigh's concealment, how much 
misery would have been spared ! Do you re- 
member that line in the English poet — whom 
we now keep for his own sake, no longer for 
that of his donor — where that loving and sweet 
Viola says, — 

1 Deceit, I see thou art a wickedness !' 

! how rash, thus to give fate an additional 
arm against us !" 

" How little," exclaimed Francesca, " can 

1 comprehend such a love as Arden's — so 



cruel and so unrelenting! Methinks the hap 
piness of the beloved one is dearer, a thou- 
sand times dearer than our own. How could 
he help confirming Lord Avonleigh's waver- 
ing faith ! — how could he endure to purchase 
Beatrice's self with Beatrice's sorrow ?" 

"I know not that," replied Guido; "there 
is something so bitter in a rival. I could 
sooner bear my mistress's hate than her indif- 
ference." 

" What fearful penalty," continued Fran- 
cesca, " has his exaggerating spirit exacted ! — 
his love and his remorse are alike terrible." 

" What a change will this disclosure make 
in our plans ! O ! the vain folly of deciding 
on the morrow ! Who," asked Guido, " would 
have thought of our going to England ! — for 
thither will I accompany you. What a weight 
from my most inmost heart will it take to see 
you loved and acknowledged in your father's 
house ! Let what will happen thera, I c&*e 
not." 

" My beloved Guido, unless it be for you 
also, there is no home for me. What new tiss 
of duty or affection can be so near and dear as 
that which has been cherished from the first'? 
Whatever be our future lots, they are cast to- 
gether." 

The next morning — the excitement of the 
foregoing midnight being past — they talked 
the strange history more calmly over. " I 
should like to know," remarked Francesca, 
" whether Mr. Arden has aught of proof to 
support his story." 

" O ! the truth is marked in every word. 
I would stake my life on Arden's veracity." 

" Lord Avonleigh will require something 
more than the assertion of one whose reason 
is obviously disordered." 

" I wish to heaven that my grandfather had 
been more communicative. Beyond a vague 
idea of the gone-by glories of the house of 
Carrara, we know nothing about ourselves." 

This conversation was interrupted by Ar 
den's entrance, who, worn and dejected, 
seemed scarcely to know how to address 
his young companions, as if he feared some 
sudden change in their manner. Both greeted 
him kindly ; for his suffering was more pre- 
sent to them than his faults. They hesitated 
to renew the subject, but his mind wa& too full 
to allow of his speaking on indifferent topics; 
and, after a few words alluding to the disclo- 
sure, he asked, "Was there any obstacle to 
their immediate departure for England." 

" None. But," said Francesca, hesitating- 
ly, " will not Lord Avonleigh need some war- 
rant for the truth of this history]" 

" You have all necessary proofs in your 
possession, though you may not be aware of 
their existence," replied Arden; "will you 
allow me to open yonder box !" 

" There is nothing in that," said Guido, 
" but a genealogy of the Carraras, drawn up 
by my grandfather. We have kept this little 
ebony coffer for the sake of its curious carv- 
ing. The marriage of Cana is beautifully 
wrought on its lid." 

" I know the box well — it was once mine, 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



303 



I gave it Beatrice on the day of her fete. How 
little then did I dream to what purpose it 
would be applied ! You are not aware that 
here, are hidden drawers." 

He raised the cover, and, pressing one of 
the figures, a lid flew up and discovered a se- 
cret place, whose existence they had never 
suspected. There lay a picture, a small packet 
Of letters, and a little roll of papers. 

"These," continued Arden, "are the certi- 
ficate or* the marriage, and the register of your 
birth. Though deeming them useless, Bea- 
trice, poor Beatrice, always carefully treasured 
them; and this is the likeness of your father." 

It. was one of those faces which win their 
way through the eye to the heart all the world 
over — so frank, so glad, and so full of youth. 
The rich auburn hair hung down in the long 
curls then worn, as if natural beauty were, 
indeed, a sign of gentle blood, and fully dis- 
played the white and broad Saxon brow; the 
complexion was fair, with a high colour; and 
the clear hazel eyes were full of eagerness, 
hope, and mirth. It was a style efface, with 
its light yet, rich colours, to which the young 
Italians were not accustomed. Both were 
equally charmed, but the same feeling made 
them hesitate. Neither wondered in their 
hearts that the gay and brilliant noble had ob- 
tained the preference over the wan and gloomy 
student; for they only pictured Arden as he 
stood before them — they forgot that he had 
ever been young. 

He read their thoughts, and, taking the pic- 
ture, gazed upon it mournfully ; then added, 
" He is almost as handsome still !" 

Guido, by way of diverting the embarrass- 
ment which seemed to infect them all, began 
to unfasten the packet of letters. A faint yet 
sweet perfume exhaled from the folds, and 
some withered rose and violet leaves fell upon 
the table ; shape and colour had long passed 
away, but a mournful fragrance remained — 
mournful as the memory of departed happi- 
ness. 

He was about to open one of the scrolls, 
when Francesca took them from his hand. 
" Nay, Guido, we will not read them : there 
are seme letters never meant but for one eye, 
and such are these. This packet shall be 
given untouched into Lord Avonleigh's" — 
she corrected her words — " into my father's 
own hands." 



CHAPTER XLI. 

u Within the mirror of the past, 
How sadly fair arise 
The long lost hues of early life, 
The stars of Memory's skies. 

Charles Swain. 

There needed but little preparation for their 
departure; it is your leave-takings that length- 
en out the time — and they had scarcely a living 
creature to whom they needed say farewell. 
Guido obtained an audience of Mazarin, who 



seemed surprised, and even vexed, when he 
heard that they were about to cross the chan 
nel. 

"What will you do among those puritani- 
cal islanders, who hold pictures to be an abo- 
mination, and statues idolatry ] The very sight 
of their whitewashed churches will put your 
genius to flight, which, in the attempt to es- 
cape, will be lost in their fogs." 

Guido half smiled, half sighed, as he urged 
the important family business which enforced 
their absence. The cardinal then asked for 
P'rancesca, and the sudden gloom of his coun- 
tenance showed that Madame de Mercosur's 
loss was still keenly remembered. He then 
added a few general offers of service, but of- 
fered as if he would be glad that they were ac- 
cepted ; and when Guido knelt for his parting 
benediction, it was given with a warmth and 
sincerity not often used by the apathetic and 
haughty minister. 

But they were of his own country — were 
associated with the image of the dearest of 
his own family — dearer, because lost forever. 
| He was interested in their genuine, yet refined 
simplicity ; and, moreover, the most worn and 
worldly natures vindicate their humanity by 
occasional preferences and motiveless likings. 
True, they are transitory, and soon both con- 
trolled and forgotten ; but their very existence 
is evidence that the kindly feeling which clings 
to its race never wholly abandons even the 
most seemingly hardened and indifferent. 

To Bournonville the whole history was re- 
vealed. They owed confidence to his friend- 
ship; but Francesca was at once chilled, mor- 
tified, and amused, by the warmth of his con- 
gratulations. It is a penance inflicted on all 
sensitive tempers by their more common-toned 
acquaintance. Her imagination had only dwelt 
on the renewal of affection — on the happiness 
of having a parent to look up to and to love ; 
but Bournonville saw the subject in another 
point of view, and was never weary of con- 
gratulating her on having found out a rich and 
noble father. Ah ! who has not suffered from 
a similar annoyance, so easily felt, but so dif- 
ficult to be described ! How often have I had 
my ideal destroyed, my pleasant imaginings 
checked and debased, by the ill-timed remark 
that changed their whole bearing! .Heaven 
knows, the observation was true enough ; still 
there are two ways of putting a fact, and one 
prefers that which lends a little enchantment 
to the view. 

Now that Francesca was about to leave 
France, she felt a softening of the heart to- 
wards Madame de Soissons. Hitherto she 
had chiefly dwelt on her unkindness and neg- 
lect; but absence, like charity, covers a mul- 
titude of sins ; and the thought now paramount 
was, that she should see her no more. 

She made a thousand excuses for her con- 
duct — she even exaggerated the temptations 
by which she was surrounded. Her memory 
went back to the pleasant intercourse of their 
early days — and memory is a most affectionate 
faculty ; somewhat of tenderness is insepara 



304 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



3>le from the past, and she earnestly desired to 
bid her former friend farewell. In this spirit 
was the following- letter written : — 

" Dearest Marie, — For at this moment, 
when my heart is full of our former affection, 
I can use no other epithet than the one which 
belongs to that time, — I cannot resist the temp- 
tation of writing- to bid you farewell. Circum- 
stances, which are too long for detail — perhaps 
they might not interest you — and which have 
made a great change in my prospects, induce 
me to leave France; and Guido and myself 
are on the point of embarking for England. 
In all human probability we shall meet no 
more. It would make me very happy to see 
you before my departure, to tell you of my 
future hopes, to offer you my best wishes, to 
believe that we shall preserve a kindly recol- 
lection of each other, and to talk a little of the 
past. Farewell! That the holy Madonna may 
have you in her keeping-, is the affectionate 
prayer of Francesca da Carrara." 

This letter obtained no answer. Did we not 
daily observe them, we could not believe the 
instances of hard-hearted ness evinced in social 
life — the neglect, the forgetful ness, and the 
ingratitude. The Comtesse de Soissons read 
and was touched by Francesca's letter, and 
resolved to go that very day and see her; but 
the same morning the Due d'Anjou gave a 
collation — so it was impossible. The next 
day she was to wait on Madame de Savoie ; 
on the third she was languid, and visiter after 
visiter came in; and on the fourth, Francesca 
was gone. Madame de Soissons felt a mo- 
mentary pang of shame and remorse ; but she 
was to attend the queen to a ballet that even- 
ing. She had not yet decided on her dress ; 
and in half an hour's time Francesca's image 
was merged in the contemplation involving a 
decision, whether pale-yellow or lilac ribands 
would best suit 'her green dress. 

Nothing is so soon lost in a crowd as affec- 
tion ; we are in too great a hurry to attach 
ourselves to any thing or anybody. What 
bitter knowledge is brought us by experience! 
— what change is wrought in a few passing 
years! How do we glow cold, indifferent, 
and unbelieving — we, who were so affection- 
ate, so eager, so confiding ! Perhaps we ex- 
pect too much from others. Because an indi- 
vidual likes you, from sudden impulse, from 
the effect of circumstances which drew both 
out agreeably, you have no right to rely on the 
continuance of that feeling; a fresher impulse 
may counteract it — a newer situation lead it to 
some one else ; and you ought rather to be 
thankful for even the temporary warmth, than 
feel disappointed at its cessation. 

But though this is what it would be wise to 
do, it is not what we can do. Mutable as is 
our nature, it delights in the immutable; and 
we expect as much constancy as if all time, to 
say nothing of our own changeableness, had 
not shown that ever " the fashion of this world 
passeth away." 



And this alone would be to me the convincing 
proof of the immortality of the soul, or mind, or 
whatever is the animating principle of life. 
Whether it be the shadow cast from a previous 
existence, or an intuition of one to come, the 
love of that which lasts is an inherent impulse 
in our nature. Hence that constancy which 
is the ideal of love and friendship — that desire 
of fame which has originated every great effort 
of genius. Hence, too, that readiness of belief 
in the rewards and punishments of a future 
state held out by- religion. From the com- 
monest flower treasured, because its perfume 
outlives its beauty, to our noblest achievements 
where the mind puts forth all its power, we are 
prompted by that future which absorbs the pre- 
sent. The more we feel that we are finite, the 
more do we cling- to the infinite. 



CHAPTER XLII. 

" Most happy state, that never tak'st revenge 
For injuries received, nor dost fear 
The court's great earthquake, the grieved truth of change, 

Nor none of falsehood's savoury lies dost hear; 
Nor know'st hope's sweet disease, that charms Our sense, 
Nor its sad cure — dear bought experience." 

Sir Robert Ker to Drummond. anno 1624. 

It was the day previous to that fixed for 
their departure, that Guido and Francesca 
were seated in their chamber for the last time. 
Both were silent and somewhat sad — for no 
place was ever yet left without regret. We 
grow attached unconsciously to the objects we 
see every day. We may not think so at the 
time— we may be discontented, and used to 
talk of their faults; but let us be on the eve of 
quitting them forever, and we find that they 
are dearer than we dreamed. 

The love of the inanimate is a general feel- 
ing. True, it makes no return of affection, 
neither does it disappoint it ; its associations 
are from our thoughts and our emotions. We 
connect the hearth wilh the confidence wiiich 
has poured forth the full soul in its dim twi- 
light; on trie wall we have watched the sha- 
dows, less fantastic than the creations in which 
we have indulged ; beside the table, we have 
read, worked, and written. Over each and 
all is flung the strong link of habit — it is not 
to be broken without a pang. 

" What numbers are passing by !" exclaim- 
ed Guido, who had been leaning in the win- 
dow. " Good Heavens ! to think of all this 
multitude, not one will regret or even remem- 
ber us ! How hard it is to draw the ties of 
humanity together ! — how strange the indif- 
ference with which we regard beings whose 
hopes, feelings, joys, and sorrows, are the 
same as our own ! Perhaps there may be in- 
dividuals who have never inspired or experi- 
enced affection : — should we pity or envy 
them 1" 

" Pity them — only that such a lot is impos- 
sible. Even the very robbers, of whose fero- 
city we were wont to hear such tales in our 
own land, have usually possessed some re- 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



305 



deeming trait which arose out of a yearning 
towards their kind. Do you recollect a story 
my nurse told us of a Sicilian bandit, the ter- 
ror of the country — how he saved a young 
child from a cottage on fire, brought it up 
delicately, and far removed from his own pur- 
suits ; while, at his execution, his chief regret 
was the future provision for that boy?" 

" I can believe such an instance — can be- 
lieve love taking strong root amid cruelty, 
poverty, suffering, and danger, rather than in 
the withering atmosphere of this crowded 
city — this miscalled social, but really heart- 
less, life; where petty interests distract the 
mind, and mean desires absorb the heart. 
From the beginning of the show to the end, 
vanity is the sole stimulus and reward of 
action — vanity that never looks beyond the 
present." 

" Nay," replied Francesca, " you exagge- 
rate. The truth is, we begin life with too 
exalted ideas — our wishes and our expecta- 
tions go together. We are soon forced to 
lower our standard ; and this depreciation 
brings at first coldness, distress, and distrust, 
but also wisdom. We learn not to anticipate 
so much, and to cling with firmer faith to 
those whose truth has been proved. Courtesy 
from the many, kindness from the few, and 
affection from the individual, become the 
limit of our hopes ; and even that moderate 
limit must prepare for exceptions." 

They were interrupted by the entrance of 
an unlooked for visiter, the Chevalier de Join- 
ville. 

" I have just heard," said he, " from Bour- 
nonville, of your intended departure, and 
thought I might venture to come and offer my 
good washes for your safe arrival, to say 
nothing of the pleasure I promise myself in 
seeing you again, and more beautiful than 
ever." 

Me said the truth ; for her noble and regu- 
lar beauty, so rarely seen in such classical 
perfection, always struck the eye most forci- 
bly when accustomed only to the more ordi- 
nary run of the merely pretty. Francesca was 
really glad to see him ; her original dislike 
had passed avay, and there w r as a kindness 
in his visit and manner doubly* grateful when 
contrasted with the neglect of so many others. 
After a few inquiries, soon made and soon 
answered among those who have no interests 
in common, the conversation turned on gene- 
ral topics. And here they had much to ask 
and hear. The chevalier, was, as usual, au 
fait at all the anecdotes of the court, which 
had been exceedingly gay, owing to the visit 
of Madame de Savoie and her daughter, the 
Princess Marguerite. 

"Will she," asked Francesca, "be our 
future queen ? Remember, I know as little of 
what has been going on in Paris as if I had 
already crossed the sea." 

" The whole visit," replied the chevalier, 
" has been a failure. Peace and the Infanta 
have carried the day; and the bride is to 
come from beyond the Pyrenees, not the 
Alps." 

Vol. I.— 39 



" Is the Princess Marguerite pretty ?" 

" Royally so — not more ; but an excellent 
actress. She showed her disappointment as 
little as she did her expectations. Truly, it 
was a severe task, for she had to appear 
amused and indifferent for the whole party. 
Madame de Royale did nothing but weep, till 
the cardinal consoled her by a pair of diamond 
ear-rings set in jet, — " the most becoming 
things," as she asserted. I am afraid their 
effect was not very visible on her." 

"Was there not some talk," asked Guido, 
of a marriage between the Due de Savoie and 
Mademoiselle I" 

" Yes ; and it served him as a pretext to 
turn his share of the visit into a mere expedi- 
tion of gallantry. He has the portraits of all 
the unmarried princesses of Europe in his 
cabinet; among others, that of mademoiselle 
was hung in the. most conspicuous place. 
Now, he says, 'I have seen her, and am cured.' 
It has reached the ears of the lady, who is 
furious." 

" Next to her birth," said Francesca, 
" mademoiselle piques herself on her beauty. 
I believer' 

" She said the other morning, with the ut- 
most calmness," replied the chevalier, " when 
monsieur was rallying her on her deshabille de 
voyage, ' I am handsome enough to do without 
dress — I like it to be seen, now and then, that 
I can trust my face by itself." 

" A pleasant state of mind," cried Frances- 
ca ; "that entire repose in the conviction ot 
your own perfection ! But to return to your 
noble visiters. Surely Madame de Savoie 
must have felt the position in which she had 
placed her daughter]" 

" Yes, but she talked it away. She uses 
a whole language to herself. Her discourse 
is an avalanche of words, beneath which her 
hearers are overwhelmed. And then her con- 
fidence ! it goes to the extent of a romance — 
she confides every thing. I'll tell you an 
anecdote, out of many, that she relates of her- 
self. Monsieur de Savoie is most devoue to 
your charming sex, and one of his favourites 
had given him a greyhound. During a short 
journey from the court, he left this greyhound 
to his mother's care, with many injunctions to 
watch over its safety. That night, when she 
was alone in her chamber, she flung herself on 
her knees before the dog, addressing it with 
the most tender epithets. ' How dearly I do 
love thee ! how happy I am to have thee, re- 
minding me of thy master! If he were here 
I should be satisfied. I have not seen him 
since the morning, and the moments appear to 
me hours in his absence ; at least, when he 
again caresses thee, paint to him the sensa- 
tions of my heart.' " 

"I do not," exclaimed Guido, "marvel so 
much at these extravagancies of affection as 
at their being publicly repeated. To express 
any emotion seems to me the most difficult 
thing in the world." 

"She got out of the ridicule very well," re- 
plied De Joinville, " by throwing over it a 
little tinge of sentiment. 'I do not mind 
2c2 



306 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



said she, observing- a general smile, 'your 
laughing at the excess of my love to my son. 
I own I feel capable of doing all sorts of fool- 
ish things for his sake.' " 

" I could not have believed." remarked 
Francesca, " had I not witnessed it since my 
residence in your country, how the reality and 
the affectation of feeling can exist together. 
Before I left our solitary home, the very exhi- 
bition of emotion would have tempted me to 
doubt its truth. Now, 1 observe that some 
affect, as others shun, display ; yet the feel- 
ing is equally true in both." 

"Talking of display, half the court is in 
ecstasies about the romantic -devotion of la 
Marquise de la Beaume to the memory of the 
Due de Candale. He was a great admirer of 
hers, and, on his journey to and from Catalo- 
nia, invariably paused to pay his homage at 
Lyons, where she resided. She has cut off 
all her long fair hair — absolutely her principal 
ornament. There are always two sides to a 
story ; and the other version of this is, that 
the beautiful hair was severed out of pique to 
the husband, not out of tenderness to the 
lover's manes. The marquis had, in the most 
husbandly and hardhearted manner, refused 
his consent to a fete which madame's heart 
was set upon giving. The next morning, de- 
sirous of making his peace, and yet keeping 
his resolution, he entered while her toilette 
was going on, and began to admire the luxu- 
riant and bright hair that fell over her should- 
ers. Without speaking a word, she snatched 
up the scissors, and, cutting off her curls with 
relentless rapidity — 'Voila, monsieur!' said 
she, throwing them towards him, and turning 
her back." 

" It puts me in mind," exclaimed Guido, 
"of one of our Italian harlequins, who, great- 
ly enraged with some one beyond his reach, 
says, 'As I can't kill my enemy, I will kill 
myself — I must be revenged on some one.' " 

"Alas!" said De Joinville, "I must take 
my leave, for the cardinal holds a levee to- 
day, and let those fail in attendance who want 
nothing. Now, I want a benefice which is 
just vacant. You have no idea how poor the 
court is; nobody is rich, except Mazarine and 
l'Abbe Fouquet. I am half tempted to cry 
with Madame Thurine, ' How happy are 
our servants! they, at least, get Christmas 
boxes.' " 

He then rose, and wished them farewell — 
" Only a temporary farewell," added he, as 
he reached the door. " I have too good an 
opinion of your taste not to expect you back 
again. Absence teaches appreciation by the 
force of contrast — you will regret us, and re- 
turn." 

Without waiting for their answer, he left 
the room. 

Both Guido and Francesca were surprised, 
even hurt, at the ease of nis farewell. They 
felt so much more than he did, and were 
ashamed of the feeling. The truth is, that 
they had still a world of kindliness and affec- 
tion in their young and unused hearts, which 
had long passed away from De Joinville. He 



dreaded the trouble much more than the pain 
of emotion ; he could not altogether escape 
the many chains of life, but he wore them as 
lightly as possible. His love was gallantry, 
his friendship liking, and his business amuse- 
ment. His philosophy was to s'egaytr on the 
route from the cradle to the coffin ; and some- 
times I have thought his system the right one. 
When I have marked, as all must do, the dis- 
appointment that rewards the noblest efforts, 
the agony that attends the most generous af- 
fections, I have asked, Is it not better to 
waste life than to use it? The vain question 
of a mood of profitless dejection — the most 
unprofitable state in which we can indulge ! 



CHAPTER XLIII. 

" The morrow 
That o'erlooks thy twilight, Earth, 
Is one of shade and sorrow !" 

Laman Blanchard. 

It was with sad hearts and weary spirits 
that the Carraras found themselves tossing on 
the rough waves of the English channel. It 
was a dull, chill morning, and the gray, leaden 
atmosphere closed round the vessel as some- 
thing w T hose oppression was palpable; while 
heavy ridges of thick black clouds rested on 
the waters in the distance. The shore was 
soon lost in the mist, and nothing caught the 
eye but the gloomy sky and the gloomy sea, 
which seemed to reflect back each other. The 
wind blew with that shrill and complaining 
sound, which forced from the flapping sails 
and creaking planks a thousand strange and 
dismal murmurs; while the steps and voices 
of the sailors vexed with perpetual stir ears 
accustomed to the quiet of a lonely chamber. 
Monotonous, yet confined, the sea view offer- 
ed nothing to distract the attention of the 
voyagers. There is something, too, espe 
cially fatiguing in seeing every one around 
you busy but yourself, while the novelty, the 
bustle, and the noise, prevent your attention 
from being riveted by conversation or lost in 
revery : you soon become equally restless 
and weary. « 

This was their second voyage, too, and that 
forced a comparison with their first. The 
scene was as much changed as themselves. 
Then the sky, in whose clear, unbroken blue 
their future seemed mirrored, was bright as 
their own hopes; the waves danced glittering 
in the sunshine; the dark eyes that looked 
kindly on them were the familiar and flashing 
glances of their own countrymen; the lan- 
guage they heard was that which they had 
known from their infancy. Now, all was 
strange and cold ; there was no sympathy in 
the light eyes and fair faces which turned 
upon them with no deeper feeling than curio- 
sity. Then the land, with its battlemented 
town, and stately church rising high in mid- 
dle air, and the groves and orchards of its en- 
virons, green to the very ocean, lingered long 
on the transparent element, as if loath to lose 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



307 



eight of them. The wind was so soft, so 
warm, and laden with the early fragrance of 
the orange trees, then in their first and 
sweetest blossoming! 

But if the world without was changed, still 
more changed was the world within. Then, 
youth had been taught nothing by time; their 
6pring was in its early luxuriance of breath 
and bloom ; not a bud had fallen from the 
bough, not a leaf had withered. Now, many 
a hope had perished, and many a belief gone 
from them forever. They had learnt to think 
as well as to feel ; and thought is mournful. 
They remembered too keenly their pleasant 
credulity as to what to-morrow would bring 
forth, to dare to indulge expectation of its 
pleasure ; they had been disappointed once — 
so might they be again — for disappointment 
ever leaves fear behind. 

There was something, too, in Arden's gloom 
which increased that of his companions. To 
that man pain was ever present; his brow ne- 
ver relaxed, his eye never brightened, and 
cheerfulness or anticipation seemed almost in- 
sults to him — they jarred with such utter 
mockery on his tone of mind. He felt that it 
was a duty, and had accelerated to the utmost 
this voyage to England ; but the humiliation 
of the necessary confession to Lord Avonleigh 
was wormwood to his soul. It occupied htm 
by day, it haunted him by flight; he framed 
it in a thousand shapex, but the thought that 
he must humble hircmlf before the man he 
hated, was, as the ^esence of a demon, for 
ever beside him. 

Towards the afV/noon, Francesca, who ob- 
served how worn out and cold Guido appear- 
ed, prevailed upon him to go down into the 
cabin, and rsst upon one of the benches. She 
covered hi.n carefully with a cloak, and at last 
he dropped off to sleep, her arm supporting 
his head, ?.s she knelt beside, breathing fear- 
fully lc?t she might disturb his unquiet slum- 
ber. While she thus watched him, she 
could not but mark the insidious progress 
of dvease; it startled her, as it had done 
when she first saw him on his return, in the 
convent. 

The most anxious eye grows familiar with 
t}/i face which is seen every day, till some 
o'/ince circumstance awakens the alarmed ob- 
u fvation. This was the case with Frances- 
<Ji, whose now terrified imagination exagge- 
rated every symptom. She saw the one red 
spot on the cheek, contrasting with the tran- 
sparent whiteness elsewhere, so delicate that 
the face seemed almost feminine. She wiped 
with a light yet trembling hand the dews that 
gathered heavily on the forehead ; she laid her 
head close to his heart, to catch its quick and 
irregular beating, and could scarcely restrain 
a start of dread at the peculiar murmur in the 
chest. Every breath was difficult even to 
pain. 

He was roused from his brief rest by a vio- 
lent fit of coughing, which seemed to shake 
the whole system. It was one which in Eng- 
land is so simply, yet so emphatically, deno- 
minated a churchyard cough, It was hollow, 



like the echo of the grave. Francesca could 
not trust her voice with an inquiry. 

At this moment a sailor entered to summon 
them on deck. " We are in the middle of tlio 
Southampton waters, and shall land in half an 
hour. I thought you would like to see tho 
coast, and it will soon be dark." 

Guido rose eagerly and followed the man, 
when Francesca had translated the words, tor 
she understood the language much more 
readily than he did. The sailor, when they 
reached the deck, good naturedly offered a great 
coat to Guido, for, though fine," the air was 
chill, and he observed that the young foreigner 
shivered as he came up. 

" How beautiful!" exclaimed they, as they 
leant over the side of the vessel ; and beauti- 
ful, indeed, it was. 

On one side was Hampshire, whose dark 
outline was in shadow; on the other, the green 
and undulating shores of the Isle of White, 
whose verdant meadows came down almost to 
the strand. The trees were leafless, but the 
sunshine played upon their branches ; behind 
them the sea was clear and dark, but before 
them it was like fire, for the winding of the 
creek brought the bay directly below the set- 
ting sun, with whose glory the whole west 
was kindled ; it was too bright to look upon 
— a glory like the track of passing angels. 
The vapours of the morning had melted away 
into a soft and golden haze, which bathed all 
things in its genial hue. 

" Can this be winter V asked Guido. 
"I hope so," said Francesca, answering to 
her own thoughts ; for, unaware of our un- 
certain climate, she relied on its benefit to 
Guido. 

The radiance now began to mellow ; a large 
cloud, which had been slowly floating up, 
crossed the burning centre ; it melted, but into 
a rich crimson ; the reddening tints spread 
rapidly, softening as they receded from the 
round orb that now seemed to rest on the wa- 
ters ; the light became coloured ; many small 
white clouds rose flitting from afar, and each 
as they approached caught a tinge of pink. 
The sun sunk below the waters, which glowed 
with his descent ; but, almost unperceived, a 
purple shadow fell on the atmosphere — Na- 
ture's royal mourning over her king. Far as 
the eye could reach, the waves had a faint lilac 
dye, reflected from deeper-dyed heavens above, 
whose magnificence at last faded into a broad 
and clear amber line, with an eddy of pale 
crimson on its extremest verge. Then up 
sprung a single star, lonely and lovely over 
the far sea. The long shadows now heralded 
the coming darkness; and there was some- 
thing very cheerful in the numerous fires that 
were visible from the different windows. 
The old castle alone looked gloomy, as it 
stood, gray and rugged, close upon the water- 
side ; they passed it rapidly, and anchored by 
the quay. 

Arden, who had stood by them unperceived, 
now approached, and taking Franccsca's hand; 
said, in a low and solemn voice, — 

" I dare not bless you ! but, at least, Inrd* 



308 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



welcome the Lady Francesca Stukely to her 
father's country and her father's home." 



CHAPTER XLIV. 

What are you in such a bustle about? inquired her 
husband."— Mrs. S. C. Hall. 

The reputation of an inn for cheerfulness 
must, like " merrie England's" reputation for 
gayety, have been acquired long ago. The 
traveller — shown into his solitary apartment, 
with the Sporting Magazine, some two years 
c-Vd, the sole volume — a small narrow street 
for his observation — his time upon his hands, 
" no nothing to do," and the evening before 
him, — will surely not find the prospect very 
animated. So much for the occupant of the 
britscka, who waits, as all the horses are out 
at a ball or a scrutiny. Neither is the wan- 
derer of lower degree placed in a more enliv- 
ening position ; true, in the common room he 
has companions ; but to every man is allotted 
his own table, his own candle, and his own 
thoughts. Silence and suspicion are the order 
of the day ; and civility is the surest sign of 
a swindler. But in the good old times (though 
perhaps their great goodness may be debatable 
ground) the inn kitchen was a cheerful place; 
and guests of every rank took a contented seat 
on the oaken settles by its blazing hearth, and 
did not relish the savoury mess, on which 
mine hostess piqued herself, at all the less 
because they had witnessed somewhat of its 
preparation. The degrees of society were 
more strongly marked; but then there was 
less fear of confusion. After all, the English 
hostel owes much of its charms to Chaucer ; 
our associations are of his haunting' pictures — 
his delicate Lady Prioress, his comely young 
squire, with their pleasant interchange of ale 
and legend, rise upon the mind's eye in all the 
fascination of his vivid delineations. 

But these days were past at the time of 
which we write ; a severe and staid, if not 
sober, spirit was abroad. And though the 
annals of the period do not show us that there 
was less ale drawn, or less canary called for ; 
men got dry with the heat of polemical dis- 
cussion, and drunk with a text, not the fag 
end of a ballad, in their mouths ; and people 
made a sort of morality of straight hair, long 
faces, and sad-coloured garments. Yet, as 
the Carraras approached the inn where Arden 
had decided that they should pass the night, 
it seemed very cheerful. The windows were 
ruddy with the light within; and when the 
door opened, it discovered a large warm 
chamber, and an immense wood fire was re- 
flected from walls lined with pewter plates 
and dishes, polished with a degree of bright- 
ness, and ranged with a degree o§ display, 
which showed that the preacher's asseveration 
of " Vanity of vanities, all is vanity," had not 
sunk very deeply into the landlady's heart. 

Mine hostess herself was a pretty-looking 
woman, who, whether her age approximated 



most to thirty or forty, would have puzzled 
even the curious in these matters. She was 
dressed, according to the universal fashion, 
in a dark coloured bodice and ski'-t, and a 
white linen cap, whose closely plaited border 
covered her hair, except a narrow braid. Il 
may be doubted whether this scrupulously 
plain attire at all suited the taste of the wear- 
er; or whether she did not turn with a .long- 
ing eye to the days when she rejoiced in a 
scarlet petticoat, and a cap gay with knots of 
pink riband. 

The host himself w r as one of those very 
quiet men whom we usually see linked to the 
most active helpmates. Whether nature, in 
the first instance, pointed out the necessity of z. 
supply from another of that quality in which 
each w r as most deficient, and thus the match 
originated — or whether the state of quietude 
comes on after marriage, exertion on both 
sides being discovered to be a superfluity, — is 
really too profound an investigation ; but the 
fact is certain, that the keen-tongued, quick- 
witted, bustling wife, is always united to the 
slow, silent, and quiet husband. 

This proper order of things was duly ob- 
served at the Sun — the Crown it had been, 
but this was too loyal an emblem now that 
England was under a protector, instead of a 
king; and the sign had accordingly been 
taken down. The host proposed divers puri- 
tanical fancies — nay, once hinted at a head of 
Cromwell himself; but the hosVms overruled 
all these proposals, and stood firm by the 
Sun. 

" Nobody," as she justly observed, "has 
any particular right to the sun, and it can 
therefore offend nobody ; and though your ca- 
valiers now-a-days don't wear their loyalty 
like a feather in their cap, seeing that few 
wear feathers; still there are many of our 
customers, and good ones, too, who would 
scruple even at canary, if Cromwell stood at 
the door to bid them welcome." 

These reasons convinced the landlord, and, 
indeed, he would have been convinced with- 
out them ; but reasons are proofs given as 
much for our own satisfaction as for that of 
others. And, in truth, the w r orthy host had 
every cause to be satisfied with his wife's 
management. Their bacon was a credit even 
in Hampshire ; their ale worthy of washing 
it down ; their accounts well kept, and most 
promising at the year's end. The worst 
faults that could be alleged against her were, 
that she sometimes continued her admonitions 
and explanations in an ear too drowsy to re- 
ceive them, and that she would smile too rea- 
dily when a young cavalier chanced to praise 
her white teeth: but that, as she observed, 
was in the way of business. 

There were already many other guests 
when the Italians entered ; but there was that 
in their appearance which attracted immediate 
attention. The hostess's quick eye glanced 
from one to the other, and, pronouncing them 
to be brother and sister, she felt inclined to 
favour one for the other's sake, namely, the 
sake of a singularly inndsome youth. Be as 






FRANCESCA CARRARA, 



309 



philos. ^hical as we can on the subject, fortify 
the mind with as many old proverbs as we 
will, — how that beauty is a flower of the field 
that perisheth, and that " handsome is that 
handsome does," — yet there will always be 
something in beauty that attracts and interests 
us — we know not how. Such homage is a 
sort of natural religion of the heart, or rather 
superstition, that the good must be inherited 
in the lovely. But Guido had a claim far be- 
yond his classical and perfect features, illu- 
mined, as they were, by his large dark eyes, 
— a claim, too, scarcely ever without avail 
on feminine compassion; he looked so evi- 
dently an invalid. The day's fatigue had 
been too much; and with ready thankfulness 
he took the proffered seat by the hearth; 
while Francesca, seeing that Arden remained 
in his usually moody silence, ventured, though 
with some trepidation, on a few English 
words. 

" My brother is not well? and the cold night 
affects him ; but he will enjoy such a fire." 

Her accent was foreign, but her smile was 
a universal language all the world over ; and 
and though one supper had just been des- 
patched, active preparations were commenced 
for another. 

"These foreigners," thought the female po- 
tentate of the Sun, " won't know what to or- 
der ; but I'll show them what a good supper 
is." And with a rapidity quite new to the 
strangers, satisfactory even to their hunger, a 
little table was placed in the warmest nook of 
the chimney-corner, spread with the cleanest 
of cloths, and soon covered with a dish of 
fried ham, eggs, with the purest of curdlike 
white and the clearest of yellow ; facing was 
one of venison steaks, from whose brown 
crispness exhaled a little cloud of most fra- 
grant smoke ; in the middle was a square cut 
from a pastry; and the intermediate spaces 
were filled up with condiments and a large 
newly baked loaf. 

Francesca marked with delight the eager 
manner in which Guido began his meal, and 
almost forgot her own hunger in the amuse- 
ment of watching him eat so ravenously ; he, 
however, soon recalled her attention to her- 
self, by inquiries of — " Why she did not join 
them 1" and her supper did as much credit to 
the cookery as Guido's. All on " hospitable 
cares intent," especially when those cares 
are also profitable ones, know how pleasant 
the appearance of enjoyment is; and the 
strangers increased their first favourable im- 
pression by the appetite and the relish with 
which they despatched the dishes set before 
them. The request afterwards for a flask of 
her best wine completed it ; — in spite of her 
husband's* advice, who interrupted her even at 
the very moment when the steaks were taking 
their last shade of brown, to remark that the 
/iew arrivals were obviously foreigners — per- 
haps papists, and it might be spies; and he 
got what he deserved, an angry " Hold your 
tongue !" for his pains. 

Neither Francesca nor Guido were sufri- 
riently familiar with the English tono-ue to 



understand the conversation that was going on 
around them ; but one name riveted Arden's 
attention, as soon did the dialogue in which 
that name was mentioned. Francesca, too, 
observed, his change of countenance, which 
led her to mark the group on which his eye 
rested ; and if not able to comprehend the 
whole, she yet understood a considerable part 
— enough to guess the rest. The speakers 
were three men, rather beyond middle life. 
One was pale and cadaverous, as if every fea- 
ture gave testimony to the length of his vigils 
and the rigour of his fasts, while straight 
black hair, hanging down on each side of his 
face, added to his wild and neglected appear- 
ance. His sombre dress was threadbare, and 
more than one rent was visible in his cloak ; 
and yet any one who noted proceedings might 
have observed that he had taken care to help 
himself to the best and the hottest, while the 
nearly empty stoup beside exhaled the odour 
of some spirit more potent than merely that 
of grace — it was the best French brandy. 
Hezekiah Pray Unceasingly-to-the-Lord was 
a fit specimen of the times, half hypocrite, 
half fanatic; so far just in his deception, that 
sometimes he deceived others, and sometimes 
himself. Near him was seated his very oppo- 
site ; a man whose warm, comfortable dress, 
good-humoured but inexpressive face, though 
not wanting in a certain sort of good sense, 
together with an inactivity of body, bespoke 
the city burgher, well to do in the world. 
One always prepared to conform, having had 
long practice in that way in the whims of his 
customers ; whose terror of the late commo- 
tions was centred in the fact, that one day, 
in consequence of a riot, he had to shut his 
shop at noon ; and who carried his idea of 
their results no farther than that the present 
grave fashion led to a great demand for sober 
colours. At his side, was a thin, restless- 
looking man, whose embrowned skin, bore 
testimony to foreign , travel — one of those ad- 
venturers who deem their fortune never lies at 
home, and encounter great risks for the sake, 
not so much of their gains as for themselves, 
— human birds of passage, who make life one 
perpetual journey in search of wealth, but 
who never die rich. 

" But are you sure Lord Avonleigh has 
been arrested and sent to London ?" 

" Am I sure," said the other, looking with 
a smile at the hostess, " that the ale which we 



drinkin 



gis 



?» 



"I saw the ungodly flourishing like a bay 
tree ; I passed, and lo ! his place knew him 
no more," muttered he of the rent cloak. 

" I know it to my cost," pursued the former 
speaker, disregarding the interruption. " Who 
now will buy the gallant falcon I have brought 
with so much cost and care from Norway for 
Lord Stukely ?" 

" Why," ejaculated the mercer, " they can* 
not lay treason to the charge of such a youth !' 

" Yes, he is sent off to the Tower with his 
father." 

" And did you hear from the servants, if 
any hope was entertained for them ?" 



310 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" Hope] — why there is very little fear. It 
is the talk of the place, that he has been ar- 
rested to keep him out of mischief. There 
have been rumours of a conspiracy on foot in 
the neighbourhood ; and Sir Robert Evelyn's 
death" — Francesca could not repress a start — 
"has left him too powerful. So Cromwell 
has very wisely taken him out of the way of 
temptation." 

" I wish I had sent in my bill for those em- 
broidered gloves which the young Lord Albert 
ordered; he told me so to do, but I thought 
them such safe customers ; and it seemed 
more handsome to wait," said the burgher, 
with a face of dismay. 

" Pshaw !" exclaimed the owner of the fal- 
con ; " if it was handsome to wait then, it is 
handsome to wait now. A brief imprisonment 
and a fine is the worst that Lord Avonleigh 
has to expect. You will be paid when he 
comes back ; and a trifle added to the next 
fancy of Lord Albert's will make up the 
interest on your money. I am the only per- 
son to be pitied — what am I to do with my 
falcon !" 

Guido and Francesca exchanged looks; for 
the attention with which both had listened 
enabled them to comprehend with tolerable ac- 
curacy the preceding dialogue. 

" 1 have scarce enough English to make a 
bargain," said Guido; " but we must buy this 
falcon." 

Francesca thanked him with a smile ; and 
thought within herself, whether her new rela- 
tives would have such ready sympathy with 
her wishes. Guido beckoned to the hostess, 
and by an ingenious mixture of words, looks, 
and signs, made her fully understand his de- 
sire of purchasing the bird. In the meantime, 
their pallid companion was overwhelming the 
sellers of the embroidered gloves and the fal- 
con with denunciations of the vain follies to 
which they ministered, mixed with prophesy- 
ings of the vengeance awaiting them. The 
mercer, who knew such men had often mis- 
chief in their power, composed his features 
and listened with apparent attention ; not so 
the other, who leant back on the bench, and 
began whistling some air he had picked up 
on his travels. The volunteer homilist was 
stopping for lack of breath, when the hostess 
stepped forward, and, addressing the owner of 
the falcon, observed, — 

" You will find your bird a sore cumbrance ; 
for the noble sport is little kept up in our 
parts." 

" I know that," said the man, as he looked 
with a sorrowful sigh at the cage, which he 
had covered with his cloak. 

" Well, now, what would you say if I 
could help you to a purchaser? There are 
many bird-fanciers in the town of Southamp- 
ton—" 

" I have a starling myself that can ask what 
time o' day it is, just like a Christian," inter- 



rupted the mercer; who could never hear a 
question of buying and selling raised without 
putting in a word. 

" Pshaw, man!" exclaimed the other; "do 
you think my noble falcon is a fitting compa- 
nion for your blackbirds and linnets, to be put 
in a wicker cage, and fed on chickweed V 

"I think," added the hostess, " you had bet- 
ter listen to me. I tell you I know of a pur- 
chaser." 

" Let me know who he is," asked the man; 
" my falcon shall perch on no hand whose 
veins run not with gentle blood." 

" Of that you may judge yourself," answer- 
ed she, indicating the intended purchaser by a 
slight turn of her head. 

The stranger looked at Guido from head to 
foot; apparently his survey was quite satis- 
factory, for he crossed the room, and said, — 

" I am right loathe to part with the brave 
bird that has been my companion these two 
months ; but poverty has no choice. Few 
words drive a bargain with Peter Eskett. 1 
never abate one farthing of my price ; but then 
that price never asks more than a fair profit. 
The bird sleeps now ; but to-morrow, so please 
you, it shall take a fair flight, and it is then 
yours at the price for which it was promised 
to Lord Stukely." 

Guido agreed at once to the sum ; but added, 
"I doubt our being much the wiser for the 
trial, as I tell you frankly, I know nothing of 
the sport. My desire to possess the bird has 
another origin." 

The man looked his discontent, when Fran- 
cesca, who began to fear a refusal from his 
expression, said, " But we shall take your di- 
rection as to the management of our prize ; and 
I can assure you, not one word of the instruc- 
tions will be neglected." 

A sweet smile and a soft word have usually 
their desired effect ; and so they had on the 
owner of the falcon, and, fixing the following 
morning to conclude their bargain, he with- 
drew. 

Arden, who had for the last few minutes 
been sitting in a gloomy revery, now approach- 
ed them, and said, — 

"This sudden arrest has completely altered 
my plan ; selfish that I am, to feel it a relief, 
this delay in meeting with your father ! But 
to-morrow I will ride over, learn more accu- 
rate tidings, and see if there be accommodation 
for you at my brother's. There best may you 
wait Lord Avonleigh's release." 

No possible objection could be raised to this 
scheme ; and the party retired to rest. Wea- 
ried out, Francesca at once fell asleep — a slum- 
ber which would have been broken by anxiety, 
could she have known the feverish restlessness 
which kept Guido wakeful on his unquiet pil- 
low, listening — and dreary it was to listen 
through the night — to the distant dash of 
the waves, as they rose beneath the loud and 
sweeping wind. 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



311 



CHAPTER XLV. 

I did not wish to see that face again." 

Arden easily ascertained the truth of the 
report about Lord Avonleigh's imprisonment, 
which seemed rather meant as a curb to the 
bold and spirited youth, his son, than to spring 
out of any act of his own part; and there was 
not a doubt but that temporary restraint was 
the worst that could ensue. To wait patiently 
was all that could now be done; and his bro- 
ther's house would be a most comfortable 
aoode for the young- Italians ; while his sweet 
and gentle niece would be a charming com- 
panion for Francesca ; and he thought, with a 
glow of affection long unfelt, that Lucy Ayl- 
mer must inevitably make a friend whose fu- 
ture kindness might add much to her happi- 
ness. Both were at present placed out of their 
sphere; but the one would in all probability 
have it greatly in her power to cherish and 
aid the other. 

The weather had changed suddenly, and 
instead of a dull, but warm atmosphere, there 
had been a severe and sudden cold; but for 
the first time the travellers saw nature under 
the influence of a rime frost. It was well that 
wonder and delight forced them frorn dwelling 
on their own thoughts, for both were sad. The 
delay was matter of great regret to Guido ; he 
felt his own increasing weakness — he looked 
forward with a gloomy foreboding, and thought 
what a relief it would have been, could "he 
have seen his sister — for he could accustom 
himself to nothing but the tenderness of that 
long familiar name — could he have seen his 
sister acknowledged, beloved, and secured 
from all further reverses. 

Francesca, deceived by the colour which 
the keen air brought into his cheek — deceived, 
too, by his exertions to appear well before 
her, was less solicitous about his health; but 
now that she was actually in England, grew 
more so about their future. Like Arden, 
though from a different motive, she was glad 
that the meeting with her father was post- 
poned. Hitherto, she had been so little ac- 
countable for her actions, save to herself alone ; 
now, she was about to submit to the authority 
of another, and that one a perfect stranger to 
her. Bound by no affections that had grown 
up unconsciously — -swayed by no early re- 
membrances — by, in short, none of those ties 
which bind parent and child together far more 
than the fancied force of blood ; although I do 
not believe there is much even in that — still 
Francesca could dwell only on the thought, 
that she was unknown, nay, it might be, un- 
welcome. She must come before Lord Avon- 
leigh connected with a very unjustifiable pas- 
sage in his life; perhaps — and that idea 
strengthened her — his heart might be soften- 
ed by the memory }f her mother's sufferings 
— former love must awaken into tenderness 
for the orphan she had left. 

Guido, too, was among her anxious ques- 
tionings of the future. The home which was 
not a home for him, could be none for her; 



but surely Lord Avonleigh would feel what 
was due to one who had indeed been the most 
kind, the most tender brother to his own, would 
he add deserted, child. On this subject, per- 
haps the first one in their lives that had noi 
been talked over together, they had been silent 
— Francesca from delicacy, Guido from pre* 
sentiment. 

An exclamation from Guido of " How bea 1- 
tiful !" broke their meditations, and all reined 
up their ponies to look round. They had just 
entered one of the forest roads ; both had been 
so preoccupied by their thoughts, that beyond 
their first shivering glance, when they mount- 
ed, at the white world around, neither had 
noticed that peculiar and brilliant landscape, a 
wooden country covered with a rime frost. 
But now, the first fog of the morning had 
cleared away ; the shelter of the dense boughs 
made it much warmer ; and the round red sun 
looked cheerfully as it shed its crimson hues 
amid the topmost branches. The light snow 
lay on the narrow and winding path before 
them, pure as if just fresh winnowed by the 
wind. The outline of every tree was marked 
with the utmost distinctness by the frost which 
covered it; but every spray drooped beneath 
the weight of the fairy and fragile tracery that 
gemmed them ; while the gossamer threads, 
like strung and worked pearls, only still more 
transparent, seemed to catch every stray sun- 
beam, and glitter with the bright and passing 
hues of crystal. Every tree was as distin- 
guishable as in summer. The oak might be 
known by the weight of snow supported in its 
huge arms ; the ash, by the long and graceful 
wreaths that clothed its pensile branches'; and 
the holly wore a long icicle, clear, and radiant 
with many colours, at the end of every pointed 
leaf; while the noiseless manner in which they 
moved along, from the light fall on the paths, 
added to the enchantment of the scene. 

" 'Tis a world of sculpture !" exclaimed 
Guido, catching hold, as he passed, of a long 
garland covered with the most delicate frost- 
work, something like those which you see 
carved on the ancient marble of some old 
sepulchral urn. As he touched it, the snow 
fell off, and, cleared from its mimic alabaster 
of rime, the green ivy, with its long bright 
leaves, remained in his hand. 

"You would like," said Francesca, smiling, 
" to have your marble creations somewhat 
more lasting." 

" And yet," replied he, " it is emblematic ; 
behold, it shelters the evergreen !" 

"Just a lucky chance that there was not 
hidden beneath a dry and withered bough." 

"It would have been a truer omen," an 
swered he, mournfully. At this moment Arden 
came to their side. 

"Yonder road," said he, "leads direct to 
Avonleigh. After a little while we shall have 
to branch off, as Lawrence Aylmer's housf ; lies 
to the left; it is midway between Avor .eigh 
and Evelyn Hall. 

"So near!" thought Francesca; — and het 
thoughts turned more to the last road than tc 
the first. A woman can never whollv snaKi* 



312 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



off the influence of him whom she first loved. 
The love itself may be past, — gone like a 
sweet vain dream which it is useless to re- 
member, or dismissed as an unworthy delu- 
sion ; still its memory remains. A thousand 
slight things recall some of its many emo- 
tions — it has become a standard of compari- 
son ; and the "once we felt otherwise," occurs 
oftener than many would allow, but all must 
confess. 

Again they rode alor.^ in silence, though 
Lbss abstractedly than before; for every now 
and then some far vista, like the aisle of a 
mighty temple upreared in giant marble, 
caught the eye, to rest with delight on the 
clear blue sky to which it opened ; or, per- 
haps, most beautiful in the rapidly approach- 
ing dissolution, they marked some singularly 
slight and graceful tree, covered with its 
white wreaths and icicles, every one a rainbow 
in the colouring sunshine. 

Suddenly a distant sound of music came 
upon the air — a far and melancholy sound, 
like the wailing poured forth for a defeat or 
death, — when even the trumpet, so glorious 
in its rejoicing, show T s how mournful can be 
the voice of its lament. Francesca turned to 
Arden, who could only express his surprise. 
She then questioned the boy who led the 
horse with the baggage, with some difficulty 
— for to hear and to comprehend were two very 
different things; but from him she could ob- 
tain no information ; he evidently knew no- 
thing about it; and fear was all it excited. 
Still the sounds came nearer and nearer ; and 
as they turned off into the road before men- 
tioned, a long and evidently funeral procession 
was winding slowly along. 

They drew up in a small open space, be- 
neath the shelter of a huge beech, to allow it 
to pass by, for the foremost horsemen were 
already beside them. A band of troopers, 
two and two, in the buff jackets, large boots, 
and slouched hats, which marked soldiers in 
the parliamentary service, rode first ; their 
arms were reversed, and every eye bent 
gloomily on the ground — sorrow was obviously 
no mere form, to be observed and forgotten. 
The trumpeters came next, and their wild la- 
ment filled the air; then two pages, dressed 
in black, led a gallant steed ; but there was 
no need of a rein, for the head of the noble 
creature drooped, and it seemed to have an 
almost human consciousness that it was now 
paying its last duty to its master. An open 
bier, drawn by four horses, whose tossing 
heads covered with plumes tangled the white 
boughs, and shook down the glittering icicles 
at every step, followed; and on it was the 
coffin, covered with a velvet pall, on which 
.ay the sw#rd and gloves of the dead who 
slept below. Behind came a concourse of 
vassals and spectators ; but Francesca only 
saw the young cavalier who rode bareheaded 
behind. His long fair hair hung to his 
shoulders, but the wind blew it aside, and, 
pale and careworn, she instantly recognised 
the face of Robert Evelyn. 



CHAPTER XL VI. 

" O; youth, thou hast a wealth beyond 
What careful men do spetid their souls to gain." 
Mary Howitt. 

Whose funeral has just passed?" asked 
Arden, who little suspected that his comj*- 
nions were already informed. 

" Sir Robert Evelyn's," answered the lin- 
gering follower whom he questioned. "It is 
a sore loss to the whole country ; for a kinder 
master never existed. But his son is like 
him, God bless him '". 

"That," continued Arden, "was the pale 
fair young man who rode after the coffin?" 

"Yes; that was Mr. Evelyn. And, sad 
though the task be, he may lay his father in 
peace in the grave ; for he never hastened 
him into it by care or sorrow of his causing ; 
and he watched him like- a girl duiing Sir 
Robert's last illness." 

Arden turned to the Carrara's, when Guido, 
who guessed that Francesca would little wish 
to hear all this repeated, began to tell him 
that they had slightly known Mr. Evelyn ; 
and proposed, as they were chilled with their 
pause beneath the beech, to ride on a little 
briskly. 

Francesca's eyes were too full of tears even 
to look her thanks for his watchfulness; but 
she rode on, glad to be distracted by th-9 rapid 
pace, which demanded all her attention ; for, 
little accustomed to ride, she was a timid 
horsewoman. But the moment they slack- 
ened their pace, she reverted to the scene 
which had just passed. Only to have seen 
him again was enough for agitation ; but to 
see him engaged in an office so holy and so 
touching, and to hear his praises, made every 
pulse in her heart beat even to pain. His 
pale, mournful countenance rose before her ; 
and, as it had ever happened when aught oc- 
curred to soften her feelings towards him, she 
went back to those first and happy days in 
Italy, when she lovfed him so entirely, so con- 
fidingly, and he seemed so worthy of her ut- 
most devotion ! But again that last scene at 
Compiegne rose vividly before her; not only 
his falsehood to her, but his slander of her, 
came to mind. It seemed as if she had never 
felt their full heinousness till now — now that 
with shame she owned that for a moment she 
had relented in his favour. With shame — 
for resentment was a justice she owed to her- 
self. There are some offences which it is an 
unworthy weakness to forget. 

She put back her hood, and allowed the 
fresh air to blow upon her face. She forced 
herself to mark the beautiful and radiant hues 
that the noon-rays flung over every melting 
icicle ; and in a short while was able to speak 
to her brother, and turned the conversation on 
what sort of a home they should find in the 
English farmhouse to which they were 
going. 

They had not much time for fancying or 
guessing. They left the forest; and, after 
passing through a narrow lane, from whose 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



313 



tvarm and southern aspect the frost had al- 
most disappeared, they arrived at a large low 
dwelling-, to which Arden welcomed them as 
to that of his brother-in-law. A rosy child 
opened the gate which looked upon the yard, 
at whose entrance was a pond, where a flock 
of ducks were catching the sunshine upon 
their brown and white wings, while their 
throats took a still richer shade of green. The 
buildings formed a square. Opposite the 
house was a roomy barn, whose open doors 
showed a thresher hard at work, and the sound 
of his flail resounded on every side. Then 
came a range of stables, with a shed filled 
with carts; and the right was occupied by a 
cow-house, whose tenants were being milked, 
and whose fragrant breath was sweet even in 
the distance. In the middle was a large 
dunghill covered with poultry; while one 
very fine hen, with a brood of half-grown 
speckled chickens, started off with her flutter- 
ing company beneath the very horses' feet, 
who apparently were too used to the confusion 
to mind it. 

Lawrence Aylmer came to the door and 
helped Francesca to dismount. A spacious 
porch opened into what was at once kitchen 
and sitting-room. An immense hearth filled 
up one end of the apartment; two small square 
windows were on each side the chimney-place, 
too high to serve any purpose of observation, 
but their light showed the curious carving of 
the mantle-shelf; a matchlock, and a cross- 
bow suspended above. The floor was of red 
brick ; the walls where whitewashed, though 
but little of them could be seen, from the delf 
and pewter which crowded the shelves ; and 
here it was obvious, that, unlike those of the 
Sun, no mistress's eye rejoiced in their splen- 
dour, for though perfectly clean, there was 
ittle attempt at display. At the other extre- 
mity was a large window, which, from the 
white sprays that hung before the glass, 
seemed to look into a garden. The table, 
which was spread for dinner, was drawn to- 
wards its recess, thus leaving an ample space 
for the culinary preparations, which were now 
proceeding in full vigour. 

As we have but little to say of the master 
of the house, that little may as well be said 
here, where he has at least the importance of 
being host. Lawrence Aylmer had but one 
pursuit ; for that he rose early, and late lay 
down to rest — for that he toiled and specu- 
lated — for that grudged even the common ex- 
penses of his living. We need scarcely add, 
that this pursuit was gain ; and this passion 
— for such it was, with all the strength, the 
endurance, the hope, the imagination of pas- 
sion — this craving for wealth, rose from some 
of the tenderest, the purest, the saddest feel- 
ings in our nature ; so strangely do the emo- 
tions of the human mind originate their oppo- 
ses ! 

Lawrence Aylmer loved his wife with the 
poetry born of her own sweet face — of the 
green meadow with its early wildflowers — of 
the long starry walk through the dim shadows 
of the old forest, wherewith that imao-e was 

Vol. I.— 40 



associated. He felt, while he loved, her su- 
periority ; his eye might grow gentle beneath 
hers, and his voice low when meant for her 
ear. Yet these were not his habits ; he was 
rude in comparison with Lucy. Every hour 
passed beneath his roof made him more deep- 
ly conscious that his was not the home for his 
drooping and delicate flower; and when she 
died — died of that insidious disease which so 
mocks with the semblance of hope when hope 
there is none — he forgot that the breath of 
consumption also fades the cheek that sleeps 
beneath the purple, and that the highest and 
noblest have to deplore over their loveliest 
and best. With that proneness to accuse our 
own peculiar lot of whatever may be its sor- 
row, he blamed the circumstances in which 
he was placed, and said, " If I had been 
wealthy, Lucy had not died." And when — 
the very image of her over the headstone of 
whose grave the moss was growing gray — 
another Lucy grew up to dwell within his 
home, how did he delight in lavishing on 
her every luxury ! and said within himself, 
;i Show me a lady in the land that has her 
heart's wish more than my child ; and her 
dower — there are few amid the ruined gentry 
around but would be thankful for a tithe of 
the broad pieces, or a few roods of the broad 
lands, that will be hers." 

And yet Lucy thought her father neglected 
her — at least, that he took no pleasure in her 
society; and, naturally shy, she often shrunk 
from offering those thousand little acts of af- 
fection which make the enjoyment ot daily 
life, and which, indeed, would have made the 
happiness of theirs. The truth is, they had 
lived too much apart — apart at the time when 
tastes, more than opinions, are formed, and 
when the memory treasures up pleasures and 
sorrows, hopes and disappointments, which, 
whether good or bad, are such perpetual and 
grateful subjects of familiar discourse after- 
wards. They had nothing in common, and 
this led to constant restraint; their conversa- 
tion was always brief and confined, because 
neither ever spoke of the things which really 
interested them — and confidence is the soul 
of domestic affection. 

Years passed by, and Lawrence Aylmer 
was surprised at the riches which he had ac- 
cumulated ; yet he could not deceive himself 
into the belief that they added to his enjoy- 
ment. His thoughts went continually back 
to her who was cold in the unconscious grave. 
Ah ! his wealth might have added to her hap- 
piness ; but, like most good things in this 
world, it came too late. 



CHAPTER XLVII. 

" Ah ! life has many drpams. but yet has none 
Like its first dream of love." 

With hospitable eagerness Lucy Aylmer 
hastened to conduct her guests to her own 
! room. Francesca was soon disencumbered 
2D 



314 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



of her riding- hood and cloak ; and the three 
young people, left together, became rapidly- 
acquainted. The very blunders made by the 
two Italians in the English tongue — the ne- 
cessity of explanations, and of mutual assist- 
ance jn comprehending each other, soon put 
the conversation on a familiar footing. 

The dinner was very cheerful ; for all were 
inclined to please and be pleased. Francesca 
was riot only attracted towards her sweet and 
gentle hostess, but wished, by exertion, to 
banish the image of Evelyn, brought too 
readily before her by the frequent recurrence 
to mind of the morning's scene. 

Lucy was delighted with the strangers. 
She had too little society not to enjoy the 
prospect of such an addition to their house- 
hold circle during the dull and dreary winter; 
besides, there is a readiness of attachment in 
youth — the fresh and unused heart is so alive 
to the kindlier impressions. Pass but. a few, 
a very few years, and we shall marvel hoW 
we ever could have found love enough for the 
many objects which were once so dear! 

When Lucy left the room, both were warm 
in her praise. Ah ! that exaggeration of liking 
— that readiness to like — that taking for grant- 
ed all imaginable good qualities — to what a 
joyous time, to what a buoyant and happy 
state of feeling, does it belong! Their young 
hostess was so fair — so delicate, with her 
golden hair only visible beneath the snow- 
white cap, just where it parted on the fore- 
head. 

There would have been something child- 
like in the pure skin and small features, but 
for the deep and melancholy blue eyes! and 
«n them was a thoughtful sadness, never yet 
seen in the clear orbs of childhood. There 
was a tone, too, of pastoral poetry shed over 
the new scenes to which they were just intro- 
duced, that had a greater effect from the con- 
trast to those, artificial and crowded, which 
they had just left. The simplicity of the 
pretty chamber where they sat w T as different 
from any thing they had seen before. The 
cheerful white wainscoting was ornamented 
with carving; and on the high mantel-shelf 
were ranged some curious shells and pieces 
of glittering spar, and a nest filled with va- 
rious eggs. Around were many of the little 
graceful signs of feminine taste and presence. 
There were some light book-shelves, an em- 
broidery frame, a lute, and in the large bow- 
window, so placed as to catch whatever sun- 
shine could be found in December, a number 
of plants — mostly common flowers, but im- 
proved into another nature by sedulous culti- 
vation. 

The aspect was southern and sheltered, the 
rime had long singe melted from the ever- 
greens, and a few late roses looked in at the 
easement. Somewhat pale were they, and 
drooping; but lovely, for they were the last. 
Beyond the garden was a field, and that skirt- 
ed a vast arm of the forest — dense and impe- 
netrable, though now the thickness of the 
foliage added nothing to the matting of the 
branches. 



A drizzling rain kept them close prisoners 
for the three succeeding days, which, never 
theless, passed easily away. Of Lawrence 
Aylmer they saw but little; enough, how- 
ever, to mark and pity the restraint that ex- 
isted between him and his daughter ; though 
[convinced, at the same time, it was one of 
those evils for which, at all events, no strangei 
could bring a remedy. More familiarity of 
j intercourse might have taught both parent and 
! child the affection hidden in each other's 
heart ; but this would have been to reverse 
the long established custom. They never 
took their meals together ; there was no houi 
in the day to which they looked as a rallying 
point, where each is prepared with the little 
narrative of daily occurrence, only interesting 
from daily listening. As to Arden, he was 
more gloomy and unsocial than ever. Of 
what could the scenes of his boyhood remind 
him, but of talents wasted, of time departed, 
and of hopes gone by forever ! 

The first day they were able to walk out, 
the young people hastened to explore the 
neighbourhood. 

" That is Avonleigh," said Lucy, as they 
paused upon an eminence, which commanded 
a fine sweep of country, " though you can 
scarcely see it for trees ; and that old hall, on 
whose gray walls the sunbeams are glisten- 
ing, is Evelyn House — perhaps you would 
like to go over it? there are some beautiful 
pictures." 

"O, no!" exclaimed Francesca, interrupt- 
ing her; " we should very much dislike com- 
ing in contact with strangers just now." 

"None of the family are there," replied 
Lucy; "as Mr. Evelyn went to Ireland the 
very day after Sir Robert's burial." 

At this moment Guido, who knew how dis- 
agreeable the subject must be to his sister, 
drew their attention to those golden slants of 
sunshine which seem to come so direct from 
heaven to earth — bright and vapoury ladders 
— fitting steps for our vain wishes to mount 
above ; and just then so distinct from the dark 
mass of shadow flung from the deep forest in 
the distance. This turned the conversation, 
and the topic was never again renewed; for 
Francesca carefully avoided aught that could 
bring on any mention of the Evelyns; and 
Lucy had her own secret consciousness, 
which, by keeping a subject constantly in the 
mind, often prevents all allusion to it. 

Lucy was still in the early and golden time 
of affection — vague, visionary and believing. 
She never dreamed that in her lover was the 
greatest obstacle to their happiness. No re- 
membrance of falsehood was treasured bitter- 
ly in her memory — a warning for the future 
which we are better without ; for what avails 
distrust % It only deprives us of life's greatest 
enjoyment — being deceived. Made up of illu- 
sions, as our existence is, alas for the time 
when we come to know those illusions be- 
forehand ! 

Lucy's cheek was pale with the sickness 
of hope long deferred ; and her imagination, 
wearied with exertion, sometimes sunk down, 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



315 



fonguid in its utter solitude. Still she hoped 
and trusted, and in so doing, was far happier 
than she deemed. Gentle fancies waited 
around her ; the poetry of her youth was over 
all the associations of her attachment — the 
days to come rose beautiful before her, for 
they were of her own creation ; and absence 
was sweetened by expectation. 

In all things there is one period more lovely 
than aught that has gone before — than aught 
that can ever come again. That delicate 
green, touched with faint primrose, of the 
young leaves, when the boughs are putting 
forth lli e promise of a shadowy summer — the 
tender crimson of the opening bud, whose 
fragrant depths are unconscious of the sun, — 
these are the fittest emblems for that transitory 
epoch in the history of a girl's heart, when 
her love, felt for the first time, is as simple, 
as guileless, as unworldly as herself. It is 
the purest, the most ideal poetry in nature. 
It does not, and it cannot last. It is only too 
likely that the innocent and trusting heart 
will be ground down to the very dust. False- 
hood, disappointment, and neglect, form the 
majority of chances; and even if fortunate — 
fortunate in requited faithfulness and a shel- 
tered home — still the visionary hour of youth 
is gone by. There are duties instead of 
dreams — romance exhausts itself — and the 
imaginative is merged in the commonplace. 
The pale green returns not to the leaf, the 
delicate red to the flower, and, still less, its 
early poetry to the heart. 



CHAPTER XLVIII. 

"I feel the awful presence of my fate." 

They had been settled about a fortnight at 
Ilolmhurst, the name of Lawrence Aylmer's 
farm ; when, one evening, finding Francesca 
and Guido alone, Arden gave the former a 
closely written packet. "This," said he, 
"is for Lord Avonleigh. It has been, for the 
last three nights, my wretched task. Its 
contents are already known to you ; for it 
contains my history, and will explain every 
thing. Give it to him yourself, Francesca — 
let him see your mother in your face ; and for 
your sake he may forgive me. I leave this 
to-morrow." 

An exclamation of surprise broke from both 
his hearers. 

' Why should you go!" cried Francesca; 
" you have not a connexion or a friend in the 
wide world, save among ourselves. Have 
we given you unconscious offence'? — uncon- 
scious, indeed, it must have been." 

" None, dear child !" said he, taking her 
hand; "but misery makes me restless. I 
feel, too, as if the very sight of me must cast 
a gloom over you ! I often hear your voices, 
and that of my gentle Lucy, mingled together 
in cheerful converse ; and I shrink from the 
pleasure it gives me— I dread lest it should 
be punished on you !" 



"Nay," interrupted Guido, "this is being 
too fanciful. We will run the risk," added 
he, smiling, "of any judgment you may bring 
down upon us." 

" You speak like a boy," replied Arden, 
almost angrily, "who imagines that doubt is 
wisdom. My whole past has taught me the 
mysterious influences which unite our desti- 
nies together. Blessings wait on the steps 
of one, while curses follow in the path of 
another. To whom have I ever brought 
good 1 My sister pined away in the home 
which I urged her to enter ; .my first friend, 
through my act, became a broken down exile 
in his old age; the only woman I ever loved 
I forced to a violent and dreadful death ; my 
eastern master perished as soon as he be- 
friended his fatal slave. I seek to repair my 
former crimes, and now Lord Avonleigh, who 
has known but one uninterrupted eourse of 
prosperity, is carried away into captivity. If 
I wish your good I must leave you. Why 
should my shadow be flung upon your path ?" 

There is something in a deep conviction 
that forces, for the time, its own belief on 
others. As the youthful Italians gazed on 
Arden's pale and haggard face, with its wild 
and gleaming eyes, seen by the fitful light ot 
the decaying hearth, while the only sound 
that echoed his slow and hollow accents was 
the winter wind that went howling drearily 
past, — they felt as if the evil influence were 
indeed upon them, and shrunk before that 
nameless dread of the future, which for the 
moment subdues the energies, and in whose 
presence reason trembles. Surely all the 
more imaginative know this sensation ; it is 
not omen — sound, light, even a cheerful word, 
have power to destroy its dark dominion ; 
and, unlike most other human emotions, it has 
no consequence. But who has not shuddered 
before the indefinite and unknown 1 

In the ordinary course of daily life, it is 
wonderful how little we think of the morrow. 
That sufficient for the day is the evil thereof, 
is a truth unconsciously, but universally, ac- 
knowledged. Instinct clings to the immedi- 
ate ; but when we do think of the future, un- 
influenced by any present ho-pe — by any 
strong tide of anticipation carrying us along 
its darkened depths — how terrible does that 
future ever appear ! — what may it not have in 
store for us ! Sickness, sorrow, poverty, age, 
and even crime — all that we should now in- 
dignantly disclaim, but that to which we may 
yield under some strong and subtle tempta- 
tion. The guiltiest have had their guileless 
and innocent hour. Who knows what may 
await them of degradation and despair ? 
Death, too ! — that awful spectre, which stalks 
over the morrow as his own domain, opens 
before us his many graves — our own the last I 
— no rest till we are worn with weeping for 
the loved and lost ! At such times, how we 
marvel at our usual recklessness, and pause, 
as it were, shrinking from the busy and inevi- 
table current which is hurrying us on to 
eternity ! 

Each, however, felt that their silence was 



316 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



unkind to Arden : both urged him to stay, by 
every motive that could persuade, and every 
reason that could induce. But entreaty and 
argument were alike in vain. Arden had ar- 
rived at the last consolation of misfortune — 
fatality. Strange the unconscious comfort it 
is to exaggerate our self-importance, and that 
crime and sorrow are redeemed from the com- 
monplace by stamping them with the charac- 
ter of fate ! 

Arden departed early the next morning. 
He took no farewell, and left no words of 
blessing behind him. Some slight noise had 
awakened Francesca, and opening her case- 
ment, she looked through the thick and misty 
air, and saw him riding slowly over the heath. 
It was a bleak and desolate scene. In sum- 
mer, it was a wide and beautiful panorama; 
but now the dreariest hours of the year were 
paramount, and nature looked rather lifeless 
than sleeping. The common was brown, and 
the trees leafless; while a dull and leaden 
sky oppressed, rather than surrounded, the 
landscape. 

Never tell rne of the sterner beauties of 
winter. Winter may have a mighty beauty 
of its own, where the mountain rises, white 
with the snow of a thousand years, hemmed 
in by black pine forests, eternal in their gloom; 
where the overhanging avalanche makes ter- 
rible even the slightest sound of the human 
voice; where the pinnacles of ice catch the 
sunbeams but to mock their power, and wear 
the genial and rosy tints of that warmth of 
which they know not; and where waters that 
never flowed spread the glittering valleys with 
the frost-work of the measureless past. 

But the characteristic of English scenery is 
loveliness. We look for the verdant green of 
her fields, for the rich foliage of her luxuriant 
trees, for the colours of her wild and garden 
flowers, for daisies universal as hope, and for 
the cheerful hedges, so various in leaf and bud. 
Winter comes to us with gray mists and driz- 
zling rains: now and then, for a day, the frost 
creates its own fragile and fairy world of gos- 
samer; but not often. We see the desolate 
trees bleak and bare ; the dreary meadows, 
the withered gardens, and close door and win- 
dow, to exclude the fog and the east wind. 

Such a morning it was when Arden wound 
his w r ay along the cheerless road. Twice or 
thrice he looked back; but suddenly he clap- 
ped spurs to his horse and rode on, as if in 
the determination of fixed resolve. A turn of 
the path showed him once more ; but imme- 
diately a group of trees intervened, and shut 
him forever from Francesca's sight. 

None in his native country ever saw Rich- 
ard Arden again. He left h'is niece richly 
dowered ; and months afterwards, they had a 
brief scroll, which told his fate — it was his 
ast communication with his kind, — he had 
entered the abbey of La Trappe. Penance 
and vigil soon did the w r ork of time on his 
wornout frame ! Scarcely had he fulfilled 
his gloomy task, and dug his future grave, ere 
in that grave he was laid — the fevered brain 
calm, the beating heart at rest forever ! 



CHAPTER XLIX. 

" The mighty conqueror of conquerors— Death !" 

But while the common run of ordinary cir 
cumstances were going their little round of 
influence, — small pebbles flung in the great 
stream of time, whose emotion extends not 
beyond their own narrow eddy, — one of those 
mighty events was on the wheel of fate which 
shake the nations with the sound thereof. 

The generality of individuals perish and 
are forgotten before the wild flowers have 
sprung up in the grass sods that cover them. 
Their home is desolate for a time, and, per- 
chance, missing their care, may force their 
children to grieve for their loss ; perhaps, too, 
some faithful heart may feel that its life has 
gone from it forever. But, take the majority 
of deaths — how little are they felt — how little 
do they matter! Strange mystery of human 
existence, that its most awful occurrence is 
often its least important ! Death is ever 
around us, and yet we think not of it ; its 
terrible presence is made manifest, and then 
forgotten. The most passing interests of life 
occupy more of our thoughts than its end; 

But the Destroyer had now struck down 
the mightiest in England — one of the great 
ones, whose destiny is that of many — one of 
those daring spirits whose history includes 
that of thousands: — Cromwell was dead! 
The hand that held the bond of so many jar- 
ring interests, lay powerless beneath the pall. 
The perils of war had been about him, and 
the midnight assassin had watched his path ; 
yet he died quietly in his bed. No part of his 
fate seemed to fulfil the prophecy of what 
went before. Who could have believed it? 
was the motto of his whole life. 

There was not a hearth in England where 
the death of Cromwell was not the sole dis- 
course ; and, resembling all other events, each 
drew that inference from its consequences that 
best pleased them. Royalist and republican 
were equally fervent in their hope, and strong 
in their belief. Our part, however, lies only 
with those of our own narrative ; and to ex- 
press their feelings on the occasion, we must 
claim our privilege of changing the scene. 

One red gleam of a winter sunset broke the 
heavy vapours that had collected on the air — 
a single bright spot, but rapidly disappearing, 
for the thick atmosphere rolled like turbid 
waves of some dark sea. That crimson light 
passed through the murky gratings of a high 
and narrow window in the tower, and, falAng 
direct on the hearth, almost extinguished the 
decaying brands, whose fire was lost in the 
white and smouldering ashes. There was 
something peculiarly dreary in the aspect of 
the room; the lofty walls and ceiling were 
discoloured with smoke and time, and the 
smooth wainscot had no other ornament than 
initial letters and names, rudely carved by 
some unpractised hands : each was a record 
of the weary hour and of the hope deferred — 
the languid task set by imprisonment to itself, 
glad to waste the time which has no employ 



FRANC ESC A CARRARA. 



317 



merit save melancholy thought, and finding- 
even in this trivial labour a resource; 

Two chairs, a deal table, and a worn foot- 
stool, were the sole furniture of the comfort- 
less chamber; and yet there were indulgences 
which told that the prisoners had command 
of that universal talisman, gold. Glasses, 
whose slender stems seemed endangered by 
the touch, and carved with the delicate tracery 
of Venice — flowers just breathed on the clear 
crystal — stood upon the table ; and the half- 
finished flask exhaled the delicious odour of 
Burgundy. 

The elder cavalier was seated beside the 
hearth, half asleep ; and sleep, which so 
shows the face in its truth, unbrightened by 
expression — which so often conceals the ra- 
vages of years — marked how little time had 
wrought upon Lord Avonleigh. The brow 
was smooth and fair ; no deep thought, born 
of deep feeling, had grown there — those inde- 
lible lines which stamp even youth with age. 
True, the fiery eagerness of former days was 
past, and in its place was the quiet, self-con- 
centrated look of habitual indulgence. His 
dress was rich ; the finest laceformed his 
ruff, and his curious gold chain was rather 
elegant than massive, ; while an attention to 
the disposition of the whole, together with 
the intentional grace of the attitude, bespoke 
the still remaining consciousness of personal 
attraction. 

His son, the companion of his imprison- 
ment, was very like him ; but, strange that 
the young face possessed already stronger 
lines than its prototype! Scorn seemed habi- 
tual to the curved lip ; and the starting veins 
in the middle of the forehead were the uner- 
ring indication of a violent temper. 

Lord Stukely had been for some time watch- 
ing the small portion of the Thames which 
could be caught from the barred casement. 
There was but little to interest in the carpen- 
ter's yard opposite, or the few boats that were 
floating slowly down the river. He turned 
away listlessly, and, at first, with the sole 
idea of its own enjoyment, ever uppermost with 
a spoiled child, was about to rouse his father, 
when his natural kindliness of temper pre- 
vailed, and he desisted, though obviously not 
knowing what to do with himself. He then 
opened a drawer in the table, and took from it 
a pack of cards. "I can't play by myself," 
exclaimed he, discontentedly. Suddenly his 
face brightened, he drew his seat forwards, 
and began building houses. One after another 
the parti-coloured fragments of each fragile 
'auric were strewed over the table, till gradu- 
ally his hand became accustomed and steady — 
walls and roofs were properly balanced, and 
the mimic Babels mounted high in air, — fittest 
symbols of all the graver plans and trials that 
agitate human existence. Scarcely is one 
scheme overthrown, ere another is raised out 
of its ruins, but destined, like its predeces- 
sor, to destruction ; and yet, it would seem, 
the more we know the chances against our 
efforts — how a breath may demolish, nay, 
what our own weariness will soon destroy, — 



the more earnestly do we pursue them to the 
end. 

Albert was too young to moralize thus, and 
he pursued his employment. At length he 
raised a tower whose merits really deserved 
to be appreciated, and Lord Avonleigh was 
awakened by a loud and sudden demand on 
his admirat?on. " It reaches above my head !" 
exclaimed Albert, eagerly. But eagerness in 
this case, as in most others, annihilated its 
own delight; down came the tottering height, 
while the disappointed builder found relief for 
his sorrow in anger, sorrow's best remedy, after 
all. " It is your fault," exclaimed he, turning 
pettishly to his father — " shaking the table 
so!" 

"Why, you see, Albert, the consequences 
of awakening me," replied the indulgent pa- 
rent ; "but if you will build it up again, I 
will promise to admire as much as you please, 
and at the most respectful distance." 

Lord Stukely was not to be easily soothed ; 
his father's commiseration only made him 
think that he had been really aggrieved ; so 
he leant over the cards sullenly enough, but 
without attempting to renew his former occu- 
pation. 

" We shall soon be in the dark," said Lord 
Avonleigh, who, like most indolent people, 
preferred not to remark the mood which he 
lacked energy to reprimand. And so he began 
to nurse the small remains of fire yet lurking 
in the smouldering wood ashes, which revived 
as the red sunbeams were lost in the masses 
of black clouds now gathered in piles upon 
the west. A pale clear flame had just coloured 
the thick white smoke, when Lord Avonleigh 
started up in a listening attitude of intense at- 
tention, exclaiming, "St. Paul's bell is toll- 
ing!" 

He was right. Heavily and gloomily the 
mighty sound swept along the Thames, and 
was answered, as one church after another 
repeated the melancholy peal. Dull, loud, 
and monotonous, stroke after stroke fell like a 
weight upon the ear; the whole atmosphere 
seemed oppressed with the invisible but con- 
scious presence of Death. "They are toll- 
ing," ejaculated Lord Avonleigh in a subdued 
voice, "for the death of Cromwell." 

" For Cromwell's death V cried Albert, his 
eyes flashing, and his cheek colouring, like a 
young gladiator in the first flush of his fero- 
cious triumph — " for Cromwell's death 1 Why 
it is the bravest peal that ever rang from the 
steeples of London. Out upon their dastardly 
tolling ! Why don't they ring the bells mer- 
rily, and cry, 'Long live King Charles the 
Second!'" 

"Hush! hush!" said his cautious compa- 
nion. But the injunction was not needed, for 
a burst of thunder directly above their heads 
completely overpowered both their voices. An 
instant after, a vivid sheet of lightning filled 
the chamber. They involuntarily approached 
the window ; the opposite side of the river 
was hidden in a dense black vapour, and the 
huge dark clouds were piled upon the sky like 
the waves of some vast and stormy sea, jus' 
2d2 



318 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



marked by thin meteor-like lines of faint crim- 
son, illuminated almost every minute by the 
white glare of the forked flash, while the old 
and massive walls of the tower seemed to 
rock as each tremendous clap of thunder fol- 
lowed fast upon another. 

" Hurrah !" cried Albert, as one roll, more 
violent than the rest, made the solid floor 
vibrate under their feet. "Hurrah! the devil 
is taking his own in fine style." 

This storm, which devastated all England. 
was felt in Hampshire before news arrived of 
the death which it was supposed to attend. 
The depths of its old forest reverberated to the 
echoing thunder, and many a stately tree stood 
scorched and blackening, to whose withered 
boughs spring would now return in vain. 

The ensuing noon, Francesca and Guido 
were watching from the window the destruc- 
tion that had been wrought in the garden, 
whose paths were like running brooks, on 
which floated the smaller branches torn off by 
yesterday's fury, while the larger ones crush- 
ed the slighter shrubs on which they lay. 
Several trees had been blown down, one of 
which was a fine old laurel just opposite the 
casement. 

"It was not for nothing," said Lawrence 
Aylmer, entering the room, " that the storm 
came — it arose round the death-bed of Crom- 
well." 

"Is Cromwell dead V was the exclamation 
from all." 

There was no party spirit, no political hopes 
or fears, in that little chamber ; so that the 
news was received in the silence of awe and 
dread. But the general rarely triumphs long 
over the individual feeling; and the young 
Italians naturally reverted to the probability 
of Lord Avonleigh's immediate release. Such 
anticipation was, however, to be disappointed, 
as the council of Richard exacted pledges 
which his lordship was unwilling to give; 
fur, already calculating on the return of the 
ruyal family, he determined to take no step 
that might then be recorded against him. 

No such change in affairs as was expected, 
however, took place. The truth is, that people 
in general are stupified by any great event. 
The awe of Cromwell rested like a dead 
weight on men's minds, and the shock and 
pause were mistaken for security. 



CHAPTER L. 

"I look into the mist of future years, 
And gather comfort from the eternal law." 

Wilson. 

Having claimed our privilege of carrying 
our readers to scenes, however far apart, which 
bear upon our narrative, we must now show 
the effect of Cromwell's death on our other 
actors; and cross the Irish channel, to where 
Henry, the younger son of the protector, re- 
sided, the government of Ireland having been 
intrusted to his charge. 

It was an evening- of much festivity and 



some mirth — things often more opposed thas 
their near neighbourhood would indicate ; but 
Henry, who desired to conciliate, had collect- 
ed round the board a numerous assemblage, 
who, whatever heart-burning might be hidden 
by the embroidered vest, or what less kindly 
feeling might lurk beneath the apparent smile, 
at any rate came to the feast, and talked loud 
and drank freely. Enough was done to pass 
the meeting off as one marked by extreme 
cordiality and unbounded hilarity, — common 
phrases, which imply so -little, and are used 
so much. 

Among the guests was one, a young and 
handsome man, of that appearance which his 
own sex would pronounce gentlemanlike, and 
the other, interesting. He was dressed ir. 
deep mourning, and looked pale and sad, as if 
-the sense of a recent loss was still strong 
within him; while his fair though somewhat 
wan complexion was made more striking by 
the contrast with the bright profusion of hair 
that parted on his brow, and, hanging in long 
curls down his shoulders, might have vied 
with those of any native chieftain who held 
his freedom and the golden length of his locks 
synonymous. He was seated next an elderly 
officer, to whom he paid a degree of attention 
which was refused to the gayer sallies of a 
younger companion on the other side. Still it 
was obvious that his attention was the result 
of that good feeling which is the best polite- 
ness ; for when the old man became at last 
engaged in a warm discussion with his neigh- 
bour, touching the merits and demerits of chair, 
armour, Robert Evelyn (for it was he) looked 
relieved by being again able to sit in silence 
and in thought. 

It is curious to mark the many shapes taker, 
by mental suffering. With some it at once 
assumes the mask and the manner, puts on 
smiles, and forces the gay and brilliant word 
These are they who are sensitively alive tc 
the opinions of others, who, having once been 
called animated, deem that they have a charac- 
ter to sustain. Such shrink with morbid sus- 
ceptibility from its being supposed how much 
they really feel ; and vanity — vanity, by-the- 
by, in its most graceful and engaging form, 
usually native to such characters — aids them 
to support the seeming. They cannot endure 
being thought less agreeable; and only in 
solitude give way to the regret which op- 
presses them — then exaggerated to the ut- 
most. Ah ! none know the misery of such 
solitude but those w T ho have felt it. The reac- 
tion of forced excitement is terrible; [ lie, 
spiritless, and exhausted, we are left suddenly 
alone with our memory, which on the instant 
acquires an almost magical power of crea- 
tion ; every sorrowful passage in existence is 
retraced anew, every mortification rises up in 
double bitterness ; slights are magnified, and 
even invented, — they almost seem deserved; 
for we are ashamed of ourselves for having 
acted a part. We feel lonely, neglected, mise- 
rable, aggrieved; and all that but one half- 
hour before we had been exerting ourselves to 
attain, appears to be utterly worthless. 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



313 



It is easy to say that such a state of mind 
is morbid and mistaken ; but before we can 
change our feelings, we must change our na- 
ture ; and a temperament of this sensitive and 
excitable kind is of all others the most diffi- 
cult, nay, impossible, to alter and to subdue. 

Evelyn's character was completely the op- 
posite to this; he was naturally grave and re- 
served, and too little interested by the gene- 
rality of mankind to be solicitous about their 
suffrage. More vanity would have made him 
more amiable, but it would have been at his 
own expense. He did not, could not, lightly 
attach himself; but when he did, it was with 
all the energy and depth of a passionate and 
melancholy nature — one of those attachments 
which are the destiny of a life. He was more 
given to reflection than to imagination — hence 
he dwelt more on the past than on the future ; 
and with such tempers, impressions once ad- 
mitted are deep and lasting. 

With Evelyn, all the poetry of his mind 
was bestowed on the days which had been ; 
those to come were mere matter of calculation. 
Placed in such and such circumstance, which 
were but rational to suppose, such and such 
results would ensue. He was prepared to 
meet them, but he delighted in no fanciful 
creations concerning them : he looked back 
when he indulged in the tender romance of 
the heart. His father's death was but recent ; 
and no loss can be so severe as our first, — till 
tnen, scarcely have we believed in death ; 
now its presence darkens the world ; we are 
haunted by perpetual fear, for ever whispering 
of the instability of humanity. 

Evelyn took the earliest opportunity of 
withdrawing from the hall, and, while waiting 
for the interview which he wished with Henry 
Cromwell, paced slowly up and down one of 
the terraces that looked towards the sea. 
During the few preceding days the weather 
had been unusually stormy ; and though the 
wind had sunk down from its terrific violence, 
and the giant waves subsided to their wonted 
level, yet, both on sky and ocean, there were 
many slight signs of the late turmoil. The 
waves heaved with an unquiet motion, while 
flakes of froth floated upon them, and gleams 
of phosphoric light scintillated in the dis- 
tance. 

All things in nature are types of humanity ; 
and Evelyn pleased himself with tracing a 
likeness in the tremulous sea to man's own 
agitated bosom, shaken with the conflict of 
contending passion, and trembling with ex- 
haustion rather than repose ; while a thousand 
vain cares and feverish hopes are rocked to 
and fro on the xestless surface. The heavens 
were equally unsettled ; the dense purple, 
lighted by the large bright moon, was broken 
by huge masses of clouds— some dark, as if 
the thunder still lingered in their gloomy re- 
cesses, while others, fragile and snowy, 
seemed to harbour nothing rougher than a 
summer shower, enough to bathe but not to 
spoil the rose. 

The general aspect of midnight is calm and 
solemn; the lulled spirits unconsciously are 



subdued by the deep repose. Not so this 
night. The keen air from the water made 
exercise necessary to circulate the blood ; and 
somewhat of cheerful exertion is connected 
with a fresh gale and a quick walk. The 
light, too, was wavering and uncertain, as the 
heavy vapours sailed by and obscured the 
moon ; and her mirror, the ocean, at one mo- 
ment glittered with her silvery beam, and the 
next was left in total darkness. 

The scene greatly harmonized with the 
young Englishman's mood ; from its wearing 
a likeness to the human lot in general, he, by 
a common process, began to associate it with 
the fate peculiarly his own. Even so had his 
past mingled gloom and brightness, and so 
unquiet and troubled was his actual life. Still 
present to his mind rose one beloved face — 
beloved in spite of all. In vain he said to 
himself, " How lightly did she give me up !" 
He felt aggrieved, but not the less did he feel 
that for him there existed no other. Never 
again could he love woman as he had loved 
Francesca Carrara. Vainly he strove to 
banish that sweet face, which rose too vividly 
to his memory; he could not fix his thoughts 
on the many important points which needed 
consideration in his present position. Highly 
trusted, and for his father's sake, by the pro- 
tector, he knew all the need there was to 
prove himself worthy of such confidence ; 
still, to-night one vain and fond regret reigned 
paramount. 

But his revery was interrupted by hurried 
steps : he turned, and saw Henry Cromwell, 
white with some strong agitation, and so ab- 
sorbed in his own thoughts, that at first he did 
not observe Evelyn. He caught sight of him 
suddenly, and anxiously grasping his arm, 
exclaimed, " Have )'ou heard the intelligence 1 
The Lord Protector is no more !" 

Evelyn stood speechless. The awe of a 
great man's death struck upon his heart; and 
even the mighty consequences were forgotten 
in the single idea of Cromwell being dead. 
One by one the important results rose up 
within his mind, and he felt that the present 
was the epoch in his companion's life, — was 
he prepared to meet hi Henry Cromwell's 
first words proved that he was not. "I am 
half inclined," said he, in a hesitating voice, 
"to proclaim Charles Stuart." Half in- 
clined ! — that little phrase contains the secrets 
of all failures: it is the strong will, which 
knows nothing of hesitation, that masters the 
world. His father had no half-inclinings. 

"Proclaim Charles Stuart!" exclaimed 
Evelyn. " Impossible ! — it were the basest 
outrage upon your father's memory. Do you 
dare, before, his body is cold in the grave, 
thus to declare his life to have been a crime, 
and his authority a tyranny — to which you 
submitted from fear, and now seize the first 
moment of denying'? Will you act in such 
instant and direct opposition to all that he 
held necessary and right] Will you brand 



him as 



an usurper 



r- 



Henry stood silent but unconvinced ; for a 
weak mind is not easily dislodged from its 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



first impulse — retaining from cowardice what 
it caught from surprise. 

" I am sure," resumed he, " we might make 
our own terms with Charles." 

" Do you remember," asked E velyn, " what 
Hie late protector said, when urged to descend 
from the station which he worthily filled 1 — 
4 Charles Stuart cannot forgive his father's 
death ; and if he could he were unworthy of 
the throne.' I believe he could and would 
easily forgive, or rather forget his father's 
fate ; but the same selfish indifference would 
equally pervade all his actions — and England 
needs a sovereign of far other metaL" 

" My brother Richard, perhaps ?" replied 
Henry, with a sneer. 

" Good God !" exclaimed his companion. 
"Why cannot genius transmit itself 1 — a wor- 
thier heritage than king ever left. How many 
great designs are unfinished — how man) 7 " noble 
projects untried — because death smites down 
the mind capable of conceiving and executing 
them ! Alas ! such a mind passes away, and 
leaves no successor. Henry Cromwell, what 
a debt does your father's memory claim at 
your hands ! — it demands from you its justifi- 
cation. The high and prosperous state of our 
country has been the best answer to all cavil- 
ers at his power ; for when has power been 
more nobly exercised 1 It remains for you to 
show that his influence extends for good even 
beyond the grave." 

His enthusiasm carried his companion along 
with it. 

" My sway here," he said, after a pause, 
"seems firmly enough established. Men 
have now seen too much of change to desire 
it more ; and their security and mine are com- 
bined. 1 can detain the principal persons as- 
sembled in the lodge to-night as hostages." 

"Yes," answered Evelyn; "and such a 
breach of faith will inevitably destroy the 
very confidence which it must be your object 
to create. Suspicion never obtains more than 
the mockery of security." 

"At all events, there is no necessity of an- 
nouncing the protector's demise to-night." 

" Out upon any temporizing policy !" re- 
turned Evelyn ; " concealment always implies 
fear; and dread is God's blessing to our ene- 
mies. Go at once to the hall, and dismiss 
your guests with the intelligence of your fa- 
ther's death, and your brother's accession." 

The companions separated ; the younger 
Cromwell to execute his most unwelcome 
mission, while Evelyn remained for a time 
pacing up and down, lost in meditation on the 
events which a few months would probably 
unfold. Like most young men whose imagi- 
nation exercises itself in politics, he was a 
republican. Every age has its own enthusi- 
asm ; and it was only of late years that en- 
thusiasm had taken the direction of liberty. 
The ideal of liberty — now the excitement of 
the day — had arisen from three sources. First, 
from the religious discussions, which led to 
an extent and to conclusions of which the 
original agitators of such discussions little 
dreamed. To claim a right of thinking for 



yourself in one instance, ends by claiming 
that right in many ; and when the habit of 
examination is once introduced, the folly of 
any exclusive privilege is soon manifest; for 
most privileges have commenced in some ne- 
cessity of the time, and a positive benefit has 
accrued from their exercise to the many as 
well as to the individual. But, unfortunately, 
the privilege often remains after its necessity 
has passed away, and for a space holds on 
by the vain yet strong tenure of habit. Some 
unusual abuse awakens unusual attention ; 
the right is questioned, while the power to 
enforce it is weakened, and then alteration be- 
comes inevitable. The despotic power vested 
in the church during the darker ages was the 
only check upon that lawless era, and was far 
more useful than its assailants now admit. 
The ecclesiastical republic afforded the only 
opening for intellectual talent—the mental, 
that counterbalanced the feudal, aristocracy; 
but for its decrees, the very name of peace 
would have been unknown in Europe ; and 
mighty was the protection afforded to the 
weak, while charity and support to the poor 
was exercised on a scale far beyond the poor- 
rates and subscriptions of the present day. 
We are well prepared to allow that this vast 
authority was often directed to evil ; but what 
human authority has not been abused 1 — and 
the Roman church was a human institution, 
growing out of human circumstances and 
human exigencies. The moment its empire 
was no longer needed, that moment it was 
impugned. In vain persecution strove to 
keep down the fast-growing intelligence of 
the age. The authority was not required, and 
it fell before the more liberal faith which 
suited the period ; while the habits of investi- 
gation and inquiry which men had acquired 
soon extended from religious to all other sub- 
jects. 

There was also a second class among whom 
notions of freedom had sprung up in their most 
tangible and useful form — we allude to the 
mercantile ranks. For a long and stormy pe- 
riod after the downfall of the Roman empire, 
war was the business of the world ; the sword 
alone obtained and secured property. This 
state of things could not last ; one species of 
barter led to another ; and finally arose a set 
of men solely devoted to trade. Wealth, ac- 
quired by commerce, must always bring with 
it its portion of intelligence, and a desire of 
security. We would not lightly lose what 
we have hardly earned. Security cannot be 
obtained but by defined rights, and these can 
be insured only by equitable laws. Out of 
these principles arose the various struggles 
which convulsed Europe during the middle 
ages. The feudal potentates still strove to 
retain their military despotism after its neces- 
sity had passed away ; and the people of cities 
and ports, daily more conscious of their wants 
and powers, resisted that authority which had 
become so intolerable. Abuses are never re- 
medied till actually unbearable. Liberty has 
been called the daughter of the mountains — 
she ought rather to be styled the daughter of 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



321 



commerce ; for her best and most useful rights 
have been founded and defended by states em- 
barked in trade. 

There was a third class, small indeed when 
compared to those vast multitudes actuated by 
fanaticism or interest, but destined to exercise 
the most beneficial and lasting influence — the 
reflecting- and theoretic few, who saw in uni- 
versal freedom the only tie between man and 
his kind — the only rational hope whereon to 
ground the dissemination of equitable princi- 
ples among the human race. 

At the time of which we are writing, the 
classics, so lately thrown open for study and 
delight, were the universal source whence the 
young student drew his faith and inspiration. 
The glorious republics of Greece and Rome, 
seen through the halo which genius has flung 
round them, seemed the very models of that 
perfection whose belief ever haunts the mind 
capable of exertion. 

History, it is said, is the past teaching by 
example. Alas, that example has perpetuated 
many dazzling errors ! How many false prin- 
ciples have been laid down, how much delu- 
sion supported, by reference to the glories of 
Athens and of Rome ! It remained for a later 
time to observe that those so-called republics 
were but aristocracy in its most oppressive 
form ; and what are now the people were then 
positive slaves; to say nothing of how utterly 
unsuitable their form of government would be 
to our differing creed, climate, and manners. 
But it was to them that the wisest philoso- 
phers of that day turned for examples of legis- 
lation, and instances of patriotism ; and it may 
well be excused in one young and ardent as 
Evelyn, if he dreamed that his native country 
might emulate the graceful refinement of the 
Athenian, and the sterner virtue of the Roman. 
Evelyn expected nothing from Richard 
Cromwell ; but he believed that good might 
grow out of evil ; and the very weakness 
which would throw the power into the peo- 
ple's hands, might by them be so used .as to 
lay the foundations of a more secure and free 
government than had yet been known. More- 
over, he held any ill lighter than the return 
of the Stuarts to that throne for which long 
experience had shown their house to be so 
unfitted. 

" The parliament," thought Evelyn, " will 
feel their strength, and the past has surely 
taught them how to use it." 

Perhaps the great charm of a republic to 
the young mind is, the career which it seems 
to lay open to all, and whose success depends 
upon personal gifts ; while their exercise seems 
more independent when devoted to the people 
rather than to the monarch. They forget that 
tyranny and caprice are the attributes of the 
many as well as of the one — that the ingrati- 
tude of the mob is as proverbial as that of the 
court ; and that an equal subserviency is re- 
quired by either. But the poetry of the afar 
off is around the patriotism of the classic ages, 
and its record is left on the most glorfous 
pages wherein human intellect ever shed its 
halo over human action. Evelyn dwelt upon 
Vol. I.— 41 l 



the noble page with that feverish enthusiasm, 
that fiery element, whence all that is great 
originates ; but which so often consumes 
where it kindles, or, thwarted by small and 
unworthy circumstances, exhausts itself in 
the vain endeavour. 

He continued to pace the terrace, till a page 
brought him a summons from Henry Crom- 
well, whom he found in a small closet, busied 
in writing despatches. 

" I want your aid," he exclaimed, in an ani- 
mated tone. " All has gone right. The ter- 
ror of my father's name is still about us ; there 
was not even a murmur of dissent when I an- 
nounced Richard Lord Protector of England ; 
and yet, do you know, the name of Charles 
Stuart almost rose to my lips !" 
• "There was a time," said Evelyn, " when 
I felt a deep sympathy for the exiled prince — 
I pitied him as one deprived of his just heri- 
tage ; but a crown cannot, and ought not to 
be transmitted like an estate. The prodigal 
heir can only waste his own substance, and 
the punishment falls, as it should, upon him- 
self; but the prince has an awful responsibi- 
lity — the welfare of others is required at his 
hands ; his faults and his follies take a wide 
range, and not with him does their sufferings 
end. I saw too much of Charles Stuart at 
Paris ever to wish him on the throne of his 
ancestors. His undignified and profligate 
exile — needy suitor to-day to the only heiress 
of the royal French blood, and to-morrow tc 
one of the nieces of the Italian adventurer, 
Mazarin. Utterly neglectful of what he 
owes to the kingdom which he hopes to re- 
gain, Charles has learnt but adversity's worst 
lesson — expediency. He inherits his nature 
from his mother — worthy descendant of the 
subtle Medici — selfish, indolent, ungrateful, 
and false. He will look on our fair country 
but as the treasury of an idle and dissipated 
court. I, for one, will forsake land, heritage, 
and home, rather than swear fealty to Charles 
Stuart." 

" What do you do, lingering here V 1 de- 
manded Henry Cromwell of the page who had 
loitered in the room. " Leave us, and wait 
in the antechamber." 

The page obeyed in silence, and left the 
closet; and the friends pursued their dis- 
course, one of them little aware how carefully 
his words had been recorded. It was far ad- 
vanced in the night before tbey separated ; 
but almost every arrangement had been made 
for their future proceedings. It is curious to 
note, that amid the schemings of policy, and the 
pressure of business, no time had been found 
for the pouring forth of that natural grief which 
would seem the inevitable tribute to be paid tc 
a parent's loss: no; all the feelings had been 
stern, active, and on-looking. Ambition and 
affection rarely go together; the great, must pay 
their penalty, and be content with fear instead 
of love. The ordinary death-bed is surround- 
ed with sorrow and with tears; but upon the 
decease of a man like Cromwell, the future — 
busy, anxious, plotting, and dangerous — en 
grosses every thought. 



322 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



CHAPTER LI. 

"Death's 

A fearful thing, when ^Ye must count its steps. 

***** 
And wa3 this, then, the end of those sweet dreams 

Of home, and happiness, and quiet years V 

L. E. L. 

It was an early and a warm spring ; but, 
for the first time in their lives, the Carraras 
watched it with a divided heart. Guide- dwelt 
on its beauty with a deeper love than he had 
ever before known. We turn from no object, 
even the most common and the most trivial, 
for the last time, knowing it to be the last, 
without a touch of sad thoughtfulness. What 
then must be the feeling- with which we look 
on this glorious and beautiful world, and know 
that such looks are our last? — when we know- 
that, in a few fleeting weeks, of the green 
leaves we now see putting forth, such as are 
doomed to perish early, like ourselves, will 
fall upon the earth, in whose dark bosom we 
are laid in our long rest? — that the flowers, 
colouring branches which droop beneath their 
luxury of bloom, will only expand in time to 
form our funeral garland ? It is even more 
solemn than mournful to gaze upon the far 
blue sky, and feel in the dimness in the soon 
wearied sight, how, pass but a little while, 
and the whole will have faded from our view 
— its beauty never more to be heightened by 
the tender associations of earth, and its rain 
and shine shedding vain fertility on our grave. 
The mysteries of this wonderful universe 
rise more palpable upon the departing spirit, 
so single to mingle with their marvels. A 
voice is on the air, and the music on the wind, 
inaudible to other ears, but full of strange 
prophesies to the ear of the dying : — he stands 
on the threshold of existence, and already 
looks beyond it; his thoughts are on things 
not of this life ; his affections are now the 
only links that bind him to the earth, but 
never was their power so infinite, — all other 
feelings have passed away. Ambition has 
gone down to the dust, from which it so vain- 
ly rose ; wealth is known to be the veriest 
dross of which chains were ever formed to 
glitter and to gall; hope has resigned the 
thousand rainbows which once gave beauty 
and promise to the gloomiest hour; — all de- 
sires, expectations, and emotions, are vanished 
— excepting love, which grows the stronger 
as it approaches the source whence it came, 
and becomes more heavenly as it draws nigh 
to its birthplace — heaven. 

With an earnest and fearful fondness Guido 
thought of his sister. Ah! Death had still 
his stinrr and his victory, when such a parting 
would be his work. Guido, which is not usual 
in his most insidious disease, was aware of 
his danger ; perhaps the wish gave rise to the 
oelief, for he wished to die — but not when he 
thought of Francesca. How often in the si- 
lence of the midnight hour, when he turned 
upon the feverish bed of his unrest, and watch- 
ed the stars shine through the lattice, while 
he longed to mingle with their rays, and cast- 



ing away the wearied and painful body, be 
free and spiritual as the pure element which 
they lighted — how often, even then, would 
Francesca's pale and sorrowful face rise before 
him, and create the vain desire to live a little 
longer for her sake ! Could he have only seen 
her safe in her father's home, and have known 
her prized and loved as she deserved to be, he 
could have died content, ay, thankful ; but to 
leave her so desolate, so lonely, was a thought 
that cast its darkness on the very face of 
heaven. 

But the buds now putting forth on every 
branch would not more surely open into flower 
and leaf, than he would perish. Day by day 
he grew T weaker. The luxuriant hair relaxed 
with the damps that rose on the white fore- 
head, as if the moisture of the grave were 
already there. The blue veins shone on the 
temples with unnatural clearness; and often, 
when Francesca's lips were pressed to them 
in affectionate but vain endeavour to soothe 
their burning pain, she started at the loud 
and rapid beating of their feverish pulses. 
His hand was wan and slender as a woman's, 
with the same delicate pink inside; and the 
like feminine fairness extended over his face, 
and rendered more striking the terrible yet 
lovely red that burnt its small circle on his 
cheek — the death-rose of consumption. For- 
merly his large black eyes were wild and 
restless ; now, larger and clearer than ever, 
there was a calm and settled brightness, like 
the luminous aspect of some still summer star, 
whose light is poetry — poetry, which is the 
faint echo of the mysteries of the universe — 
the beautifier and the unraveller ! All the 
stormier passions had died away, like the 
winds on the blue surface of some unruffled 
lake, which mirrors nothing but the lone and 
lovely sky. Their deep calm orbs had no 
anger, no envy, no discontent, to convey — no 
vain repinings, and yet vainer longings. The 
shadow of mortality had disappeared before 
the awakenings of the spiritual life, which is 
dulled and distracted by the daily cares and 
fretfulness of ordinary existence. Sometimes 
a mist arose upon their placid brightness — 
while yet here, the soul must be troubled ; 
and when he met Francesca's sad and anxious 
look, all the tenderness of our struggling life 
returned upon him — and with tenderness ever 
comes bitterness. He had no tears for him- 
self — he had them only for her. Yet, as he 
approached the grave, he looked beyond it; 
there they met again, and to part no more. 
What were a few brief years to one whose 
hope was in eternity ? 

But Francesca, in whom life was too warm 
and active to feel that calm which is ever the 
herald of gradually coming death, could only 
dwell on their separation — the reunion was too 
far off for comfort — the great and present grief 
darkened the distant hope. The approach of 
the fragrant and verdant spring was torture to 
her. The whole atmosphere seemed instinct 
with life — the thickets, golden with furze, 
were all musical with the melodious plying of 
the bees' industrious wings ; the forest w 



FRANC ESC A CARRARA. 



323 



alive with birds scattering the sunshine as 
they fluttered through the leaves ; the grass 
swarmed with myriads of insects; shoals of 
bright-scaled fish rose like rainbows to the 
surface of the river;— the slender shrub, the 
stately tree, the seed bursting from the ground 
— all renewed their vigorous animation. The 
bough that over night had but the swelling 
germ, displayed a full formed leaf, or an open 
flower, to the noontide sun. 

Amid all this luxuriance of life, was there 
none for Guido? — was he to be the only one 
to whom the spring brought no hope, no re- 
newal of breath and bloom ? She turned away 
sickening from the joyous face of nature ; she 
could not see a rose unfold without envying 
its beautiful renovation. 

Guido was still equal to occasional exer- 
cise ; and he delighted to wander with Fran- 
cesca and Lucy through the quiet glades of 
the forest. He revelled in the fragrance of the 
warm air, and was never weary of admiring 
the hawthorn, drooping beneath the transitory 
wealth of its most aromatic blossoms. There 
appeared to be a thousand harmonies in nature 
unnoticed till now ; his soul had laid aside all 
meaner cares, and was in unison with them. 
A subtle and tender sympathy seemed to re- 
veal to him secrets before unknown — secrets 
whose key was love, — love, which, though 
tried, thwarted, and turned aside from its per- 
fectness in the wayfaring below, is still the 
animating spirit of the universe. 



CHAPTER LII. 

"I feel thy tears— I feel thy breath, 
I meet thy fond look still ; 
Keen is the strife of love and death !" 

Mrs. Hemans. 

i was one of those bright mornings which 
unite the softness of spring with the warmth 
and glow of summer. The sunshine flung its 
own gladness over all; every rippling brook 
ran in light ; and the deep blue of the sky was 
made yet deeper by a few white clouds floating 
along in snowy flakes. The greenwood glade 
was the only chamber for such a noontide, 
and the Carraras wandered forth. They soon 
reached the solitary dell where Rufus's stone 
marks how a random shaft quelled the pride 
of the haughty Norman. 

Never place made such accident appear 
more probable. The trees grow thickly and 
irregularly round, and the silvery stems of 
the ash trees glisten so as to dazzle the stea- 
diest eye. A rude stone is carved with half 
obliterated characters ; but the record of the 
fatal arrow is enough to make the place 
mournful with the presence of death, and to 
fill the mind with solemn fancies of life's 
strange accident. The royal huntsman rode 
forth that morning to the baying of the hound 
and the ringing of the horn — his gallant 
charger bounding over the greensward ^obedi- 
ent to his slightest sign, and yet less docile 
.ban the vassals who followed, watching 



every turn of his fierce and flashing eye. 
How little did he deem that a few hours 
would see him carried a dishonoured corpse 
in a common cart, with less care than would 
have waited on its usual load of the meadow 
hay or the yellow corn. And little, too, did 
Sir Walter Tyrrell deem that the morning, 
which beheld him a favourite guest in the 
royal train, would also see him a murderer 
and an exile, flying from the scaffold — which 
in those days would have waked for no nice 
distinctions of intention in the guilt. Ay, 
these are the lessons by which history teaches 
its severe morality, — mocking human power 
w T ith its own nothingness — changing the face 
of a nation's affairs by a chance—smiting the 
proud in his place of pride — and staining the 
wild flowers with blood, human and princely 
blood, poured out instead of that from the 
menaced deer. 

It was firmly believed in the New Forest, 
that the judgment of Heaven had struck down 
the cruel and arbitrary monarch in the vety 
place which he had made desolate. The le- 
velled cottage and the wasted field — the pea- 
sant, driven forth homeless and despairing, in 
the selfishness of barbarous amusement — were 
now avenged ; the offender's pleasure had 
been his punishment — the visible wrong fol- 
lowed by the visible penalty. 

The dell itself was lovely and lonely, and 
a favourite haunt with the Carraras. Death 
leaves behind its own solemnity ; and, even 
with the sunshine checkering the grass, the 
place had a peculiar gloom. Though they 
sat beneath the shade of the hawthorn, whose 
blossoms strewed the ground at their feet, and 
with the long branches drooping around them 
their sweet shelter, yet their talk was grave, 
and often broken by long intervals of silence. 

"Do not let us stay here!" at last ex- 
claimed Francesca; "I am not happy enough 
to bear its melancholy. True, that the fate 
of the Norman king was well deserved; but 
how T often has inexorable fate struck down the 
innocent as suddenly ! Alas ! life is full of 
strange chances; and it is terrible to think 
that on them we must depend." 

" Yes," said Guido, rising, " who shall 
deny that the shaft which sent the princely 
huntsman to the ground was a just judgment"?" 

"Ah! my brother," replied she, "judg- 
ment is an awful word for mortal life to utter ! 
Who dares pronounce that a doom is deserved ? 
If the sudden and early death be a judgment 
on one, must it not be so on all ? What had 
Henriette, so gentle, so kind, so good, done, 
that she should perish 1 ? Yet she died, with 
all the hopes, joys, and affections of life warm 
around her." Francesca spoke of Madame 
de Mercceur, but her brother was hidden in 
her thought ; — why was he to die so young? 

Rufus's stone lies in the outskirts of the 
forest, and in a few minutes they emerged 
upon the broad heath which bounds it, then 
like a sea of gold ; for the furze was in th& 
first glory of its spendthrift wealth. 

" Look there !" exclaimed Guido, botr 
struck. with the scene, and wishing to diver 



324 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Francesca's thoughts, whose eyes, fixed on 
the ground, were filled with tears. 

Placed beside a little copse on the edge of 
the road, whose branches, covered with the 
white May, were contrasted by the long dark 
garlands of ivy, like some fatal love redeem- 
ing and beautifying the ruin itself has wrought, 
was a wood fire, whose red blaze cast a vivid 
reflection on the deep green herbage by which 
it was surrounded. Three children, with the 
rich brown and .richer crimson colour, and the 
bright black eyes which mark a southern ex- 
traction, were rolling on the grass at a little 
distance ; and close beside the fire were seated 
two men, with red kerchiefs knitted round 
their close-curled dark hair. There was 
something in the complexions and out-of-doors 
life that at once carried the Italians back to 
their own country. Such a group was to 
them a familiar sight, linked with a thousand 
early recollections. 

They had quickened their pace with an in- 
tention of accosting the party, when a few 
large drops of rain, and a huge cloud spread- 
ing rapidly on the sky, induced them to re- 
treat towards the forest. They took refuge 
beneath a majestic beech, whose spreading 
foliage afforded ample shelter, while the now 
fast-falling shower played like music in the 
upper branches. 

There is nothing more delicious than one 
of these summer and sudden showers. There 
is something so inexpressibly lulling in the 
sound of the falling drops — like remembered 
poetry, inwardly murmured, rather than 
spoken. The leaves and flowers seem as if 
they were- conscious of the reviving moisture, 
and wear fresher verdure and livelier hues ; 
the perfume which they exhale makes the 
very breathing a delight — so sweet is the cool 
and fragrant air ; while the birds flutter to 
and fro, as if they, too, shared the general 
enjoyment. 

The sun soon broke forth from that one 
dark cloud, gradually melting into light; and 
the sunbeams and the glittering rain went 
driving together through the forest glades — 
those long vistas, of which the slender deer 
seemed sole habitants. Yet the gaze of the 
young Italians rather turned to the white 
windings of the smoke, which marked the 
site of the gipsies' fire, and recalled so many 
associations of their childhood and their coun- 
try. Light — transitory — winding its graceful 
circles, till finally lost in the blue ah, born 
of the fiery element which smoulders below, 
smoke is the very type of that vapour of the 
human heart, hope. So does hope spring 
from the burning passions, which consume 
their home and themselves — so does it wander 
through the future, making its own charmed 
path — and so does it evanish away : lost in 
the horizon, it grows at last too faint for out- 
line. 

But Francesca, who perceived that the 
heavy drops were beginning to ooze through 
the thick leaves, while the sun had already 
dried the rain that but a few minutes before 
had shone on crystallized grass, now proposed 



their proceeding onward. They wound along 
a little path, edged on either side with that 
delicate moss, which is alone enough to make 
one believe in fairies ; for what but their tiny 
fingers could ever have traced the minute co- 
lours of its starred embroidery ] 

Suddenly, where the luxuriant growth of a 
bog myrtle, whose leaves are perfumed as 
flowers, shut out all view but of itself, they 
heard voices, and removing one of the boughs, 
caught a glimpse of Lucy, in deep converse 
with a female gipsy. Equally unwilling to 
overhear or to interrupt, they turned aside ; 
but in a few minutes Lucy passed them by, 
too absorbed in her own reflections to see 
them. It was obvious that her meditations 
were very pleasant ; for a slight blush yet 
rested on a cheek dimpled with unconscious 
smiles. 

Francesca was about to speak to her, when 
she was prevented by Guide. " Nay," said 
he, " let her dream out her dream ; she will 
waken soon enough. What would not we 
give again to indulge those once fondly be- 
lieved illusions'?" 

" Believed !" exclaimed Franceses; " she 
cannot possibly believe, that to the ignorant 
vagrant those secrets should be revealed 
which baffle the closest study and the deepest 
science ?" 

"Perhaps," replied he, "she does not ex- 
actly credit the fortune just foretold ; but, at 
all events, it is pleasant to think about, and it 
enables her to dwell on the subject nearest 
her heart." 

He was right : love delights in hearing its 
own name, and has a childish pleasure in 
making excuses for the enjoyment it takes in 
aught that links its future to that of the be- 
loved. Moreover, Lucy had a pretty feminine 
credulity about her, which was fain to believe, 
especially a prophecy that echoed her hope. 
Wiser heads than hers have their supersti- 
tions ; and so far from wandering that people 
should seek to dive into the future, and attach 
faith to the spell and to the omen, the real 
wonder is, that the future, the dark, the terri- 
ble, the fast-approaching, should excite so 
little fear and so little attention as it does. 

Another winding in their path brought them 
to the gipsy, who immediately addressed 
them. She was a picturesque specimen of 
the race. Her complexion, of the deepest 
olive, was relieved by the peculiar and rich 
red which gives such light to the small bright 
eye — half arch, half cunning, tier long black 
hair hung in straight but thick masses over 
her forehead and round her throat. Her mouth 
was small ; but the very red lips, and the glit- 
ter of the very white teeth, conveyed some- 
thing of the image of a wild animal. In 
broken English and a foreign accent, she of- 
fered to tell their fortunes ; while her quick 
eye glanced from one to another, as if taking 
the most minute observation. 

" We have not time," answered Francesca 

" Nay, lady," said the gipsy, in Italian 
" yourself and your brother are too young not 
to look eagerly towards the future." 



FRANCESCA CARRARA, 



325 



Her shrewd eye, accustomed to note the 
slightest indications, had already marked their 
ikeness to each other, and that ease of affec- 
tion which belongs to habit and relationship. 

Only those who have dwelt in a foreign 
land, can tell the charm of hearing their na- 
tive tongue spoken unexpectedly — the tongue 
whose music was around their infancy, and in 
which were breathed their first words of love ! 
Tears brightened the eyes of the young Ita- 
lians ; a passionate longing for their own land 
was at that moment the only feeling in their 
mind. 

The gipsy, noticing their emotion, added, 
"And, beside the future, I can tell you of the 
past. Is there nothing — are there none of 
whom you care to hear — in your own and 
beautiful Italy?" 

"Nothing, nothing!" exclaimed Guido ; 
" we left nothing behind us but the grave!" 
Then, ashamed of this passion before a stran- 
ger, he said, taking out his purse, and pouring 
its contents into the woman's hand, " we will 
not tax your skill ; but take this for the sake 
of the land we have alike left, and the tongue 
we have alike spoken." 

The amount of the gift for the moment put 
to flight even the ready wit of the gipsy ; and 
she let them pass on in silence; but they 
moved slowly, for the least excitation was too 
much for Guido, and he leant faintly on Fran- 
cesca. With the tenderness of feminine tact, 
she only followed them for an instant with a 
whispered and earnest blessing, and then left 
them. "They might well say," murmured 
she as they passed through the thicket, " that 
I could tell them nothing; for the death-damp 
is on his hand; and she — there is that in her 
face which never boded happiness !" 



CHAPTER Lin. 

" What vanity in the empty bustle of common life !" 

"I gaze upon the beautiful, and my mind responds to 
the inspiration ; for my thoughts are lovely as my vi- 
sions."— Contarini Fleming. 

That stroll in the forest was Guido's last. 
The moistened ground, on which he had walk- 
ed after the fallen rain, had given him cold, 
and his illness increased rapidly and fearful- 
ly ; but his sense of his danger only showed 
itself in a gentler patience and a deeper ten- 
derness. 

Alas for poor Francesca ! to watch the sole 
being on earth that loved her, thus dying day 
by day ! She would sit by him for hours, 
holding his hand in hers, and gazing till she, 
could no longer bear to meet those affectionate 
eyes which would so soon be closed forever. 
She would leave him to weep those tears of 
passionate regret with which she could not 
bear to harass him ; and when she came back, 
he would mark the scarcely dried tears, and 
draw her tenderly to his side; but even he 
dared not attempt consolation. Too feeble for 
«xercise, his only enjoyment now was to sit 

Vol. I. 



in an arbour, reached with difficulty, that had 
been formed on a rising part of the ground. 
An old ash tree extended its boughs overhead; 
and those which had been trained downwards, 
were latticed by a luxuriant honeysuckle, 
whose fairy trumpets hung in fragrant profu- 
sion. It w T as one of those thoroughly Eng- 
lish gardens, still to be found in some of the 
oldfashioned parts of the country, where a 
mistaken taste has not severed la belle alliance 
between the useful and the agreeable. 

I know nothing more pleasant than the half 
kitchen, half flower garden ; — the few trees 
that extend a light shade — either the apple, 
with its spring shower of fair blossoms, tint- 
ed with the faintest crimson, and its summer 
show of fruit reddening every day ; or the 
cherry, with its scarlet multitude — berries 
more numerous than leaves. Below, long 
rows of peas put forth their white winged 
flowers, tempting the small butterflies to flut- 
ter round their inanimate likenesses ; or else 
of beans, whose fresh, sweet odour, when in 
bloom, might challenge competition with the 
sea gales of the spice islands. Then the deep 
glossy green of the gooseberry is so well re- 
lieved by the paler shade of the currant bush; 
and alongside, spreading the verdant length 
of the strawberry bed, so beautiful in its first 
wealth of white blossoms — pale omens of the 
blushing fruit, which so soon hides beneath 
its large and graceful leaves. The straw- 
berry is among fruits what the violet is among 
flowers. 

Then, I do so like the one or two principal 
walks, neatly edged with box, cut with most 
precise regularity, keeping guard over fa- 
vourite plants : — columbines, pink and purple, 
bending on their slender stems ; rose bushes, 
covered with buds enough to furnish roses for 
months ; pinks, with their dark eyes ; and the 
orient glow of the marigold. And there are 
the neat plots planted with thyme, so sweet 
in its crushed fragrance ; the sage, with that 
touch of hoar frost on its leaves, which, per- 
haps, has gained for it its popular name of 
wisdom ; the sprig of lavender, with its dim 
and deep blue blossom, so lastingly sweet ; 
and the emerald patches of the rapidly spring- 
ing mustard and cress. I would not give a 
common garden like this, with the free air 
tossing its boughs, and the sun laughing upon 
its flowers, for all that glass and gardener 
ever brought from a hot house. 

Many a quiet hour did Guido pass in that 
honeysuckled arbour, lulled by the murmur- 
ing bees, whose hives stood in the covert of 
a large old beach, the only tree not a fruit- 
tree in the chosen patch of ground. Every 
sun that set in long shadows and rosy light 
received from him a more solemn *nd tendei 
farewell. Every evening wind that passed 
brought a deeper music: — already the pre- 
sence of his future and spiritual existence wa9 
upon him, and the result was peace, perfect 
and unutterable. 

One evening, he had leant against the en- 
trance v>f his leafy tent, watching the ebbing 
crimson that gradually faded on the purple 
2E 



326 



MISS LANDON S WORKS. 



air — the serenity of his soul was glassed in 
his clear bright eyes, while all the warm co- 
lours of life seemed to have vanished from 
that pure and marble countenance. Suddenly, 
he felt that Francesca withdrew her hand from 
his — it was to dash aside her tears before he 
remarked them ; and then for the first time, 
he spoke of that grave upon whose brink he 
stood. 

" Weep not, sweetest sister mine!" said he, 
kissing away the warm and heavy tears ; " if 
you knew the sorrow from which death spares 
me ! There are some natures which seem 
sent into this world but for a brief and bitter 
trial; and such a nature is mine. I have not 
strength for the struggle. From my earliest 
youth, I felt despondency steal over my 
highest moods and my gayest moments. I 
now believe it was the unconscious omen of 
my early death. The weight of an unfulfilled 
destiny has been forever upon me, though 
then I knew it not. And yet, Francesca, when 
I look within my own heart, and feel how 
true and high have been its impulses — when 
I think how my mind has revelled in its own 
beautiful imaginings, which asked but time 
for developement, I cannot deem that such 
things were given in vain. I believe that 
they have been here tried and nourished for 
another sphere. I feel a strong and increasing 
consciousness that my world is beyond the 
tomb." 

* "And mine," exclaimed Francesca, in an 
agony of grief she could no more repress, " is 
still this lonely, this dreary life ! 0, my 
God ! have mercy on me, and let me die too !" 

" Francesca," said Guido, in a low, earnest 
voice, " there is something within which tells 
me it will not be for long. Sorrow and early 
death have been busy in our line. My doom 
is fixed, — and your fragile life will be a frail 
barrier to an inexorable fate !" 



CHAPTER LIV. 

"Farewell ! but not for long." 

Summer had come — bright and beautiful as 
her prophesy, spring, had foretold, in the 
sweet oracles of opening buds and expanding 
leaves ; but Francesca wandered no more 
through the shadowy depths of the forest, nor 
loitered amid the pleasant paths of the garden. 
The green grass and the wild flowers of the 
meadow were being mown ; but she only 
thought of the cheerful season when the air 
came laden with the scent of the fragrant hay, 
and Guido would ask what new and delicious 
odour came upon the morning air. Frances- 
ca's sole haunt was now the darkened cham- 
ber of the dying. There her light step suited 
its silent fall to the faint throbbing of the sick 
man's pulse; there her eye wore the tender 
guile of unshed tears, suppressed even when 
the sufferer slept, lest he should mark their 
traces when he awoke, and be pained by grief, 



which he vainly deemed was turned into 
hope. 

Day and night she hung over Guido's pil- 
low — her sv/eet face, like a mirror, reflecting 
every change of his — pale as he beside whom 
she was watching. Only for the briefest pe- 
riod would she allow Lucy to take her place ; 
and when, w T orn out, she slumbered, it was to 
dream she was still at his side. Ah ! human 
nature is beautiful at such a time — beautiful 
amid its agony. There was something so 
touching in the patience with which Guido 
endured many a pang that tortured every nerve, 
lest an expression of pain should wring hi3 
sister's heart, who, alas ! knew too well the 
kindly deceit, and almost wished him to com- 
plain, as she wiped away the dew upon his 
forehead. 

Guido suffered much, — weakness made 
every movement pain ; and yet he was haunt- 
ed by that feverish restlessness, which is one 
of the w r orst features of the disease. The 
food he longed for one moment, he loathed 
when he came to taste it. The struggle be- 
tween body and soul which takes place in this 
lingering illness is terrible to witness — it is 
as if tw 7 o mysterious powers contended toge- 
ther. The soul, calm, prepared, or rather 
pining for its departure, — the body, still bound 
to earth, resists the coming sleep to the last ; 
and these two opposites, never congenial, 
show how little they have in common — the 
stronger as their final separation approaches. 

"I can feel even here," said Guido, raising 
himself with some difficulty on his weary 
pillow, " how lovely the day is ;" and he 
gazed on the lattices thrown open to the ut- 
most, and only curtained by the honeysuckle. 
The casements were in shade themselves, and 
a cool breeze just waved the ruby tendrils and 
their veined clusters ; but beyond, you could 
see that sunshine rested on the trees, and that 
the deep blue sky was without a cloud. 

" You are very pale, my own dearest," he 
continued : " I wish you would go forth, and 
return with tidings of some of our old haunts. 
A little colour on those wan cheeks would do 
me a world of good." 

" Francesca looked towards the window, 
and turned sickening from its glad and golden 
light; while her eyes fixed more fondly upon 
Guido's face, as if every moment were now 
precious. Affection has its own true sympa- 
thy, and he never again asked her to leave 
him. He felt that the tender watch which 
she now kept was her only consolation. 

Alas ! in this our valley of the shadow of 
death, how many such vigils have been kept, 
and are keeping ! — it is a common scene ; — 
the still and darkened room — darkened, for the 
eyes are too weak to bear that light which is 
departing from them forever ; where, if a 
sunbeam enters, it is like an unwelcome visi- 
ter ; where one sweet and watchful nurse 
glides like a shadow ; — so subdued is every 
movement, the loudest noise in that still cham- 
ber is the beating of the sufferer's heart, ol 
the low music of a whispered question, faintei 
thau even the failing v )ice which answers. 



FRANC ESC A CARRARA. 



3-2 i 



How many dreary nights are passed in fe- 
verish wakefulness on one side, and dreadful 
solicitude on the other! It seems worst to 
die at night ; the blackness throws its own 
gloom, and the damp on the ever cold mid- 
night hour is as if disembodied spirits brought 
with them the chill of the grave, which only 
then they are permitted to quit. How long 
the minutes seem when sleep is banished by 
pain and anxiety ! The single pale and shaded 
light, flinging round its fantastic shapes — that 
" visible darkness," enough to try the strongest 
nerves ; and how much more so, when the 
bodily strength is worn down, and the imagi- 
nation, excited by one ever present dread, is 
won nd up to admit all forms of fearful fantasy ! 

Francesca would start from a moment's 
drowsinesss, during which the delusive power 
had transported her to scenes afar off — for 
sleep reverses all other rules, and its dominion 
is greatest where its influence is least. It is 
the lightest slnmber that is most haunted with 
visionary creations. She awakened with sud- 
den consciousness — the myrtle groves of her 
childhood yet around her, and the voices of her 
young companions still glad in her ear. Then 
came the wonder and confusion attendant on 
fancies disappearing before realities; "Where 
am I?" is the first idea of the roused sleeper. 
Gradually the darkened room seems to emerge 
from its shadows ; familiar objects strike upon 
the senses — and memory is never so terribly 
distinct as on its first reviving from such mo- 
mentary lethargy. 

In an instant Francesca would become per- 
fectly collected — every past event would stand 
out singularly clear, and she would turn, take 
one look at Guido, and then breathe again. 
One idea was ever uppermost ; she might 
gaze upon his face, and find that life had de- 
parted even during that short lull of forgetful- 
ness ! A-las ! the weakness of the body is 
triumphant in a long struggle over both strong 
love and will ; and yet, during the months 
that Francesca watched beside that bed of 
death, never, for five minutes together, were 
those affectionate eyes closed in even that 
passing oblivion. When forced to leave him, 
which she could never be prevailed upon to 
do till utterly exhausted, she would sleep 
heavily for some hours; but the first moment 
of waking was fearful. She would start from 
her pillow and rush to his room, and, when 
Lucy's gentle smile reassured her, lean, faint 
and breathless, against the wall, till relieved 
by tears ; while the meeting between her and 
Guido was like the tender welcome given after 
a long absence. 

" You are very weak to-day, dearest," ex- 
claimed Francesca, as her arm supported Gui- 
do's head. 

" And yet I feel all my faculties so strong 
within me — my memory so clear, my imagi- 
nation so powerful— that I cannot think thai I 
shall die so soon as I had hoped." 

" Hoped 1" whispered his sister. 

" Alas!" replied he, "we are selfish, even 
>n our death-bed ; and I have desired relief 



even at the cost of rendering asunder life's 
last and fondest link." 

"It is I that am selfish,'' murmured she 
" God knows, we ought to be thankful when 
those we love stand on the verge of another 
existence. It may be better, it cannot be 
worse, than our present life. Weary, disap- 
pointed, and desolate as it is, why should I 
wish such a pilgrimage should be prolonged 1 ? 
Were we wise, we should weep when life be- 
gins, and only rejoice at the close." 

Francesca spoke in the bitterness of a 
wounded spirit, whose burden is too heavy to 
bear. All patient hope, all cheerful submis- 
sion, had, for a time, passed away ; but ! 
the victory of the grave is terrible. 

" We shall not separate for long," conti 
nued Guido. "The heart has its own reve- 
lations ; and the aspect of the invisible, so 
soon to be known, casts its shadows, wmicb 
are omens, as we draw unto its presence. I 
feel the love which binds me to you stronger 
every hour; — would it not weaken with all 
my other hopes and earthly thoughts, were I 
about to part with you, as I have done with 
them forever 1 Francesca, beloved, we are 
alike ; and neither are made of materials that 
ever yet lasted. Think of those who have 
gone down to an early grave — are they not 
the good the beautiful, those of the passion- 
ate feeling and the dreaming hope 1 They 
have but a brief time in this world, for theii 
nature belongs to another. Victims of an in- 
exorable destiny, they suffer, they struggle, 
till at last the trial is ended, and the tomb is 
the dark and awful gate through which they 
pass into another sphere; and that higher, 
purer, and better lot is our own." 

The crimson burnt upon his cheek, and his 
eyes kindled with light — all that was beauti- 
ful and spiritual in his nature speaking in his 
face. 

" You must not talk," said his sister ; " it 
makes you feverish." 

" It matters little," replied he, with a faint 
smile ; but, nevertheless, resting his head on 
her shoulder to recover himself. "It is 
strange," he continued, " how vividly, now 
that I have no future on this earth, its past 
rises before me. I often lie for hours with 
the scenes of my earlier youth so present, that 
they seem actual. Francesca, I have been 
unhappy, very unhappy, and scarcely may I 
say that it is past even now. Perhaps, at 
our birth, we have a certain portion of enjoy- 
ment allotted to us, and this is to last us 
through our life ; hence that fear which so 
often comes upon us, even in our most de- 
lighted moment — a dread of we know not 
what. It is a warning from within, that we 
are rashly revelling in that heart-wealth of 
which so small a pittance is ours. I was a 
very spendthrift with mine. I believe every 
one can look back to some particular period, 
and say, ' Dear and blessed time, how pre- 
cious is your memory !' And yet we should 
have trembled in the presence of our happi- 
ness — we were then draining the sweet waters 



3L>3 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS, 



»f a fountain, whose silver chord is soon 
loosened, and whose golden bowl is soon bro- 
ken. Ah, dearest ! do you remember the 
summer — 'tis nearly four years since — when 
the icacia blossomed twice] Methinks it 
was typical, for the tree exhausted itself and 
perished, even of its own too great luxuri- 
ance. But do you not look back to that sum- 
mer ?" 

For a moment the colour came into Fran- 
cesca's pale countenance, for that was the 
summer when she first knew Evelyn ; but it 
faded, and left her paler than before. 

"We have paid dearly for that happiness 
since. Guido, dearest Guido, what can we 
have done to -be so deceived, so wretched 1 
Think but for a moment how precious, how 
great a gift, is the deep, strong, and trusting 
affection of the young heart ; and how cruel 
is the fate which decrees it should be given, 
and in vain !" 

" I have not courage, even now, to think of 
that," interrupted Guido, the damps rising 
heavily upon his forehead. Tenderly Fran- 
cesca bent over him ; she parted the thick 
moist clusters of his rich curls, and, bathing 
his temples with an aromatic essence, kissed 
him, and bade him sleep. But he was too 
much excited for rest. " Marie !" whispered 
he: — "It is months since I have breathed 
that name, but deem you that her image has 
not been present with me 1 — ay, present as 
when we wandered through the pine forest, 
her frank, sweet smile encouraging those 
dreams of the future at which she affected to 
laugh. But both then believed that the future 
was at their will. Ah, Francesca ! who could 
have thought that the world would spoil a na- 
ture so kindly and yet so glad !" 

Francesca repressed the answer which rose 
to her lips. She could have said that the 
Marie of Guido's love was indeed the creature 
of his fantasy. But when an allusion thus 
lingers to the last, it is worse than useless — 
it is cruel, cruel to attempt its destruction. 

" And yet," continued he, " how evil has 
her influence been over me ! The imagina- 
tion, which wasted itself in bringing her ever 
before me, inventing our discourse, combining 
every possible and impossible event, so that 
they did but bring us together — of what efforts 
was not this faculty capable, had it been more 
worthily exercised ! It matters little, though 
— mine was destined to be an unfinished ex- 
istence. I firmly believe that my mind has 
here been trained and tried by suffering, and 
that the developement of its powers is reserved 
for another sphere." 

To many, the visionary hope which is born 
of the imagination may seem the very mockery 
of nothing. We cannot understand what we 
have never experienced. The imagination, 
the highest, the noblest, the most ethereal 
portion of our nature, lies in some almost dor- 
mant ; and to such, how strange must the in- 
fluence which it exercises appear ! On one 
of the ideal temperament of Guido its power 
is despotic — it had coloured his life, and it 



threw its soft, sw r eet shadow over the bed of 
death. 

" O ! how passionately," added he, after a 
brief pause, "I desire to see her again, for the 
last time, to let her know the deep truth of a 
heart which has never worn image save her 
own — to gaze upon her with one long, last- 
look of love, and leave with her an impression 
no crowd, no gayety, might ever efface. We 
shall meet again, Francesca — not so Marie 
and I. Our natures are far apart — she has no 
share in my futurity. Our earthly is an eter- 
nal farewell." 

He sank back, quite exhausted, on his pil- 
low ; and at last he slept, but his sleep was 
feverish and broken, and his waking was mi- 
re freshed. 



CHAPTER LV. 

" And feel the shadow of the grave 
Long ere the grave itself be gainM." 

L. E. L. 

"Are you equal, dearest Guido, to hearing 
a letter read which has arrived this morning 
from Richard Arden V said Francesca, ap- 
proaching the bedside of the invalid with that 
light step which seems born of the stillness 
of a sick-room — lost in the deep-drawn breath 
of exhaustion and pain. 

" I have been thinking so much about 
him !" exclaimed Guido. " Are we likely to 
see him again 1 Methinks he must return ; 
none can with impunity sever every link that 
binds them to their kindred and to their coun- 
try. Earth were too desolate without some 
resting-place." 

" He has, indeed, found a resting-place, 
but a gloomy one. He has by this time en- 
tered the monastery of La Trappe." 

" Holy Virgin !" exclaimed Guido, " he 
has annihilated the present and the future. 
How will he ever endure the perpetual pre- 
sence cf the past'?" 

"Think," replied Francesca, " how much, 
he needs repose." 

"He can have it," answered he, "in no 
shape but torpor — at least on this side of the 
grave. But do read the letter." 

Francesca seated herself beside the pillow, 
and began the following epistle: — 

" Dearest Children, 

" I had deemed that my words of farewell, 
when I left my brother's house, were the last 
I should ever address to the only objects of 
earth to which my heart yet clings. But it is 
very hard to break at once all the bonds 
whereby our vain affections fetter us. I still 
think of you, still wish to be remembered by 
you, still believe that you take an interest in 
my fate; that you will wish to know where 
my weary steps have found rest, and my 
wretchedness sought a place of refuge et 
last. 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



329 



"It was very sad to leave you ; but deep 
»n my inmost soul was written, that the hap- 
piness of loving and being loved was not for 
me. I lived in one perpetual fear of the evil 
that I might bring upon those for whose wel- 
fare I would have laid down my life. My 
spirits grew lighter as I increased my distance 
from you, however the weakness of my hu- 
man nature might pine to return. I knew 
that I was removing the curse far from you ; 
and my sorrow, my suffering — had I not stored 
them up for myself? 

"I arrived in Paris, but a residence there 
was insupportable. The noise, the gay 
crowds, vexed me with a constant self-con- 
sciousness. I could never call up, vivid al- 
most as life, the image of her I loved so 
deeply. She, who of late had so often stood 
beside me, with softened look and forgiving 
eyes, came upon my solitude no more ; there 
was no quiet in that stirring and troubled city. 
I had no part in its pleasures, I took no con- 
cern in its business ; why was I to be haunted 
with their echo 1 

"I left Paris, and wandered forth by 
chance ; — by chance, did I say 1 — by that fate 
which has governed my whole life, and has 
relented toward me at last. The long sha- 
dows of the summer twilight rested on the 
venerable building as I approached ; the soft 
gray light seemed scarcely to penetrate the 
arched windows, and not a breath of air stirred 
the hug. 1 boughs of the 'old trees that spread 
their quiet around the place. Repose was in 
the atmosphere — so calm, and so subdued. 
The sky, where the passionate hues of sunset 
had faded into a clear cold blue — the noiseless 
leaves, which drooped from the heavy 
branches — the ancient pile, where the ivy 
hung undisturbed — the stillness, unbroken by 
a sound — all seemed to whisper to my soul, 
' Here is rest.' 

"I entered the chapel, and above the altar 
hung a picture of the virgin. A gleam of 
light came from a western window, and fell 
upon the face of my Beatrice ! Her face — 
but calm, beautiful and unearthly. I met the 
radiant eyes turned toward me, and they 
looked pardon and peace. For the first time 
I hid my brow in my hands, and wept bitter- 
ly ; and it was as if these tears washed away 
the weight which had oppressed me. I looked 
up again, and still met that sweet look of hope 
and love. A longing for death seemed to take 
possession of me ; or, if I could not die, to 
assimilate life to death as much as possible. 
All the busy concerns of daily existence were 
utterly abhorrent to me. 1 loathed the sound 
of others' voices — I hated to be mixed up with 
their petty routine of ordinary cares ; here 
was an asylum offered to me — here I might 
lay down all the offices of humanity, and 
dwell beside that grave whose rest was now 
my only desire. 

" To-morrow I take the vows of La Trappe 
^not in a vain belief that penance may efface 
the past;— no, if years of desperate despair — 
of that agony which lays prostrate body and 
mind — may not avail, no form, no prayer, 

Vol. I.— 42 r J 



may, can have greater power. I enter the 
gloomy abbey, because its solitude offers me 
all that I seek. I desire no communion with 
my fellow-men ; in the treasury of my re- 
membrance are garnered the few thoughts 
that are precious, and they are sacred to my- 
self alone. I do not need to speak of them — 
to me language has long lost its sweetness 
and its privilege. To live so mechanically 
that nothing in life can break in upon my me- 
ditations — to gaze on that most lovely and 
beloved face, and dream that even so it will 
meet me beyond the grave — to be so utterly 
by myself that no evil influence of mine can 
extend to those still very dear — is all I ask 
on this side the tomb. 

"I feel calm — even content. The quiet of 
the sacred walls is on me even now. I could 
deem that they had power to sanctify my 
words ; and I almost — yes, I do — dare to say, 
God bless you ! and farewell ! 

" R. Arden." 

Francesca's tears fell fast upon the scroll, 
and some time elapsed before either could 
speak. Guido was the first to break the si- 
lence. 

" What a vain dream it is," exclaimed he 
" which we call life ! First comes the fever, 
then the exhaustion. We wear ourselves out 
with hopes that, night after night, haunt a 
sleepless pillow — with daily exertions whereof 
we reap not the fruit. We love, and are un- 
requited — we believe, and are deceived; and 
from first to last, our existence is a mockery — 
the fulfilled hope and the realized desire the 
worst of all ; for then we find how utterly 
worthless is that for which we craved, and 
for which we have toiled even unto weariness. 
We talk of our energies and of our will — we 
are the mere playthings of subtle and malig- 
nant chances." 

" And yet," returned Francesca, " the se- 
cret of Arden's sufferings seems to have been 
in himself. From earliest youth he indulged 
in vain contrasts and repinings, and even his 
very love was selfish and cruel. Think how 
much happiness he lost by his perpetual ex- 
aggerations'?" 

" And from what did that exaggeration 
arise, but from his morbid and sensitive tem- 
perament ] Could he help that ?" 

Francesca felt instantly that Guido had 
made the subject a personal one — that he was 
speaking of Arden, but thinking of himself. 
It could do no good to contradict one whom 
now it was her dearest wish to soothe ; and, 
byway of attracting his attention, she said,— 
" Was it not you, Guido, who were telling 
me of a young maiden, whose lover, in some 
sudden passion of jealousy or despair, had 
taken the vows of La Trappe, and who, dis- 
guising her sex, followed him to his gloomy 
retreat, wore the habit, observed the ordi- 
nances of that mournful body, and preserved 
her secret till death 1 Of all the many in- 
stances of woman's strong and enduring affec- 
tion, none ever produced upon me an impres- 
sion so forcible. Think of a young, beautiful, 
2e2 



330 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



and delicately nurtured female, giving- up not 
only the world, with all its vanities and its 
pleasures, but all comfort, all companionship, 
all feminine employment, not denied to the 
nun of the strictest order. She renounced 
them all to live in seclusion, silence, and per- 
petual dread ; for what but a cruel death 
could have awaited her had her secret been 
discovered save when dying. And this me- 
lancholy, this isolated existence, was dragged 
on, unsupported by any hope, for no change 
of circumstance could affect her position ; and 
unsoothed by the thought that her great devo- 
tion was held precious by him for whom it 
was exercised. Not one of the ordinary mo- 
tives — the vanity or the selfishness which 
people call the name of love — actuated her 
through this long trial ; she had every thing 
to fear, and nothing to expect. What creation 
of the poet ever exceeded this terrible reality 
of love sepulchred in this living tomb 1 I 
often marvel to myself what were her feelings 
when a shadow fell across the path, and she 
looked upon one of those shrouded and flitting 
shapes, and dared not ask if the cowl hid the 
face which she most desired to see ! — and yet 
this went on for years !" 

" Enough, my sister !" exclaimed Guido; 
" I do not like to think of it. What is this 
story but another instance of the cruel fate 
whose iron rule is over our world. The love 
wasted in this pitiless cloister would have 
made the happiness of a life." 



CHAPTER LVI. 

" "We know not half the mysteries of our being." 

" Let it go down to the grave with me ; for 
there, even as this silken curl will perish, in 
darkness and decay, so will perish all the 
links that bind me to Marie Mancini. Ah ! 
how well I remember the twilight, when she 
bade me choose amid the thousand bright au- 
burn ringlets that danced around her brow ! 
It was such an evening as this. The rich 
colours of the sunset had melted away into 
the deep purple sky, whose only radiance was 
where a silvery trembling on the air came 
from the moon, shining as she is shining now 
over j'onder casement. We were very young 
then." 

And youth it was that gave its own value 
to that early pledge of vows never to be re- 
deemed — of faith plighted but to be broken. 
The fragile chain, the braided hair, are the 
graceful tokens of love's childhood — precious 
for the sake of the many illusions in which 
we then held such devout evidence. We 
grow too stern and too cold for such trifles in 
afterlife. The harsh grasp of reality has 
been upon the most delicate feelings ; trifles 
" light as air" have become important in their 
results; and where we do not fear, we now 
»1o not care for them, unless it be to ridicule- 
ridicule, that blight of all that is warm and 



true, but which was so utterly to the fresh 
unknown world of the yet undeveloped 
heart. 

The day had been intensely hot, and, in 
Guido's weak state, it overpowered the little 
strength which he had left ; but towards even 
ing he grew even more feverish, his senses 
wandered, and strong spasms of pain alone 
seemed to recall him to his actual existence. 
The recollection of that interview with Marie 
Mancini haunted him. He fancied she was 
coming, would start at the least noise, and 
asked mournfully if he was to die without 
seeing her. 

Francesca sought every means to soothe 
him, but in vain. Even her sweet and be- 
loved voice fell unheeded on his ear; and it 
was late before, quite worn out, he fell into a 
deep slumber. 

There was a strange character of mournful 
beauty flung over the scene passing in that 
chamber of death — one that a painter would 
have chosen when, disappointed with the 
world, and smitten by some deep sorrow, he 
seeks refuge in the lovely creations of his art, 
selecting a melancholy subject, and investing 
it with the gloom felt within. At the far ex- 
tremity of the room, placed on a little round 
old-fashioned table, was a lamp, whose red 
gleam made a small bright circle on the wall, 
as if to enhance the darkness which surround- 
ed it. Drawn towards the window was the 
bed whereon Guido was laid. The curtains 
were all flung back to admit the air, and the 
lattices were thrown open to the utmost. The 
long tendrils and slender leaves of the honey- 
suckle formed a dark outline, just pencilled on 
the air, and swayed gently to and fro ; for a 
soft wind agitated the boughs. The moon, 
directly opposite, flung into the room a long 
and tremulous line of light, which fell on 
Guido's face, as he reclined on the pillows 
which supported his head ; he needed the sup- 
port, for a feeling of suffocation was his con- 
stant complaint. It was the face of a statue — 
so pure, so pale, with the features transparent, 
like the delicate carving of highly polished 
marble; the long dark lash resting on the 
cheek, and the thick curls upon the brow, 
were the sole likeness to humanity. One 
emaciated hand lay on the counterpane, the 
other was held by Francesca, whose profile was 
seen, like a gentle shadow, bending over him. 

The moonlight became more and more deal 
as the night advanced, and fell more imme- 
diately on the countenance of the sleeper, 
which grew wan even to ghastliness beneath 
that chill white beam. She felt his hand cold 
as the tomb within her own, but still it slack- 
ened nothing of its rigid grasp. A nameless 
terror froze the blood at her heart ; more than 
once the scream rose to her lip, and was sup- 
pressed — but with an internal shudder, les* 
the sleeper might be disturbed ! The sleeper! 
— did he sleep ? 

Francesca trembled — the damp air seemed 
difficult to breathe. She strove to pray — no 
pious words came to her aid ; a vague sensa- 
tion of horror curdled her faculties. She gazed 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



331 



on the wan face, anil strove to look around. 
She could not — it seemed as if to move would 
reveal some sight too horrible for humanity ; 
yet some extraordinary fascination seemed to 
rivet her to the place. Affection — watchful- 
ness — sorrow, all were merged in one vague 
and unutterable sensation of horror. 

The moonbeam grew fainter — the corpse- 
like features In came indistinct. She knew 
hei eyes were fixed upon them, but they could 
not penetrate the awful obscurity. A stupor 
stole over her; she was conscious, but para- 
lyzed ; and her eyelids dropped, as if to shut 
out seme fearful object. She still felt that 
Guido'a cold hand clasped her own, and she 
remained motionless — the fear of disturbing 
him paramount to every other fear. 

She felt the grasp relax, and started at once 
from the shuddering torpor which had oppress- 
ed her. It had been upon her longer than she 
deemed, for the chill, white light of coming 
daybreak was glimmering through the lattice. 
Guido was rousing, too, but he was convulsed 
with some fierce agony ; his teeth were set, 
the veins rose upon his temples, and the dews 
hung upon his brow. 

Francesca raised his head tenderly, and en- 
deavoured to make him swallow a few drops 
of a medicine that stood by. Her care was 
successful, and at last he revived. His eyes 
opened, wide and wandering, and filled with 
a strange, unnatural light; while his features 
relaxed from their ghastly contraction, but 
wore still a wild and unusual expression. 

"I have seen her!" he muttered in a faint 
tone ; " we shall never meet again. Farewell, 
Marie, for ever !" 

"Dearest Guido!" whispered Francesca, 
14 do not agitate yourself. Your sleep seems 
to have done you little good." 

He drank from the cup which she put to his 
lips, and sunk back on the pillow, pale and 
exhausted, but so composed, that she allowed 
Lucy, who just then entered the room, to 
watch by Guido during her customary short 
absence. 

We, too, will leave them, and, passing 
beyond seas, record a strange scene that took 
place at the Hotel de Soissons that night. 

It was even later than usual when the com- 
tesse quitted a brilliant reunion of all that was 
gayest in the royal circle, elate with the glit- 
terinu - triumph of gratified vanity, and reading 
in such sueeess the sure prognostic f more 
solidly successful ambition. Restless and ex- 
cited, she could not retire to sleep; but her 
hair once unbound from its knots of pearls, 
and a loose wrapping dress thrown around 
her, she dismissed her attendants, and, draw- 
ing a little writing table to her fauteuil, pre- 
pared to exhaust some of her gayety in letter 
writing. She had a thousand flattering and 
lively things to say, and she was now in the 
mood for them. 

This is a pleasant hour in human exist- 
ence — the hour after some unusually agree- 
able fete — agreeable from its homage to your- 
self; just enough fatigued for languor, but not 
for weariness — enough to make you enjoy the 



loosened hair, the careless robe, and the indo- 
lent arm-chair ; while the spirits are still in a 
state of excitement, the tones of the music, or 
yet more musical words, still floating in your 
ear; your own li^ht replies yel living on the 
memory, and the fancy animated by their vivid 
recollection. 

In such a mood the Comtesse de Soissons 
drew towards her the fragrant scrolls on which 
she intended to record a thousand graceful 
flatteries, all to forward the same object — her 
own interest. "Nay !" exclaimed she, fling- 
ing down the pen, "that seems scarcely ear- 
nest, enough ! Praise should be given un- 
guardedly and eagerly — rather as it were a 
relief to express one's feeling — " 

The sentence died unfinished on her lips. 
She started from her seat, for, directly oppo- 
site to her stood Guido da Carrara, pale, sad, 
but with his large dark eyes fixed upon her, 
with that deep expression of tenderness, once 
so familiar to her sight, but now wild and 
melancholy — ay, and something fearful in 
their gaze. Marie's cheek blanched as she 
looked upon him. She strove to scream, but 
in vain; all her former love — the only real 
feeling which she had ever known — beat pas- 
sionately within her heart ; a gush of unut- 
terable tenderness, strangely mixed with vague- 
terror, arose upon her mind. Still he stood, 
pale, sorrowful, and motionless, while Marie 
found every other feeling gradually lost in 
terror. The air grew chill around, and her 
knees trembled beneath her weight. 

" Guido !" she exclaimed, in a voice choked 
with emotion, " for God's sake, speak !" 

Still the figure moved not — spoke not — but 
continued to fix upon her the same lock of 
reproach and love. All the gentle scenes of 
their youth seemed to grow present before 
her; she felt that she had never loved hut 
him, and that all other hopes and ties were 
but. as a vain dream. 

"I care not if I die!" exclaimed she, im- 
petuously; "let my head rest but once again 
on that heart once so dearly mine !" 

"Marie sprang forward. She attempted to 
clasp the hands of her visiter, hut her hands 
closed on the empty air. She staggered as 
with a blow ; again she met that mournful 
face turned towards her, but even as she look- 
ed it melted into air. She glanced hurriedly 
round, but Guido was gone ! — yet the door 
remained closed. She shrieked his name, but 
all was still as the grave. She threw a search- 
ing glance round the chamber, but in the eflfoit 
sank senseless on the ground. 



CHAPTER LVII. 

" How soon 
Our new- born light 
Attains to full aged noon ! 
And this, how soon to gray-haired night ! 
We spring, we bud, we blossom, and wo blast, 
Ere we can count our days— our da; 80 fast. 1 ' 

Quarles. 

Francesca was not an hour absent from 
Guido's room ; but on her return, a deathlike 



332 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



sickness came over her as she marked the 
great change that had taken place in him. 
The face had suddenly fallen in, the temples 
were sunk, and the blue and livid mouth 
seemed unwarmed by the breath that still 
faintly struggled forth. His wasted hands 
were stretched out, and worked with a quick 
and convulsive motion, as if catching some 
small substances which kept eluding their 
grasp ; while his closed eyes ever and anon 
opened feebly, and then shut again — they ap- 
peared to ask when they should close for- 
ever. 

A slant ray cf golden sunshine entered the 
chamber ; it drew nearer and nearer as the 
hour went by, till it fell on Guido's bed. The 
invalid turned his head, and looked with a 
smile upon that glad and glorious light. " It 
is a good omen !" said he, in a very low but 
distinct voice ; and continued to watch it till 
his eyes closed from weariness. A moment 
after his teeth clenched, as i r with violent 
pain ; it was soon past, and he grew calm 
again. Once or twice his lips moved, but the 
sounds were inarticulate, and the pulse grew 
more and more faint. 

Francesca hung over him in breathless 
agony ; she knew that life was slowly ebbing. 
Suddenly he opened his eyes, and looked up 
at her with an expression of strong affection. 
She fancied, too, that he whispered her name 
— it was his last effort! The sunbeam ap- 
proached ; but when it shone upon Guido's 
face, life had passed away to return no more ! 
The radiant line illumined the set features of 
the corse ! 

# # # # 

Yes, the soul had departed from its myste- 
rious tenement, with which it was so strangely 
allied, and so still more strangely suited — 
that long variance is now T for aye at rest. The 
burning passion will no more contend with 
the ethereal aspiring ; the two opposite prin- 
ciples of fevered existence have ceased their 
conflict. Out of the body grew all that was 
base, mean, and degraded — that rottenness at 
the core of our noblest hopes, that weakness 
in the truest of our affections. Strange that 
it should thus control the spiritual; but the 
grave is opened, and there let it perish in 
darkness and in corruption. Not so the soul, 
which gave it imagination, intellect, affection, 
hope — all that can redeem mortality ; in their 
very nature these are imperishable, and out of 
hem have grown all good things on earth. 
Tiie lasting works of philosophy and poetry, 
the long-enduring efforts that have been 
wrought in marble, the pyramids whose age 
we know not, the statue still a vision of beauty, 
the influence that individual minds have exer- 
cised over their kind, — all these are types of 
that immortality which gives life to our pre- 
sent, and will give eternity to our future. 
Faint, but glorious revealings of another 
world ! 

A weary burden is our human life, from the 
first even to the last. We talk of the happi- 
ness of childhood! — in what does it consist ? 
—in the denied delight, and in the enforced 



task ! Think how the child must turn from 
the wearisome page, whose future value it is 
impossible then to appreciate — turn from its 
dry and intricate characters to gaze upon the 
sun shining on the grass, and grudge the hours 
that must pass before play-time. Think, too, 
with what unkindness and what injustice they 
are often treated ! How often must the infant 
heart swell with the quick sense of oppres- 
sion, when the caprice of an angry moment 
punishes the fault which has been often passed 
over, till impunity had appeared a right] And 
yet restraint is a necessity. Every indulgence 
from the first exacts some bitter penalty; and 
we dread and curb the present, for the sake of 
the retribution which ever lies amid the sha- 
dows of the future. 

From the beginning of life till its close, we 
are haunted by the dread of the to-come. 
Now, to childhood, taught by no painful ex- 
perience, how irksome must this yoke appear ! 
They are galled and checked, and must sub- 
mit; they know not that all our actions, even 
the most trivial, are followed by those sad 
and ghastly spectres — their consequences, but 
they feel their iron oppression. Or, to pass 
on to youth, with its warm feelings, so sensi- 
tive to the return which they will not meet, 
so sure in a few passing years to be crushed 
and withered; but at what expense of misery, 
let each ask of the records from his own re- 
membrance ! True, its hopes are sweet, and 
its spirits buoyant; but how soon are those 
hopes disappointed, and those spirits broken 
down forever ! How often, during that pe- 
riod of fervour and of heart-burning, must we 
be forced to shrink within ourselves with all 
the mortifying consciousness of unreturned 
affection, of ill-placed confidence, of too kind, 
and hence erroneous, judgment. The time 
while such ordeals are being passed, and such 
lessons being learned, cannot be one of much 
happiness. 

Is its successor better off? Surely no. 
Look at the arduous exertion required of mid- 
dle life ; the thronging anxieties that spring 
up for others more than for ourselves ; the 
constant downfall of our best-laid projects; 
the disappointment attending on the result of 
those which had mocked us with success ; the 
weariness which gradually steals over the 
mind ; the daily increasing sense of the worth- 
lessness of every thing; the mournful looking 
back on the many friends who have parted 
from our side, some gone down to the grave, 
but more parted from us by the estrangement 
of cooled attachments and jarring interests. 
We have lost, too, all those fresh and beauti- 
ful emotions which, if they could not make a 
world of their own, at least flung their glory 
over the actual one. These are departed, to 
return no more ; and in their places have come 
discontent, suspicion, indifference, and, worst 
of all, worldliness. Through such rough paths 
do we travel on to old age ; and has life there 
garnered up its treasures to the last? Ah, 
no ! The dust to which we are so soon to re- 
turn, lies thick upon the heart ; the affections 
are grown cold ; and all vivid emotions hav 



FRANCES C A CARRARA. 



333 



ceased. But the calm is that of monotony, 
not of content, and is ruffled by the thousand 
small pettishnesses of temper, — temper which 
grows stronger as all other faculties weaken 
and decay. And yet, throughout this busy 
and excited pilgrimage, whose present would 
seem so engrossing, man is ever looking be- 
yond it; he never loses the internal conscious- 
ness of something undeveloped in his nature 
— something spiritual and aspiring, which* 
belongs not to earth. That which is good 
within us seems to claim a requital not of this 
world ; that which is bad trembles before 
some vague and awful anticipation of judg- 
ment. Were it but for the sake of justice, we 
must believe in a future state — futurity, that 
only, though hidden, key to the incomprehen- 
sible now ! How plainly is vanity of vanities 
written upon that glorious science ; ay, glo- 
rious even in its weakness, which once read 
the history of the earth in the skies, which 
asked from the stars the mysteries of their 
shining chronicles, and bade them reveal the 
future, from the mighty annals of nations and 
peoples down to the tender secrets of one 
lonely and beating heart. And yet how vain 
was such knowledge ! What could the sooth- 
sayer foreshow that we knew not before 1 ? The 
future is written in the past; and if we pro- 
phesy, it is with eyes that look behind. Let 
the prophet tell us to the letter of the days to 
come — we have lived them already ; circum- 
stances may mock us with change of form, 
but the substance remains tlie same. We 
shall go through the same rounds of cares 
whose anxieties were wasted on what never 
happened — of vain pleasures whose emptiness 
we felt even while endeavouring to enjoy them 
— of sorrows cured by forgetfulness — of envy- 
ings, hatreds, regrets, and weariness. What 
needs there to repeat what we perfectly un- 
derstood '? No : the seer's knowledge, to be 
of aught avail, must pass the boundary of our 
little existence — it must pierce the shadows of 
the grave. Let him open but one secret of 
that far and dark eternity, and its purchase 
were well worth all life. 

There have been those who on the scaffold 
have bidden a bold welcome unto Death, as 
the mighty revealer of the unknown. Such 
reliance was, methinks, lightly founded. 
Who knows how many links we may have 
to ascend in the vast cycle of worlds around, 
ere we arrive at the one which is knowledge 
— where we may look before, and after, and 
judge of the whole'? How many stages of 
probation may we yet have to pass ! But can 
any lot be more bitter than that which was 
cast on earth % Will its memory endure 1 Ve- 
rily there is a deep voice in every heart which 
answers — Yes. Worn, wasted, crushed, as 
they are, how strong are the affections which 
bind us to our world ! — they are too spiritual 
in their nature for destruction. God of that 
heaven to whose justice we bow, and on 
whose mercy we rely, surely those strong and 
dear feelings were not given in vain! Per- 
haps the gloomy barrier of the cold and deso- 
late tomb once passed, the soul will be but 



more intensely conscious of that love which 
shadowed forth its existence in this life. Will 
those who have gone before await us on the 
other side? — and shall we be permitted to- 
watch the arrival of those whom to leave 
made the only pang of death 1 ? Will the hid 
den and unrequited love be there acknow 
ledged in earnest gratitude for its long endur 
ance 1 — will it be allowed to breathe the freo 
and happy air of heaven ] How vain to in- 
quire — and yet we inquire on ! We ask of 
that which answers not. But when we recall, 
how feverish, how wretched, how incomplete 
has been the life of mortality, we feel that the 
present owes us a future. 



CHAPTER LVIII 

" Droop not, sister, and thy weeping 
For my fated end give o'er. 
* ... * * * 

Mourn not— dying is not dying 
Unto those who love not life, 
But a hope to the relying, 
And a glad release from strife." 

Cornelius Webbe. 

Francesca marked the beloved features 
grow rigid even while she gazed — she felt 
the deadly chill of the hand which she clasped ; 
but still she stood beside the corpse, when the 
old servant, who had come in, whispered, "It 
is all over! — let me bind up the head." The 
sense of her loss thus brought before her was 
too overwhelming, and she sank insensible on 
the bed. They carried her into her own room, 
where it was long before she recovered ; and 
when at last she revived, it was in a state of 
stupified exhaustion that ended in sleep — the 
deep heavy sleep of those utterly wornout 
both in body and mind. It was broad day r - 
light the next morning before she awoke ; she 
was roused in a moment by the shadowy 
gleams glimmering through the oreen branches 
of an old elm tree which almost hid her win- 
dow. She started up — her first thought was 
of Guido, and that she had slept too long ; but 
a terrible consciousness rushed over her, and 
her head sank on her pillow, while she closed 
her eyes, as if to shut out her fear. She was 
still dizzy with sleep, and the many visions 
of the night rose confusedly before her. For 
the moment she essayed to slumber again — 
suddenly the very suspense she had sought 
became too dreadful. She sprang out of bed, 
and ran to Guido's room; it was darkened — 
the curtains were closed around him who had 
so loved the light and air. The truth instant- 
ly flashed upon her, and she staggered against 
the wall for support. How welcome was the 
darkness, which seemed to hide her even from 
herself! For a few moments she stood as if 
stunned, and then drew nigh towards the bed, 
where lay the remains, insensible and cold, 
of him who but yesterday was alive to her 
affection, and anxious for her welfarb She 
could not look upon him, but, flinging heise.f 
on her knees, hid her face in the bedclothes, 
and wept passionately. All her early lift 



334 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



crowded upon her memory — the old palazzo, 
amid whose deserted chambers each had a 
favourite haunt ; their wandering rambles 
through the adjacent woods ; their unbroken 
confidence ; their constant union of interests ; 
that future which they .always painted toge- 
ther, but now so utterly separated. Not one 
word of unkind ness, nor even of coldness, had 
ever passed between them ; there was not a 
single recollection unstamped by affection. 
Love, which so often rends asunder the gen- 
tler ties of domestic attachment, had only 
drawn theirs more closely ; each had had such 
cause to value the deep and true sympathy of 
the other. As these remembrances arose, 
Francesca's tears flowed the more bitterly ; 
and the very consciousness that they flowed 
in vain — that never tear nor prayer could bring 
back breath to those beloved lips, or light to 
those once watchful eyes, gave them but 
added agony. 

The vanity of weeping, which in time works 
out its own consolation, is at first but the ag- 
gravation of sorrow. Still, grief exhausts its 
expression ; and Francesca at length raised 
her eyes, she would look once more upon her 
brother; and again the very thought — " Once 
more !" — subdued her into a fresh burst of 
tears. It was long before she could compose 
herself sufficiently to gaze upon the face ; but 
when she did at length command herself to 
turn towards the pillow, it was strange how 
sorrow became merged in awe. She felt that 
she dared not give way to human emotion in 
the still and solemn presence of the dead. 
She trembled to disturb the beautiful compo- 
sure — as if it could be disturbed ! 

It is wonderful how, for the day or two af- 
ter death, all that was lovely in life comes 
back to the face ; the pure marble whiteness 
of the skin, the closed eyes, the features in 
such deep stillness, like those of a statue 
wrought in the highest ideal of art, but with 
that impressed upon them which was never 
yet the work of mortal hand. Guido's regu- 
lar and classic features suited well with this 
state of entire repose. The calm and sweet 
serenity belonged to their nature. It was as 
if the countenance were for a brief while al- 
lowed to wear the likeness of the peaceful 
and spiritual world whither the soul had de- 
parted. 

Francesca remained watching him with an 
inexpressible feeling of consolation. He 
brought to her mind those glorious works of 
art which they had witnessed together. His 
dream of their grabe and noble beauty was 
realized in himself; and yet there was some- 
thing too sad and too tender for marble. The 
? ,heek and lip were white, and the hair show- 
ed the only vestige of colour — the hair, which 
retains its gloss and flexibility to the last, 
when all else is faded and rigid — how much 
of humanity did it still impart ! The rich 
black curls lay in profusion round the grace- 
ful head, and the long dark lash yet rested on 
the pallid cheek, and rrave a semblance of life 
*o the statuelike fu*in. 

Many have a horror of looking upon the 



dead — they are wrong ; futurity and peace are 
written on the composed and beautiful coun- 
tenance ; it suggests the idea of an intellec- 
tual slumber. The sleep of the living is fe- 
verish and agitated — the passion and the 
sorrow are on the flushed cheek and the tremu- 
lous lip — but that of death is the sleep of the 
soul. No one can gaze upon the dead, and 
not feel, indeed, that they are gone to a land 
*vhere " the wicked cease from troubling, and 
the weary are at rest." 

Still, that is a dreadful week which elapses 
before the burial. We defer too long the re- 
turning of earth to earth ; the loathsome work 
of corruption should begin in the dust. The 
darkened house, the stealing steps, the sub- 
dued voices, and the haunting consciousness 
that there is that under the same roof with 
yourself which is not of this world, all com- 
bine to keep the mind in a state of terrible ex- 
citement. And yet, with this vague atmos- 
phere of dread around you, how strangely is 
the ludicrous mingled ! The mocking and the 
absurd is stamped upon the funeral prepara- 
tions. The matter of fact solemnity, the care- 
less gravity, of those whose employment it is 
to furnish the coffin, &c. — the customary com- 
pliment of "Such a fine corpse!" as if the 
appearance of the dead were their own doing 
— the importance attached to the trimmings 
of the shroud and the nails on the lid — the 
professional pleasantries, ay, pleasantries ! 
handed down from time immemorial — the ut- 
ter indifference of their proceedings — all na- 
tural enough, when we think how familiar, 
the spectacle is. to them at which our own 
blood grows cold ; but all which is absolute 
torture to the eye and ear of the survivor. 

Francesca took her last look at the muffled 
figure in the long and narrow coffin, the death- 
clothes hiding the head, and only allowing 
the mouth, nose, and brow, to be seen, on 
which were now impressed the ghastly tints 
of livid decay ; and then left the room, sick 
and shuddering. Yet again she yearned to 
see that beloved face, even though changed 
and loathsome. Good God ! how dreadful a 
penalty exacted of mortality, to think that we 
mast turn with unconquerable disgust from 
all that was once so dear, and with that affec- 
tion strong in our hearts as ever ! And yet, 
the revolting triumphs over the spiritual and 
the tender feeling. With a hasty step she 
re-entered the chamber. A sound of most 
jarring cheerfulness struck upon her ear — a 
glare of unwelcome light poured upon her 
eyes — and in the very act of fitting on the lid 
to the coffin stood a man, singing one of the 
popular political songs of the time ; having 
previously unclosed the shutters, that he might 
see to do his work ! Hurriedly she retreated 
to her own room, the careless singing of the 
workman smiting her with a bitter sense of 
desolation. 

In the first exaggeration of sorrow, it seem- 
ed as if everything must sympathize with her 
great grief; and in the equal exaggeration of 
disappointment, it now seemed as if there was 
no sympathy in the world. She paced the 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



335 



oom in a passionate burst of weeping, from 
which she was first recalled by the quiet en- 
trance of Lucy, who, marking her agitation, 
took her hand kindly, and, leading her to the 
window seat, sought to soothe her by the 
most gentle tenderness. Ah! the magic of a 
few kind words ! how unutterably dear they 
are ! Francesca felt their full value ; and her 
tears flowed less bitterly in the presence of 
her affectionate and kind companion. 



CHAPTER LIX. 



" And now must, the body return to earth— 
The spirit to God who gave it." 

Bernard Barton. 



At last — and how long, yet so short, did 
the time appear ! — the day arrived that had 
been fixed for Guido's funeral. Francesca 
had resolved that she would follow him to the 
grave. It is a strange refinement in our mo- 
dern times, that we should leave it to the 
hired mourner (mourner ! what a mockery !) 
to pay that last tender office, the last sign of 
care for their remains that can be given on 
earth, to those whom we have loved — dear, 
ay, dearer than ourselves. Few but have 
known the wretchedness of such a morning — 
but have listened to the noise of strangers in 
a chamber so long silent as the grave. The 
moving of the coffin, the carrying it down 
stairs, the heavy steps, the creaking stairs, 
the opening doors, are a terrible contrast to 
the deep stillness that had before reigned 
throughout the house. 

Francesca listened in agony. She seemed 
as if she had never felt her utter separation 
from Guido till now. A sudden bustle, fol- 
lowed by an entire quiet, announced that the 
coffin had been carried across the threshold, 
and that the funeral procession wa's on its 
way. She rose from her seat, but the room 
appeared to flit before her eyes; and she was 
scarcely conscious of her own purpose, till 
Lucy entered, and silently offered to help her 
on with her cloak. She took her arm, thanked 
her by a gentle pressure, and together they 
proceeded on their melancholy duty. 

All who have long been shut up in doors 
know the almost intoxication of their first 
walk in the free wind and glad sunshine — the 
common expressions of "you do not feel 
your feet," or "you seem to tread on air," so 
completely express the sensation. Francesca, 
as they wound along the meadow path, beside 
a hedge crowded with brier roses, and the 
fragrance yet lingering of the recently mown 
hay, while the sunshine and shadows chased 
each other rapidly over the green field, felt 
the exhilarating influence; but it was as sud- 
denly checked by the remembrance that it 
was a solitary enjoyment. She looked with 
a grudging eye on this waste of life and beauty 
— there was none for him ; and the sight of 
the coffin, with its deep black pall°borne 
slowly along the glancing path, was a con- 



trast of unutterable misery. It was a relief 
to change the cheerful meadow for the dark 
umbrage of the forest which they now enter- 
ed. She could not but note what a deeper 
shade was flung round since last she passed. 
Then the verdure was tender, and many a 
bough wore only the promise of its future 
luxuriance; now every branch was heavy 
with the weight of foliage, and every leaf was 
at its utmost growth, and wore its darkest 
green. The narrow road, too, along which 
they wound, penetrated one of the most se- 
cluded glades; and the gloom and stillness 
accorded well with the silent and melancholy 
train. Again they emerged into the open 
country, and at a few paces down a rural lane 
were the steps that led to the churchyard ; 
they went through the little gate, and Fran- 
cesca's eye glanced rapidly around. Intui- 
tively it rested on the object which it sought, 
yet dreaded to find, and caught in an instant 
the fresh heap of earth which indicated the 
new-made home. Lucy felt her companion 
writhe in agony ; but Francesca regained her 
composure, for the service commenced, and 
the clergyman led the way to the grave. 
Sublime and consoling are the blessed words 
w T ith which earth is restored to earth; and 
Francesca heard them like soothing but indis- 
tinct music — she felt their influence, although 
unconsciously, 

The time came for the coffin to be consigned 
to the ground ; she saw them lay aside the 
pall and prepare the ropes ; she sprang for- 
ward, but her strength failed her, and she way 
forced to lean against a tombstone for support. 
They lowered the body into that damp, dark 
pit, and involuntarily she hid her face in her 
hands, to shut out the whole scene. What 
now remained for her to look upon ! She was 
roused by the sound — that most dreadful of 
all sounds that ever sank the heart to hear — 
the gravel rattling on the coffin ! To the last 
day of her life that noise haunted her. Often 
in the still midnight it came distinct on her 
ear — a terrible and eternal farewell ! Gradu- 
ally the quick, hard fall ceased — the mould 
had attained some depth ; but the silence 
was even worse — it told how nearly all was 
over. 

Francesca looked up,— they were trampling 
down the clay. It was as if they were tread- 
ing on her own heart. She sank, half faint- 
ing, but still conscious, on the tomb where 
she had leant. Lucy gently put back the 
hood from her face, and the fresh air revived 
her. 

It was now over, and Francesca felt for z 
moment as if all passing around were a dream 
She remained still and breathless : to move 
to look, might make it reality, — she dared not 
ascertain that she was waking. The silence 
recalled her to her actual wretchedness. Yes, 
Guido— the only friend, the only relative that 
she had on earth— lay there, in a foreign 
grave; and a vain but bitter regret passed 
through her mind, as she remembered the 
deep "blue skies and the fertile soil of their 
own and lovely land. Perhaps he might have 



336 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



lived had he never left its geni \\ soil, its 
dreaming atmosphere, for the colder clime 
and harsh realities which they h;d found in 
other countries. Strange that shi; took com- 
fort in the knowledge, that the germ of dis- 
ease was with him from his birth- -no circum- 
stances could have altered, no c?*re could have 
checked the hereditary tendency to consump- 
tion ; Alas ! it was best that he left so little 
to regret: — happy love and prosperous for- 
tunes are hard to part with ! One by one the 
charms of life had faded : he was sad and 
weary; — t.o Guido, death was a release! 

" Will you not come home?" said Lucy, 
who, together with her father, was waiting 
beside. 

" Dear Lucy !" exclaimed Francesca, "leave 
me to follow you ; I am best by myself." 

Her companion, whose own deepest thoughts 
were always indulged in solitude, understood 
Francesca' s feelings, and drew her father 
away. 

The youngltalian listened to their departing 
steps, till the beating of her own heart was the 
only sound that broke the deep solitude; but 
theirs being an up hill path, she could see 
them a long way off, arm in arm, Lawrence 
Aylmer looking into the sweet face of his 
child. The sight of their affectionate fami- 
liarity recalled Francesca to the full sense of 
her desolation. She was in a strange country 
without an acknowledged tie of kindred — no 
friends — and with a future full of uncertainty 
and anxiety — she started to her feet, and 
wrung her hands, as one painful thought 
crowded on another. She looked towards the 
new made grave. There lay all that was dear 
to her on earth, — never more would that kind- 
ly voice fall in music on her ear — never more 
would the soul look through those ej^es now 
closed forever ! She felt how irrevocable and 
how entire was the loss, while the abandoned 
and desolate future seemed already present ; 
and, in a sudden burst of grief, she flung her- 
self down on the grave, — one murmur upon her 
pale lips, — "Alone ! — ay, utterly alone!" 



CHAPTER LX. 

"It is the past that maketh my despair, 
The dark, the sad, the irrevocable past !" 

L. E.L. 

Of all the melancholy days consecrated to 
the memory of the dead, perhaps the most 
mournful — the one jarring most immediately 
b}r strong contrast with its predecessors — is 
the day when the coffin has been carried from 
the house, and the light of heaven admitted 
through the recently darkened windows. Every 
object looks so unfamiliar. We have become 
accustomed to the dim atmosphere and the 
long shadows, — they seemed to sympathize 
with us. Now, the cheerful sun looks in 
mockingly ; we rejoice not in the face of day ; 
it brings not hope, but memory to our minds; 
and we only watch the gladdening beams to 



think that they are shining on the narrow 
grave. 

During Guido's long illness, Francesca had 
been occupied with the thousand cares which 
his state required ; to smooth his pillow, tc 
bathe his feverish temples, to bend over him, 
and to try to lighten the languid hours of his 
weary waking, had unconsciously beguiled 
the time. Moreover, though she knew that 
his disease was fatal— though every morning 
she dreaded lest he should not live till night, 
and every night lest it should bring no mor- 
row — still she was not prepared. Death came, 
and then she knew that in her heart she had 
believed, she had trusted that Guido would 
not die. For the first time in her life, she felt 
that existence could be -a blank. I believe this 
is a feeling which sooner or later is known to 
all. Who has not paused upon some portion 
of their existence, and felt its burden greater 
than they could bear? — who has not looked 
back to the past with that passion of hopeless- 
ness, which deems that life can never more be 
what it has been, — with a consciousness that 
the dearer emotions are exhausted, while in 
their place have arisen but vacancy and wea- 
riness ? You feel as if you could never be 
interested in any thing again — nay, you do 
not even desire it; — your heart is divided be- 
tween bitterness and indifference. 

Francesca was conscious that this moral 
torpor increased upon her every hour. She 
loathed any sort of occupation ; she left her 
books unopened, her lute unstrung; she took 
no pleasure in flowers. Lucy one day called 
her to come and look at a tree, whose late 
roses were beautiful — a second growth of 
summer, though summer was gone. Slowly 
she obeyed the summons. She gazed at the 
painted leaves — so fresh in colour and in fra- 
grance ; but they gave her no delight. Care- 
lessly she said, " They are lovely !" and turn- 
ed away. She felt grateful for Lucy's kind- 
ness, who sought to w T in her attention by every 
little art that feminine affection could suggest ; 
but she would rather have been without it. 
Every thing was an exertion to her, for the 
animating principle from within was wanting, 
She took long and lonely walks through the 
forest; but she marked not its autumn splen- 
dour, — she only desired in fatigue of body to 
lose the fatigue of mind. 

Rumours of many changes were abroad, and 
Lord Avonleigh's return to h's paternal do- 
main was confidently reported. Francesca 
looked forward to it with no other sensation 
than dread, — new ties, new interests ! she had 
not energy enough left to form them. Evil 
had been the experience of her youth, — the 
bitterness of ill-requited love only those may 
tell who have known it! Her memory was 
laden with mortifications, neglect, and unkind- 
ness ; and now all better recollections ended 1 
in the tomb. Evelyn, how vainly had he» 
heart wasted itself upon him ! and Henrietta 
and Guido were cold in that grave over whose 
gloom her spirit perpetual^ brooded. I have 
said that such a state of exhaustion and. lone- 
liness is one of general experience, — I was 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



337 



wrong-. The lots of our days are differently 
cast. Some few have fallen in pleasant places ; 
it is folly to say when we share and share alike. 
t have known many to whom the words of 
utter wretchedness were as a strange tongue, 
such as never had fallen from their own quiet 
lips; they grew up the darlings and delight 
of a circle, whose best hope was their happi- 
ness ; they exchanged one home for another, 
girdled round by ) T et deeper love. To such 
as these, how many of the melancholy records 
of the poet's page — and there alone are they 
recorded — must seem wholly unintelligible ! 
We need to suffer ere we understand the lan- 
guage of suffering ; but, Heaven above knows ! 
it is very generally understood. And hence 
he charm of the sad sweet page, which ideal- 
izes our anguish, and makes sorrow musical : 
if it does not come home to all, it does to the 
mass. 

I have often been told that my writings are 
too melancholy. How can that be a reproach 
if they are true 1 and that they are true, I at- 
test the sympathy of others and my own expe- 
rience. If I have just painted a state of moral 
lassitude, when the heart is left like a ruined 
and deserted city, where the winged step of 
ioy and the seven-stringed lute of hope have 
ceased each to echo the other ; where happi- 
ness lies cold and dead on its own threshold ; 
where dust lies dry and arid over all, and there 
is no sign of vegetation, no promise of change 
—if I paint such a state, it is because I know 
■t well. Alas! over how many things now 
does my regret take its last and deepest tone 
—despondency ! I regret not the pleasures 
that have passed, but that I have no longer 
any relish for them. I remember so much 
which but a little while ago would have made 
my heart beat with delight, and which I now 
think even tiresome. The society which once 
excited, is now wearisome — the book which 
would have been a fairy gift to my solitude, I 
can now scarcely read. So much for the real 
world ; and as for the imaginary world, I have 
overworked my golden vein. Some of the 
ore has been fashioned into fantastic, perhaps 
beautiful, shapes ; but they are now for others, 
and not for me ! Once, a sweet face, a fa- 
vourite flower, a thought of sorrow, touched 
every pulse with music. Now, .half my time, 
my mood is too troubled, too worldly and too 
sullen for a song. Alas for pleasure, and still 
more for what made it pleasure ! 

But, still more, I regret the energy of in- 
dustry which I once knew. I no longer de- 
light in employment for the mere exertion — I 
am so easily fatigued and disheartened. I 
see too clearly the worthlessness of fulfilled 
hope. How vain seems so much that I once 
so passionately desired ! — and yet, not always, 
The more disgusted I am with the present — 
with its faithless friends, its petty vanities, 
and its degrading interests — the more intense- 
ly does my existence blend itself with the fu- 
ture — the more do I look forward with an 
engrossing and enduring belief, that the crea- 
tive feeling, the ardent thought, have not 
poured themselves forth whollv in vain. 

Vol. 1—43 



Good Heaven! even to myself how strange 
appears the faculty, or rather the passion, of 
composition ! how the inmost soul developes 
its inmost nature on the written page ! T, 
who lack sufficient confidence in my most in- 
timate friends to la} r bare even an ordinary 
emotion — who never dream of speaking of 
what occupies the larger portion of my time 
to even my most familiar companions — yet 
rely on the sympathy of the stranger, the 
comprehension of those to whom I am utterly 
unknown. But I neither ordered my own 
mind, nor made my own fate. My world is 
in the afar-off'and the hereafter, — to them I 
leave it. Still, the spirit's wing will melt in 
the feverish exertion, and the lofty aspirations 
grovel for a time dejected on the earth. 
Where are the lips from which words have 
not, at some period or another, escaped in all 
the bitterness of discontent? — such moods are 
the keynotes of universal sympathy ; and it 
matters little whether the wornout feeling, 
or the exhausted imagination, produced that 
melancholy, which is half apathy, half mourn- 
fulness. 

Day after day passed by, and Franceses 
felt the burden of time more insupportable. 
To the period of Lord Avonleigh's return she 
looked with growing terror ; for strangely 
does the fancy exaggerate every subject or. 
which it is permitted to dwell unchecked. 
The sadness and monotony of her actual state 
were infinitely preferable to the restraint, to 
the exertion, of forming new ties, and forcing 
herself to answer to their duties and to their 
affections. 

Charles Aubyn, the young clergyman who 
had performed the last sacred offices at the 
grave of Guido, sometimes deemed himself 
privileged, in right of his spiritual calling, to 
break in upon her seclusion with words of 
comfort, and even rebuke, for such utter yield- 
ing to grief; but as yet Francesca could only 
turn to his remonstrances an uncharmed ear. 
He found, however, a very attentive listener 
in the gentle Lucy. 



CHAPTER LXI. 

" Now why 
Are her eyes downcast, and his white brow glowing % 
Say, have they vow'd— while heaven was witness by, 
With all her radiant lights, like fountains flowing— 
To lcve while water runs and woods are crowing V 

The Maid o/Elvar. 

Francesca was one evening returning from 
her now favourite occupation, if occupation it 
could be called, namely, of sitting by Guido's 
grave, lost in profound and gloomy meditation. 
She would pass whole hours, full of all those, 
fancies which haunt the solitude of indulged 
grief. Here she recalled all the passages of 
their former life, till scarcely could she be 
lieve that they were gone by forever ! Then, 
again, she almost thought that the soft and 
wailing wind which swept mournfully through 
the sepulchral boughs of the large old yew? 
2F 



338 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



had a vJice not of this world — was it the in- 
articulate plaining of her brother's gentle spi- 
rit, debarred from intercourse, but still keep- 
ing over her the deep and eternal watch of 
love? She soothed herself with the belief 
that the workings of her soul were still known 
to him, — that her regret and her despond- 
ency were but the needful preparation for that 
other sphere, where now her only remaining 
hope was garnered. 

There are some moods which are singularly 
profitless; and such is that of. allowing the 
thoughts to wander into combinations of past 
events with creations never likely to occur. 
This was the state of Francesca's mind. She 
employed herself in inventing situations, ima- 
gining conversations, recalling facts long 
since forgotten, in utter waste of the imagina- 
tion. Ah! the weight of actual existence 
forces us to dream an unreal one. 

It w r as growing late, for one pale pure star 
trembled on the verge of the horizon, while 
the rosy clouds melted away before its calm, 
clear light, like a spiritual influence refining 
the passionate hues which are of earth and 
earth's vapours. The moon, too, was rising — 
at first, white, like frosted silver ; but soon 
brightening into her own peculiar and lucid 
radiance. 

Francesca passed slowly into the forest — 
now with the boughs closing over her head, 
and then opening into a glen flooded with 
moonlight, whose only tenants were the deer 
crouching amid the fern. Even her soft step 
startled them ; up sprung the herd, and sought 
some further recess, leaving the place to deeper 
stillness than before. 

No one can feel gay by moonlight ; the in- 
fluence is as overpowering as it is solemn. 
There are a thousand mysterious sympa- 
thies, which act upon our nature, and for 
which we can render up no account ; and the 
power of this mournful and subduing beauty 
may be more easily acknowledged than ana- 
lyzed. But the young, the buoyant, and the 
glad, feel it. They wander alone, and the 
thoughts unconsciously take a tone of tender 
melancholy. Alas ! it is some dim prophesy 
of the future, with all its cares and its sorrows, 
that floats upon the atmosphere; and we are 
penetrated by the effect, though the cause be 
unrevealed. 

Francesca deeply felt the sadness of the 
hour: more than once she stopped to dash 
aside the tears that fell thick and fast ; and 
with even more than usual tenderness did her 
thoughts revert to the dead and to the depart- 
ed. * She felt so isolated — so thrown back 
upon herself. " How different," thought she, 
" would my destiny have been, had Evelyn 
been less unworthy of the great and true love 
which I bore him ! Good God ! is the heart 
a light thing, to be so trifled with ] How has 
that brief period coloured my whole existence ! 
I look back to our coo happy days in Italy, 
when I trusied that I was beloved, as if the 
lest of my life had been a vision, and only 
that brief space reality. How many new 
feelings then awoke within me ! Till then I 



knew not how to enjoy — a sudden loveliness 
seemed to animate all nature ; but it was from 
my own fresh and glad hopes that it came. 
Ah ! did I not love him then 1 I cannot ima- 
gine sorrow or suffering that I could not have 
endured for his sake, — I never even dreamed 
of a separate future ! How well I recollect 
the delight with which I listened to my own 
voice, when I strove to utter the words of his 
language ! And now I speak that tongue as 

•r • • T -i 1 • ° 

it it were mine own, — 1 stand upon his native 
soil, — I can see in the distance those halls he 
so often described— and yet I know that we 
are parted, and forever — parted by his own 
false tongue and fickle mind ! Alas, alas ! it 
is not only his loss for which I weep — nay, 
for that I do not weep — pride alone would 
keep me from weeping for one whom I scorn; 
but I do weep over the warm feelings, the be- 
lieving hopes — all that was good and kind in 
my nature, with which he tampered but to 
destroy. Never again can I love ; for m 
whom could I trust and confide as I did in 
him who deceived me? The contrast be- 
tween my past and present is too bitter. I 
cannot bear to think on the utter blank of the 
days to come; and yet how happy, how very 
happy, they might have been !" 

Francesca's current of thought was at this 
moment interrupted by the sound of voices 
near — a circumstance too unusual not to excite 
surprise ; and one step forward enabled her to 
see the speakers, though herself unseen. She 
paused breathless with amazement. The 
moonlight shone full on the little dell which 
lay just below the narrow path she was 
threading, and, falling directly on the face of 
the cavalier, revealed the features of him who 
had been so present to her imagination — the 
features of Evelyn ; and her hand clasped in 
his, her slender form bent timidly towards 
him in that attitude of shrinking yet earnest 
attention, which is bestowed but upon one 
subject, was Lucy Aylmer! 

For a moment Francesca was motionless 
and continued gazing on the tw r o below. It 
was like the sensation of a dream, in which 
to move is to awaken. There he stood, the 
folds of his dark cloak rather adding to the 
effect of his graceful figure ; the pale moon- 
beam glittering on his white upraised brow — 
and the subdued colour which it gave suiting 
well with the softened expression of his coun- 
tenance. So had she seen him stand amid 
the pine boughs that sheltered their own early 
meetings; and now those gentle looks were 
turned on another, and those impassioned 
words breathed again, but not for her. 

Gradually they had drawn nearer to where 
she was concealed ; the sound of voices rose 
upon her ear, — another instant, and she would 
be able to distinguish their words. The idea 
of being a hidden listener instantly recalled 
her to herself. With a noiseless step she 
turned away, and sought the next path, which 
led her home. Many and bitter were the 
thoughts which crossed her mind as she re- 
turned. No woman can see with indifference 
the man whom she once loved devoted t« 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



339 



mother. No : though the heart has long since 
renounced the creed of its former faith, has 
awakened to its errors, and reasoned away the 
once exquisite delusion ; still the weakness 
lingers ; and it needed all Francesca's vivid 
remembrance of Evelyn's treachery and mean- 
ness, to prevent her softening almost into re- 
gret for her faithless lover. But pride did 
what reason could not : she felt that she had 
deserved far other return — and disdain is sor- 
row's most certain consolation. 



CHAPTER LXII. 

" Tear follows tear, where long no tear hath been ; 
1 see the present on a distant goal, 
The past, revived, is present to my soul." 

Blackie's Faust. 

Francesca reached their home about half 
an hour before Lucy; but so occupied was 
she with her own agitated thoughts, that time 
passed without notice. Supper was the only 
meal which Lawrence Aylmer took with his 
daughter, when the business of the day was 
at end, and he had, as he would have termed 
it, "a right to enjoy himself." But he fell 
into the common mistake\of putting enjoyment 
off over long; and night usually found him too 
thoroughly tired out with the day's fatigue to 
take more than the passive pleasure of silence 
and rest. 

Francesca's abstraction was of such general 
occurrence, that it could excite no particular 
attention. Lucy, from being afraid of her fa- 
ther, was always quiet ; and Lawrence Ayl- 
mer went on with an occasional sentence 
touching the rumours of risings and conspira- 
cies in the neighbourhood, quite unconscious 
of the agitated state of his listeners. Yet 
Francesca could but marvel that the unusual 
absence and trouble of Lucy could escape her 
father's eye. Shy she always was, but atten- 
tive. She listened anxiously to the little that 
he said, and was careful that any delicacy 
which had been prepared should be held out 
as an inducement for him to eat — not so much 
for the thing itself as a slight mark of her own 
care. But to-night she was quite absorbed. 
A rich colour mantled like wine into her cheek 
— a sweet, uncertain smile played about her 
mouth ; and the downcast eyes seemed to re- 
pose on the happy and beating heart within. 

When supper was over, all sought at once 
their own chambers. Lucy's farewell for the 
night to Francesca was even affectionate ; it 
was more so than usual, for her lips overflow- 
ed with the tender and excited feelings, whose 
delicious consciousness was now upon the 
charmed present. One question from her com- 
panion would have drawn forth her precious 
secret; for Lucy was silent from timidity, 
not from reserve. But that question Frances- 
ca could not ask — she felt unequal to it. She 
needed the solitude of her own room to com- 
pose her scattered thoughts — she dared not 
trust herself to say aught on the impulse. She 
embraced Lucv, and bade her a hurried o- od- 



night ; and each sought what was to each a 
sleepless pillow — but sleepless from what dif 
ferent causes ! 

Lucy was in the flutter of excited spirits, 
of winged hopes — of all that makes the early 
paradise of love. To have seen Evelyn under 
any circumstances would have been a joy to 
make the treasure of long and after absence; 
but to meet him, still unchanged, and still her 
own, what wonder, in the quiet midnight, 
that his voice — every word a vow or a flattery 
— seemed to haunt her ear ! — that those flash- 
ing eyes arose distinct almost as reality, be- 
fore which it was so strange, yet sweet to 
shrink! Distrust is an acquired feeling — we 
never doubt till we have been deceived ; and 
falsehood in no shape had formed part of 
Lucy's experience. She would as soon have 
questioned the truth of her own affection, as 
one assertion of Evelyn's ; she believed him 
implicitly. Her only idea of fear sprang from 
a timid sense of her own inferiority. Was it 
possible that she could be loved by a descend- 
ant of that haughty race to which, from child- 
hood, she had been accustomed to yield such 
deference — to look up to with such venera- 
tion ? 

Evelyn's attachment to her was of a much 
more mixed kind. Her affection he certainly 
was decided on winning; but what to do with 
it when won was a point he had considered as 
little as possible — to change he trusted the 
destiny of that young and innocent heart. Just 
at present, even her slight service were of in- 
finite value. Disappointed in a scheme of 
personal aggrandizement which he had been 
led to form on the accession of Richard to the 
protectorage, he had rashly engaged in a con- 
spiracy for the restoration of the exiled family. 
He trusted, in his own neighbourhood, espe- 
cial!) during Lord Avonleigh's absence, that 
his influence would be considerable; and a 
rising of some extent had been planned, and a 
promising scheme laid, to surprise the castle 
at Southampton. 

The recesses of the forest answered well 
the purposes of concealment, and Lucy was 
useful both as an unsuspected messenger, and 
also for the intelligence she was able to ob- 
tain. She, poor girl, in the mean time, was 
lulled in that waking dream — the dearest and 
the most evanescent of all the visions where- 
with the heart beguiles the care and the sor- 
row of actual existence. 

But if Lucy was restless with the fever of 
hope and joy, Francesca was as sleepless on 
her unquiet pillow, from far other causes. 
The bitter recollections revived by the sud- 
den appearance of Evelyn soon merged in the 
gloomy monotony which had become the 
ruling tone of her mind. But not so did her 
affectionate interest in Lucy. So young, so 
gentle, so unsuspecting, was her happiness to 
be another sacrifice ] — should she tell her all 
that had come to her own knowledge — all the 
painful records of her own experience 1 And 
yet it was possible he might love her — love 
her truly and deeply : if so, of what avail 
would it be to lower him in her esteem ] T t 



340 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



wero best for Lucy still to gaze with sightless 
eyes on her idol. 

Little good ever came of another's inter- 
ference ; and hours after hours passed by, and 
Francesca only grew more and more inclined 
to silence. Perhaps the langour that hung 
over her somewhat influenced this resolve. 
She could nerve herself to exertion — she could 
not speak of the past. 



CHAPTER LXIIT. 



" A careless set they were, in whose hold hands 
Swords were like toys." 

That transient but most lovely hour which 
follows the sunset was now melting away in 
the far recesses of the forest. A few gleams 
of richer hues still lingered in some of the 
crimson clouds which yet treasured up a sun- 
beam ; but the great expanse was filled with 
that pure and pale purple, so soon to merge in 
deeper gloom, or to tremble into silvery light 
beneath the radiant and rising moon. The 
glorious dyes of autumn — autumn, that comes 
in like a conqueror, but departs like a mourner 
— were upon the boughs, but lost in that un- 
distinguishing light which subdued all things 
with its own gentle tinting. 

Again, in that little lonely glade, which to 
them was as a temple, Lucy met that young 
cavalier, now full of the excitement of his ad- 
venture; while she, alive only to its dangers, 
would fain have found words to implore him 
to desist. And yet, for a moment, each yield- 
ed to the softening influence of the scene — 
each forgot that there was a world beyond 
that singing brook, whose tiny waves went 
murmuring along, scarce so loud as the beat- 
ing of the heart. Every bough drooped in 
complete repose. Not a bird was on the wing 
to disturb the sleeping leaves — not a wind was 
abroad to make music among the branches. 

Lucy stood looking down on the brook 
where was outlined the noble figure of her 
lover; while he gazed upon her, though he 
could catch only the profile, and the crimson- 
ed cheek of the averted face. 

The moon, which had been slowly ascend- 
ing, now shone through an open space be- 
tween the trees ; and the'rippling waters of 
the brook gave back her light in luminous vi- 
brations. 

Evelyn started. "I shall be late!" ex- 
claimed he. " My own sweetest Lucy fare- 
well ! — you shall hear from me to-morrow." 

No longer sustained by his arm, she leant 
for support against an oak beside ; while he 
loosened the bridle of his horse, which had 
been fastened near, and, springing at once into 
the saddle, inclined into the gesture of fare- 
well, and darted off with furious speed along 
one of the narrow roads. 

Lucy strove to raise her hand to wave but 
ono parting sign — down it sank, powerless. 
> t last a violent burst of tears expressed rather 



than relieved the feelings with which her heart 
was overcharged ; and slowly she turned from 
the little brook which she had kept watching, 
as if she expected it still to retain the image 
of Evelyn. Anxiety preponderated over hope ; 
and it was scarcely possible for Evelyn to en- 
counter a danger not previously conjured up 
by the alarmed fancy of his mistress. 

Leaving her to pursue her disconsolate path 
homewards, starting at every shadow that fell 
upon her way, and turning pale at the slightest 
sound, we will accompany Evelyn on his ride 
through the forest. 

It has often been said, and so truly that one 
is perpetually tempted to say it again, that 
nothing exhilarates the spirits like a brisk gal- 
lop, and I believe, if ever we feel the enjoy- 
ment of mere existence, it is when, with foot 
in the stirrup and hand on the bridle, the 
ground seems to fly beneath the fiery creature, 
which is urged to its utmost speed. The. air 
blows fresh against your face — the scene 
changes every instant. There is a sense Qf 
freedom and of power — a lively stir of all the 
bodily faculties, which sends the blood dancing 
in a cheerful current, little known to the dull 
monotony of common hours. Evelyn saw the 
moonlit glades disappear one after another, as 
he dashed on, careless of the man}'- obstacles 
that opposed his speed; nut the horse which 
he rode was forest-bred —and it is strange with 
what fearless sagacity these animals tread 
their native paths. 

At length Evelyn dropped the reins ; and, 
leaping to the ground, led his docile follower 
quietly along, that he might be cool previous 
to the corning pause. The narrow path sud- 
denly opened upon a little glade, the smallest 
heath blossom of which was visible in the 
flood of clear moonlight which rested upon it. 
It was the dell of Rufus's stone, around which 
some dozen dark figures were congregated ; 
but an occasional laugh, and the sound of ani- 
mated discourse, gave an almost unnatural 
cheerfulness to the place. 

Conspiracies, like all other exercises of hu- 
man ingenuity, are of very different kinds. 
The gloomy plots arranged in old Italian halls 
— the dungeon, sudden and silent as the grave, 
beneath their feet — the wormeaten tapestries 
mouldering on the walls, and many a dark 
stain on the timeworn floor, — were formed by 
the Venetian noble in the black robe, so em- 
blematic of his dreary state, with the rack in 
perspective, and the dagger and the poisoned 
bowl, at once his enemies and his auxiliaries. 
These were very opposite affairs to the reck- 
less and daring attempts of the merry and 
bold cavaliers, whose inspiration was the red 
wine, whose faith was in their own good 
sword, and whose loyalty made up in gayety 
and disinterestedness what it lacked in pru- 
dence and forethought. 

The whole party hastened to greet Evelyn. 
"What news'?" exclaimed one youth, who, 
in his hurry, allowed the flask which he held 
to waste its rosy contents on the spotted moss 

" Good !" said Evelyn ; " Sir George Booth 
has surprised Chester." 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



341 



" A favourable omen for Southampton," re- 
plied another. 

" And," continued Evelyn, " the king" — at 
the name, every cavalier took off his plumed 
2ap : and the sudden wave of their white 
plumes in the moonbeam was like a flash of 
ightning — " awaits at Calais the success of 
-o-night's enterprise. Southampton seems a 
safe landing place, and Louis has ordered a 
choice detachment of troops to attend his will." 

" Now, by St. George !" exclaimed Charles 
Goring, the youth who had before spoken, 
" we need no swords but our own to strike for 
our lawful monarch !" 

"Faith, those cursed Roundheads," an- 
swered Evelyn, "are strongly placed. No 
cause, however good, is the worse for help. 
But now, gentlemen, to decide on our pro- 
ceedings." 

A unanimous exclamation called upon Eve- 
lyn himself to speak; and, 'after a minute's 
politic pause, he w r ent on to state his plan. 

" You are aware that Colonel Mainwaring 
will to-night attempt to land from the Isle of 
Wight, with a small but picked body in the 
disguise of smugglers. A bright light flung 
in the air will announce the success of their 
landing, when they will disperse through the 
town ; and one, a cool, bold fellow, whom I 
know well, will unlock the town gate, and — 
for he has various talent — hopes, through his 
influence with a pretty daughter of one of the 
wardens, to leave unbarred a certain wicket in 
the postern on the seaward side. Our part is 
now to ride with all speed to Southampton. 
We shall assemble in the avenue leading to 
the town ; for, though 1 hear no tidings of 
troops in the neighbourhood, it is best to be 
cautious ; and, to avoid suspicion, we will se- 
parate, and seek our rendezvous in parties of 
two and three. And now, gentlemen, for the 
avenue of Southampton !" 

A general murmur of assent arose from his 
little auditory." 

"I will ride with you," whispered Charles 
Goring. " I see that we have each on the 
uniform of our old regiment ; we have fought 
side by side before now, and will again." 

Evelyn clasped the hand which was warmly 
extended to him ; and turning to the rest, said, 
" One health, cavaliers, before we part ! I see 
you have kept out the night air by a gallant 
array of flasks." 

Charles Goring stepped forward, and, filling 
a silver cup, offered it to Evelyn, who, bend- 
ing on one knee, drank, " To the health of 
King Charles, and to a gay supper to-night in 
Southampton Castle !" 

The toast was drank unanimously, and the 
glade rang with acclamations. For a moment 
all was tumult : the hurried sound of steps, 
the trampling of the horses, while the birds, 
disturbed from their quiet roost, fluttered amid 
the boughs, followed by a shower of dry 
leaves ; and the deer, sleeping in the thickest 
brakes, started up, and galloped off through 
the crackling bushes. 

" God and King Charles ! is the watch- 
word," said Evelyn " Gentlemen, forward !" 



"Now, by that God whose name ye sc 
rashly profane, I adjure you to pause, and at 
least hear the words of his humblest minister, 
before you venture forth on your rash and ill- 
advised expedition !" 

For a moment all stood still, and gazed 
with surprise at the intruder, who risked so 
strange an interference with their counsel. 
He was a young man, pale with strong excite- 
ment, and whose black dress bespoke his call- 
ing. Taking advantage of the surprise, which 
insured him at least transient attention, he con- 
tinued, addressing himself particularly to Eve- 
lyn. 

" It matters little," and here a flitting crim- 
son passed over his countenance, " by what 
means I became acquainted with your present 
purpose, — Providence directs our weakness to 
its own wise ends ; but I do know that you 
are bound on an errand of blood, dangerous to 
others, fatal to yourselves. Let not your rash 
ambition again bring death into our land. We 
are now, after sore troubles, at peace ; in 
peace let us remain. What wild and vain 
hope tempts you to rekindle the flame of civil 
war so recently extinguished ] Why would 
you arm father against son, and brother against 
brother] Our midnights pass now in secu- 
rity. Do none of ye, as children, remember 
how ye trembled as the horizon in the dis- 
tance reddened, and told that the enemy was 
at hand — and that enemy your own country 
men % For the love of the Saviour, draw not 
those swords from their scabbards to dye them 
in English blood !" 

But Charles Aubyn (for it was he) had, 
like most enthusiasts, overcalculated the in- 
fluence of his eloquence; surprise had, alone, 
procured him a hearing, and the bold cava- 
liers around were little in the mood for a ho- 
mily. 

"Time is too precious to be wasted in 
words," said Evelyn, who was the first to 
recover himself. " Secure the meddling fool !" 
and Aubyn found himself the next instant 
pinioned between two of the company. 

"I misdoubt me much that he is a spy!" 
whispered one of the elder cavaliers. 

" If so," exclaimed Goring, " but that I dis- 
dain to soil steel on such ignoble prey — " 

"Dead men tell no tales," replied the other, 
drawing his sword and approaching their luck- 
less adviser. 

" Not so," interrupted Evelyn, who feeling 
interested, despite of himself, in the calm 
courage of the young priest, was reluctant to 
see him murdered before his eyes, and who 
had reason of old to know the ferocious tem- 
per of his companion. " Leave it to me ; 1 
know how to manage these teles montcs. Re 
lease your prisoner!" 

Charles Aubyn was left at perfect freedom ; 
but he stood firm, and gave the young chief a 
look as collected, if less haughty, than his 
own. 

" Mr. Aubyn," said Evelyn, "for I believe 

it is that gentleman whom I have the honour 

of addressing, and whose acquaintance I had 

hoped to make under different circumstances; 

2 f2 



341 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



I esteem the motives of your interference; but 
however opposed our sense of duty, it is as 
strong as your own. That duty, sir, leads us 
to peril life and liberty in the service of that 
earthly sovereign whom we hold to be the 
representative of our heavenly one. You can- 
not hope that a few words will change the 
settled purpose of years. You can do us no 
good — you may do us harm ; but Mr. Aubyn's 
known character is our guarantee against 
treachery. Y r ou are at perfect liberty ; to 
your honour alone we trust that you will not 
betray those to whom you owe your life. 
Good night, sir. And, once more, forward, 
cavaliers !" 

Again came the hurried trampling of the 
steeds, the crash of the branches, the sound 
of the receding hoofs; but in less than five 
minutes all was still. The moonlight fell on 
the stone of the murdered king, calm as if its 
silvery flood had not been broken by shadows 
of men agitated by bold ambition, and daring 
design, and bound on a fearful service, whose 
end, to some, at least, must be death ! 

With feelings of mixed sorrow and mortifi- 
cation, Charles Aubyn stood gazing on the 
lonely dell. His knowledge of the conspira- 
tors' intentions had arisen from an interest, 
scarcely avowed even to himself, in Lucy 
Aylmer. Accustomed to loiter round her 
path — living for days on the hope of a brief 
" good morrow," kindly uttered as he crossed 
her way — he had been the unintentional wit- 
ness of her last interview with Evelyn. His 
first impulse was to join the drooping maiden, 
and conduct her home with at least a brother's 
care ; but his second bore with it the sterner 
call of a duty : — surely he might warn and 
expostulate with the thoughtless band, about 
to throw the chances of life and death, as if 
they were the dice with which they beguiled 
an idle evening. He had grown up in a part 
of the country which had suffered the most 
from civil war, and its horrors were deeply 
rooted in his imagination. Too enthusiastic 
for fear, and, we must add, for discretion — 
he resolved on seeking the place, and urging 
the dangers which encompassed them round 
about ; and he reached it almost as soon as 
Evelyn, who, to avoid the public road, was 
obliged to take a very circuitous route. The 
result is already known ; and all that Charles 
Aubyn gained by his interference, was a nearer 
view of his graceful rival, and a deep convic- 
tion of his generosity. No wonder that he 
left the glen with a hasty step, and sought 
his own home, fevered with disappointment 
and regret. 



CHAPTER LXIV. 



i; You spoke of innovations, and I also believe it is ill to 
xperiments 
Buccaneer 



lry experiments in states, unless the need be urgent."— 



Evelyn and young Goring rode side by 
side where the road permitted, and, when too 



narrow, one or other galloped gayly forward. 
Both were in high spirits and confident of 
success. 

" Such a scene," said Evelyn, " as I have 
left behind me ir. London ! Richard impatient 
to enact 

'Retired leisure, 
Which in trim gardens takes its pleasure,' 

— asking every body's advice, and, out of 
anxiety to benefit by all, profiting by none,— ■ 
ready to proclaim Charles Stuart in the morn- 
ing, but resolved on keeping his protectorship 
to the last at night, — now going to disband 
the army, and now to dissolve the parliament, 
and yet unable to make up his mind to either." 

" His mind, did you say V interrupted Gor- 
ing; " his mind ! verily it is a piece of most 
courtierlike flattery to imply that he ever had 
one, — it is very evident that you are fresh 
from Whitehall." 

"Flattery," resumed the other, "would be 
a great waste of time there. No one has suf- 
ficiently the upper hand to make it worth 
while to flatter; and really it is a sort of thing 
too useful to be thrown away. In the House, 
Hazelrig and Vane counterbalance each other. 
Hazelrig has all the influence of noise and ob- 
stinacy, but he is a fool ; Vane has that of 
enthusiasm and talent, but he is mad. His 
reign for a thousand years over the faithful — 
a consummation in which he devoutly be- 
lieves — will effectually prevent his attaining 
any other reign. Lambert's power is great 
with the soldiers ; but others have power, too 
Some run wild, after the same fashion as 
Colonel Iiarrisson, and wait for the inspira- 
tions of the spirit; others, again, are at the 
beck of their old commander, Lord Fairfax; 
while the northern army is under General 
Monk, who, among ourselves, is believed to 
be loyally disposed. By heavens ! it raises 
my admiration of Cromwell to its height, 
when I think how he swayed these discordant 
materials — ay, and by his own strong hand 
and clear head alone." 

" True," replied Goring; " though it is one 
of those disagreeable truths I purpose forget- 
ting the first opportunity. But from the time 
I saw him, when a prisoner after the battle of 
Worcester, his dark brow bent upon us in dis- 
dain, rather than exultation; his calm, clear, 
gray eye triumphant, but unexcited, which 
seemed to look through every object which it 
scanned; his very gesture a command; and, 
though in the first flush of victory, not a mus- 
cle seemed stirred, not a look told that this 
' crowning mercy' was more than a rational 
belief, which had been fulfilled according to 
his expectation. I felt our genius rebuked 
before his : I seemed suddenly to know that 
he was the destiny of England." 

" It was the wonderful influence that is ever 
the heritage of a great mind ; but it is an heri- 
tage which descends not. Cromwell's power 
died with himself, — the elements of ambition, 
fanaticism, desire of change, and jarrinp inte- 
rests, have all gone back to their original chaos, 
Confusion is the order of the day." 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



343 



"So much the better for us," exclaimed 



: Alarch winds and April showers 
Bring forth May flowers.' 

We will take it as our motto." 

"Hist!" whispered Evelyn; "I surely 
heard some one move in those bushes." 

They drew up hastily side by side, and 
first looked to their arms, then with a close 
scrutiny towards the adjacent copse. It was 
but an instant's pause ; for the branches were 
dashed aside, and the moonbeams shone on 
the glittering hauberks of the parliamentary 
troops. 

" Surrender !" cried the dull harsh tones of 
the corporal, their leader. 

" We must fight for it !" exclaimed Evelyn ; 
and clapping spurs to his horse, and drawing 
his sword, he made a desperate effort to pass 
the soldiers. It was in vain: the report of 
firearms startled the horse, who reared and 
fell backwards, bearing his unfortunate rider 
to the earth, who was at once surrounded and 
made prisoner; but with no bodily injury be- 
yond the shock of the fall. Goring, like him- 
self, had sprang forwards, first snatching a 
pistol from his holsters, and discharging it at 
him who seemed to be the chief of the partv. 
— the man reeled, and fell ; but his fall was 
instantly avenged. The young royalist had 
broken the circle, and gained the road beyond 
— the soldiers £red — he leapt up in the sad- 
dle, and then draped forward on the neck of 
the frightened creature that bore him ; one 
violent plunge flung him from the saddle — a 
corpse ! 

The first thing that Evelyn saw when he 
recovered from the stunning shock of his fall, 
was his young and gallant companion stretch- 
ed on the ground. The long brown hair, of 
whose luxuriance personal and party vanity 
had been so proud, was already matted by the 
crimson tide that welled from the fair fore- 
head, into which the bullet had entered ; and 
the features, pale in the clear moonlight, wore 
the cold and rigid contraction which marks 
death, and death alone. Evelyn's heart sick- 
ened within him. But a moment before, and 
they had been riding gayly and fearlessly to- 
gether, full of hope and of life ; and now, 
there he lay, struck to the earth without pity 
01 warning, his career ended, his brave am- 
bition laid low 1 

"The king has lost a loyal servant, and I 
a true friend," muttered Evelyn, as he leant 
over the body ; but the words choked in utter- 
ance, and, as he knelt beside, he hid his face 
in his hands. Little time was, however, al- 
lotted for the indulgence of grief: he was 
roused by one of the soldiers touching his arm, 
and desiring him to mount. 

W ith what different feelings did he now 
put foot in stirrup to the last time when he 
sprung to horse] His sword was taken from 
him, his arms bound, and two men went, one 
on e?.ch side, holding the bridle, with which 
they guided him on his most unwilling path. 

"Good God!" exclaimed he, "you will 



not leave the corpse thus exposed in the fo- 
rest !" 

" If we had a gibbet convenient," replied 
the corporal, in a sullen tone, " we would 
hang the malignant thereon ; as it is, the deli- 
cate youth must e'en lie on the ground till 
morning. We have one body to carry already 
— a good and pious lad, whose life had beert 
cheaply bought by a dozen such as yours." 

All further remonstrance was lost, for the 
party who took charge of the prisoner com- 
menced a quick gallop through the forest. 
At length they arrived at the open road, 
skirted by a wide heath, bounded by the rising 
heights of the undulated country. Evelyn 
cast his eyes round in the very weariness of 
his spirits, striving, by every outward impres- 
sion, to fix his attention. He succeeded be- 
yond his hope — ay, and beyond his wish ; for 
even as he looked, he saw a brilliant light 
ascend high in the air, burst into a multitude 
of sparkles, and then die away in the far blue 
sky. He knew that Colonel Mainwaring had 
effected a landing. To think that he should 
have been so successful, and himself a pri- 
soner ! He cursed his ill-luck. " That very 
light, which I hear the fools behind me taking 
for a falling star, and drawing portents from 
already, might well serve for an omen of my 
present enterprise. It has been carefully con- 
cealed, and studiously prepared, — it sets out 
on its radiant ascent full of bright hopes ; sud- 
denly it bursts, the glittering sparkles die 
away, and all is calm and dark as before. The 
emblem of this enterprise — why. it is the very 
emblem of my fate ! Pshaw ! there are many 
foliies in this world, but none so foolish as 
regret. At all events, I am not dead yet; 
though rather nearer his skeleton majesty's 
presence than I at all desire. Well, I wonder 
whether they will hang, head, or shoot me? 
Now really the illustrious house of Evelyn 
ought to be complimented with the axe ; but 
these beggarly Roundheads have no idea of a 
| gentleman's feelings." And, to the infinite 
j displeasure of his conductors, the young cava- 
| lier began humming a popular royalist song. 



CHAPTER LXV. 

"You shall know all to-morrow.— Rookicood. 

Fraxcesca and Lucy had both passed the 
day in that most uncomfortable state of each 
desiring to make her inward thoughts known 
to the other, and yet neither having the reso-- 
lution to begin. Like all persons who have 
suffered much, there was something of lan- 
guor about Francesca. She dreaded either 
feeling or inflicting pain; she shrunk from 
emotion ; and though a dozen times, despite 
of her plan of settled non-interference, she re- 
solved on speaking to her companion; yet, 
when the opportunitv arrived, she involunta- 
rily put it off till some other more favourable 
occasion, which never came. Lucy's was 
only a natural timidity, a girlish shame of 



344 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



owning- that she had a lover. The ice once 
broken, she would have taken the usual plea- 
sure in talking- about him ; but to begin was 
so very difficult. On her return home from 
meeting Evelyn, it was impossible for one so 
little versed in duplicity, so little accustomed 
to self-restraint, to conceal her anxiety and 
depression. She sat in the window, seemingly 
occupied in watching the moonlight touching 
with pale the crimson of the few late roses 
that clustered round the casement; but the 
large tears fell upon the flowers, and the deep- 
drawn breath betrayed the scarcely checked 
sob. 

Francesca, who, since Guido's death, had 
shrank from the contemplation of natural love- 
liness, was seated in a large arm-chair, which 
stood in the darkest corner of the room, silent, 
sad, but less abstracted than usual; for her 
thoughts were busy with her companion. She 
marked the. colourless cheek, the mournful at- 
titude ; and, rising from her place, approached 
Lucy, took the other half of the window-seat, 
and bending kindly towards her, said, "You 
are weeping, dear Lucy ; what is the matter 1 ? 
— can I do any thing for you V 

There are moments when a kind word or 
look goes direct to the heart : these did so 
with Lucy, who, throwing her arms round 
her friend's neck, gave way to a violent burst 
of tears. 

" Poor child !" exclaimed Francesca, sooth- 
ing her with a sister's affection. " Lucy, love, 
do not mind me — 1 think I know much of what 
you can tell me." 

Lucy raised her face, carnationed with the 
most vivid blush, but hid it again. She strove 
to speak, but an inarticulate murmur was all 
that her tremulous lips could produce. Be- 
fore Francesca cuuld speak words of encour- 
agement, fit answer to that mute but imploring 
look, their whole attention was aroused by 
the trampling of horses in the yard, a loud 
knocking at the door, and voices harsh and 
authoritative. 

Lucy's own knowledge filled her with fears. 
"For God's sake," exclaimed she, " let us go 
and see what is the matter !" Her strength 
was unequal to the effort, and she sank back ; 
while Francesca, who was quite ignorant of 
her secret cause for apprehension, attributed 
her alarm to her feverish state of excitement, 
so susceptible of sudden fears ; and sprinkling 
the dewy leaves in her face, awaited her res- 
toration with a tender calmness, soon to be 
destroyed. 

"I was afraid you would be frightened," 
said Lawrence Aylmer, opening the door 
abruptly. " We do live in sad, troubled times. 
A party of the commonwealth's troops have 
just demanded shelter for the night, and they 
have brought a prisoner with them. I do not 
at all like my house being turned into a jail. 
Perhaps yau had better not leave this chamber 
till you go to bed." 

Francesca felt Lucy tremble from head to 
foot; she could scarcely support her; and — 
for with strange rapidity does the truth flash 
upon the mind — a terrible belief had taken 



possession of herself. She strove to ask the 
question, but her voice failed her. Lawrence 
Aylmer was too hurried to notice the singular 
silence with which his communication was 
received, and turned to leave the room. The 
agony of anticipated suspense rose in all its 
horrors before Francesca — " Best to know the 
worst — " She gasped for breath; but the 
effort succeeded — "who is the prisoner?" 
asked she, in a forced, unnatural voice. 

" Mr. Evelyn. He is brought here to await 
Major Johnstone's arrival, when, they say, he 
will instantly be shot." 

" The door closed after him lightly ; and 
yet it was like a peal of thunder. It was fol- 
lowed by a sudden fall — she turned, and saw- 
Lucy stretched insensible on the ground. 

Francesca felt at first as if she had no power 
to succour her. Evelyn so near — a prisoner, 
and about to die — might well absorb every 
other thought. She wrung her hands in utter 
hopelessness; but one glance at the wan and 
inanimate form before her recalled her in a 
measure to herself. She raised Lucy's head 
on a stool near ; and recollecting that in one 
of the cabinets there were still some drops 
which were wont to revive Guido, she hast- 
ened to procure them, and succeeded in pour- 
ing some down Lucy's throat, who awoke 
first to life, and then to life's fearful con- 
sciousness. All concealment, all restraint, 
was over ; she flung herself at Francesca's 
feet, and frantickly implored her to save him. 
It was the despair of a child, who believes 
there is no bounds to any power but its own. 

The exertion necessary to soothe and subdue 
Lucy's passionate sorrow was the best com- 
poser to Francesca's own agitation. One idea 
took possession of her imagination. " Was 
it not possible to contrive his escape"?" To 
effect this, the utmost presence of mind was 
needful ; they required calmness and delibe- 
ration. But the first hint of such a plan so 
overwhelmed Lucy with a paroxysm of joy, 
as uncontrollable as her previous alarm, that 
at first it seemed almost hopeless to expect 
assistance, or even obedience from her. Gra- 
dually she became more collected, and at last 
they were able to consult together as to the 
best measures for communicating with the 
prisoner, and evading the watchfulness of his 
guards. Francesca slightly mentioned that 
she had known him in France, reserving the 
particulars till some later period ; and Lucy 
was too engrossed in the present to have one 
word to say of either past or future. 



CHAPTER LXVI. 

" Look to your prisoner, there !" 

" And now, my dearest Lucy, collect your 
self, for all depends upon our own resources." 
Such were the whispered exclamations with 
which Francesca cheered her trembling com- 
panion, whose courage was not heightened 
by the darkness and stillness around them as 



FRANCESCA CARRARA, 



345 



Ihey proceeded on their hazardous enter- 
prise. 

We have before mentioned that Lawrence 
Aylmer's dwelling had been in former times 
a monaster}', and abounded in small rooms 
and long- passages, while a large portion was 
entirely uninhabited. The chamber in which 
Evelyn was confined was one only employed 
in drying herbs, and was situated at the end 
of a long- gallery. With this their rooms 
communicated, though by a back staircase 
neve- used. 

There is something very catching in fear ; 
and as they passed through gloomy passages, 
whose only tapestry was the spider's web, 
and whose boards creaked at every step, while 
their lantern threw around fantastic shadows, 
and scarcely light enough to enable them to 
find their way, Lucy clung to her compa- 
nion's arm, and with difficulty suppressed the 
scream which some sudden darkness or un- 
usual noise forced to her lips. Even Fran- 
cesca felt her heart die within her, so conta- 
gious was Lucy's terror. And, truly, strong 
nerves are required to steal at midnight through 
a lonely suite of rooms, haunted by vague 
imaginings, and all the terrible superstitions 
and records accumulated on the past. Con- 
nected with the dark and narrow rooms, the 
cells of former days, through which they had 
to find their way, was one of those ghastly 
legends belonging to far-off time — they are too 
horrible to be believed at the present. 

There are some human beings who seem 
marked out for misfortune — an evil influence 
attends them till laid in that early grave to 
which it has hastened their progress ; and 
such a history was remembered of the luck- 
less nun, whose first forced and broken vows 
were awfully punished by a living sepulchre. 
It was a story to be told on a winter evening, 
till the curdled blood of the hearers made 
them ready for that fear which follows close 
upon horror ; and it was said that a dark 
spectre flitted along that lonely gallery, and 
that the November wind had more than once 
brought wailings not of this world. The tra- 
dition rose to Lucy's sacred fancy ; and super- 
natural terror was added to real, till at length, 
if less frightened, Francesca became almost 
as agitated as herself; and, in spite of every 
firmer resolve, started as the air came harshly 
through the many crevices, and as the uncer- 
tain shadows swayed to and fro. Much as 
they dreaded encountering the sentinel, when 
they arrived in the galle°ry it was a relief to 
hear his measured step, and have their alarm 
take that tangible shape which required exer- 
tion. In an instant the quick eye of the prac- 
tised soldier caught their shrouded lamp, and 
" V\ ho goes there ?" rang upon their startled 
ears — startled as much as if they had not ex- 
pected such challenge. 

Lucy at once recognised the man's face. 
He had been a servant about the farm, and 
indebted to her for many a little act of kind- 
ness to himself and his family. Her courage 
rose with the idea of not having to address" a 
stranger.. "We are friends, Irvino-" said 
Vol. I.— 44 



she ; "and fortunate do I consider myself in 
having to address a friend in you. We desire 
to see your prisoner, and a stranger might 
have refused even that slight request ; but I 
can rely on your good-nature." So saying, 
she attempted to pass. 

"No, no, young lady," exclaimed the sen- 
tinel, standing immovable before the door. 
" I honour your father and his daughter too 
much to let you in on any such errand. What 
but the exchange of some vain love-token can 
lead you to seek the presence of that gay and 
noble cavalier? I know the ready falsehood 
of such, where one so fair as yourself is the 
object. Maiden, I will not aid you to lay up 
sorrow for the future." 

Lucy shrunk back, utterly abashed by this 
unexpected repulse. Involuntarily she held 
out the purse which had been destined as a 
bribe, but the words which would have prof- 
fered its contents died on her lips. Francesca, 
too, remained silent for a moment; but Eve- 
lyn's life was at stake, and she roused her- 
self. " It is for me," said she, advancing, 
and throwing up her veil, "that Lucy Aylmer 
desires admission to Mr. Evelyn; she is but 
my companion, for I desire not an unwitnessed 
interview. But I do implore you, as you 
hope for mercy at your extremest need, to let 
us pass. I do not talk of recompense, though 
I have gold in abundance; but I entreat of 
your humanity to let us enter. Would you 
spend your own last hours in dreary solitude, 
uncheered by a single farewell to those the 
dearest to your heart? Would you die, if far 
away from them, without sending them one 
remembrance or one blessing ?" 

There was something in Francesca's look 
and manner that availed her even more than 
words; command seemed so much her right, 
that it was scarcely possible not to yield. 

" Pass on," said the soldier, opening the 
door of the apartment, and gazing earnestly 
on the pale, beautiful, and foreign-looking 
face. 

" Nay, my friend, no refusal — it is no bribe, 
for it won you not to grant my prayer ; but I 
have now no other way of showing my grati- 
tude." 

Drawing her veil closely around her, and 
taking Lucy's arm, though it was her own that 
gave the support, she entered the room, and 
closed the door ; when, listening for a mo- 
ment, she heard the monotonous and heavy 
tread of the soldier echoing through the pas- 
sage. 

" He sleeps," exclaimed Lucy, bending tan- 
derly over Evelyn — loath, even in that extre- 
mity, to waken him. 

" You must rouse him, dearest — every mi- 
nute is precious." 

Perceiving that Lucy still hesitated, she ap- 
proached the sleeper, and with some effort re- 
moved the arm which supported his head, at 
the same time calling him by name. Evelyn 
started to his feet in a moment, and his hand 
mechanically sought his sword — the discovery 
that he was "unarmed seemed to recall his re- 
collection instantaneously — he paused just to 



346 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



take breath, folding his arms, and turned 
fiercely round to face his supposed enemy. 
His glance fell upon Lucy Aylmer. " My 
sweetest Lucy !" exclaimed he, " this is be- 
ing in company with an angel sooner than I 
expected." 

Her only answer was a burst of tears, and 
a gesture towards Francesca, entreating her 
to speak, which drew Evelyn's attention to 
her companion. Pale and agitated, the young 
Italian felt herself incapable of utterance ; and 
Evelyn stood fixed to the ground when he re- 
cognised his visiter. "The Signora da Car- 
rara!" he ejaculated; and then paused, half 
surprise and half embarrassment. 

Francesca was the first to recover her self- 
possession ; and coldly and calmly approach- 
ing the prisoner, said, with a voice to which 
pride gave firmness — " Mr. Evelyn, time is 
now too valuable to be wasted in idle expla- 
nations ; I have only to say that Lucy Ayl- 
mer and myself have arranged a plan which 
will, we think, insure your escape. You must 
pass for me — the dress I wear will be suffi- 
cient disguise — and I will remain in your 
place till the arrival of Major Johnstone," — 
Evelyn started at the name — " who can have 
no motive in detaining me prisoner." 

Without waiting for a reply, she unbound 
the veil from her head, and took off the loose 
black novice's robe, which she had put over 
a gray stuff dress similar to that worn by 
Lucy. " I have," added she, in a saddened 
tone, " worn this costume for weeks. 1 think, 
on my first arrival, the very man who keeps 
the door saw me in it; it can therefore excite 
no suspicion, and its wide folds afford ample 
concealment." 

"Good God!" said Evelyn, "and do you 
think so basely of me as to suppose that I 
would leave you in my place, exposed both to 
danger and insult!" 

" I apprehend neither," she replied ; " the 
bitterest fanatic of them all would scarcely 
stain his hands with a woman's blood ; and 
as to insult, the grave and severe character of 
the officer expected is my best security. But 
make haste — there is a faint glimmer already 
in the east ; and if the day once breaks, you 
are lost." 

Without awaiting further reply, she began 
to arrange the cumbrous drapery. 

"Dearest Evelyn," whispered Lucy, in so 
tremulous a voice that even his ear could 
scarcely catch the words, " for my sake, do 
not refuse." 

A firm determination usually effects its pur- 
pose, and the young cavalier at length allow- 
ed Francesca to proceed to the execution of 
her purpose. The disguise was complete — 
the novice's garb entirely shrouded his figure, 
and the long veil equally concealed his 
face. 

" Now, take Lucy's arm — and remember," 
continued she, " that you are overcome with 
emotion. Ah! one thing we had nearly for- 
gotten — those riding boots will lead to instant 
detection. I had put on the slippers of" — 
she could not articulate the name of Guido — 



" over my own ; you m ist substitute them for 
your rougher array." 

Evelyn obeyed, and then, turning hastily 
towards her, exclaimed, " Lady, you cannot 
dream how unworthy I am of your heroic 
kindness ; but the ill I have done I may yet 
repair, and, little as you may now suspect it, 
your own future happiness is one great in- 
ducement for my thus attempting an escape." 

" Mine !" murmured Francesca with a bit- 
ter and scornful smile ; when, seeing that 
Lucy was employed in fresh trimming the 
lantern, she whispered, " think rather of that 
gentle creature yonder — so young, so good, so 
innocent, let her not be a sacrifice." 

"Ah! I love her," said he in the same 
whispering tone. "If not my wife, she will 
never be more to me than the loveliest dream 
of my existence." 

"A dream," thought Francesca, "which 
alas! will cost her happiness." 

But there was no time for further parley. 
Francesca threw round her Evelyn's cloak, 
put on his plumed hat, drew his glove on one 
hand, and leaning her head upon it, might 
well, to a casual glance, have seemed the ca- 
valier. Evelyn and Lucy opened the door of 
the chamber. They passed on, and the sen- 
tinel looked in and saw, as he thought, his 
prisoner. " I must wish you good night for 
my friend and myself — poor thing!" said 
Lucy, in a low voice. 

The man touched his cap respectfully, and 
with slow steps they proceeded along the gal- 
lery. How distinctly could Evelyn feel the 
heart of the terrified girl beat against his arm ! 
At last they reached the extremity — the heavy 
door swung to after them. Lucy tried to draw 
the bolt, but her hand trembled too much, and 
her companion was obliged to perform the 
task. " Quick !" whispered she, and rapidly 
they threaded the deserted rooms. " You can 
throw off your cumbersome disguise here," 
said Lucy, though the words could scarcely 
be distinguished, from her excessive agitation. 
Evelyn hastily caught up a cloak and cap laid 
ready for him, and a few minutes brought 
them into the sitting-room. " This window 
opens on the garden — go straight along yon 
shadowy walk — the mound at its end will en- 
able you to mount the wall — you can spring 
down, and then your path lies direct to the 
forest. O, make haste — God bless you !" 

He clasped her tenderly to his heart, and 
was gone. She watched him through the 
walk, for there was just a faint light that out- 
lined his figure on the still dusky air. Almost 
before she drew her suspended breath, he was 
lost among the trees. She raisod her hands 
with a mute gesture of gratitude to heaven, 
and sank on the window-seat. 



CHAPTER LXVII. 

" How felt the maiden in that hour ?"— Scott. 

The first few moments after the door closed 
upon Evelyn and his companion were passed 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



347 



by Francesca in a state of horrible anxiety ; 
every instant she expected to hear that the 
sentinel had discovered the deception. She 
counted in her own mind the steps along 1 the 
gallery; at last she heard, as those whose 
senses are quickened by some strong excite- 
ment can hear, the door at the end of the pas- 
sage close; then all was still, save the mea- 
sured tread of the soldier passing to and fro. 
With an intense feeling of composure and re- 
lief, she let her head sink on her arm ; and, 
while a few large but quiet tears fell almost 
unconsciously, remained for a time only alive 
to the repose that follows when the nerves 
have been overwrought, and mind and body 
taxed to their utmost; the feverish restless- 
ness which is sure to succeed exhaustion was 
yet to come. 

The noise of relieving the guard at the door 
of the chamber first roused her. Some one 
-ooked in, but, apparently satisfied, did not en- 
ter; and again all was silent, save the tramp 
of heavy steps up and down the gallery. 
Francesca gazed around ; the dim lamp was 
flickering in the socket, and spread a far black 
shadow ; a cold gray light came through the 
dusty and broken windows, while the unfur- 
nished and disconsolate chamber, floor, and 
walls, discoloured with neglect and time, add- 
ed to the gloomy influence of the scene. 

The first struggle between light and dark- 
ness is a dreary hour — the air is so raw, so 
cold ; the want of rest is then most severely 
felt; sleep avenges itself for its dismissal by 
sending stupor in its place ; and the relaxed 
nerves and wornout spirits presage the mis- 
fortunes which they yet lack strength to meet. 
All the annoyance to which she might pre- 
sently be subjected, all the misconception to 
which her conduct was liable, rose gloomily 
upon her mind. With feverish impatience 
she watched the objects grow more and more 
distinct, while the perpetual pacing of the sen- 
tinel outside seemed insupportable to her 
jaded hearing. A rosier tint came upon the 
atmosphere, and at length a sunbeam fell upon 
the expiring lamp — its glad and golden ra- 
diance was a mockery, and the wan flame 
perished before it. Sounds now began to 
break the monotony of the soldier's steps ; 
first, a low chirp rang through the boughs, 
and soon the songs of the many birds filled 
the air with the music and cheerfulness of 
morning; while through the shattered lattices 
came the rich flush — the crimsoned beauty of 
an autumn dawn. 

" Major Johnstone must soon be here !" and 
in spite of herself, Francesca trembled, though 
more from feminine timidity than alarm. In 
the hurry and fever of the previous night, she 
had not given a thought to the consequences 
— now they arose in painful array before her ; 
her very courage as concerned danger, rather 
heightened than diminished their annoyance — 
had she been more fearful, she would have 
been less embarrassed ; love, too, would have 
supported her by its own engrossing nature ; 
but she had acted solely from an impulse of 
high-toned generosity. When she could assist 



Evelyn, she disdained to visit upon him aught 
of personal resentment. . 

As the morning advanced, her anxiety in- 
creased. Suddenly an unusual noise broke 
in upon the singing of the birds ; — surely it 
was the trampling of horses' feet. She held 
her breath to listen, for she could scarcely 
catch it; — yes, there certainly was the sound 
of voices, confused and distant, — then all was 
still again. A few minutes of agonizing sus- 
pense succeeded ; then came the tread of heavy 
feet along the gallery. She heard a loud harsh 
voice, distinct above the others, though, of 
course, she could not distinguish the words. 
The door of the chamber opened, and some one 
entered slowly, and approached the table. She 
felt, though her face was bowed upon her 
hand, that the darkness of his shadow was 
upon her. 

The visiter paused ; then shaking her rough- 
ly by the arm, exclaimed, " Up, thoughtless 
sleeper! there is but a brief space between 
thee and eternity : give that space to thy God 
Great as are the injuries now about to be re- 
quited on thy own head, I would not have thee 
depart this life with no prayer on thy lips foi 
forgiveness." He drew aside the cloak, and 
all concealment was over. The young Italian 
rose from the seat, pale, but resolved ; and if 
her hands were involuntarily clasped in the 
timid supplication belonging to her sex, her 
dark eyes were filled with the fiery pride na- 
tive to her heroic race. The surprise was so 
great, that for a moment Major Johnstone nei- 
ther spoke nor moved, but remained gazing 
on the beautiful face so suddenly presented to 
his view, as if it had been the head of Medusa, 
and had turned him to stone. But he was too 
used to the changes of his stirring time for 
surprise to last. His brow darkened, and his 
mouth contracted with a fierce expression of 
rage,— 

" Where is the prisoner 1 ?" demanded he, in 
a tone scarcely audible. 

" Far beyond the power of his enemies," 
replied Francesca. 

"You contrived his escape, and remained 
in his place; you are, therefore, doubtless, 
ready to meet the penalty which awaited him. 
I give you five minutes to prepare for death !" 
and, turning away, he began to pace the cham- 
ber with rapid steps. 

Francesca felt, as who but must, the blood 
recede from her heart; but her self-possession 
deserted her not. 

"Why," thought she, "should I care to 
die! Who do I leave behind to regret me? 
Life is my only link with life. Isolated and 
wretched, why should I care how early that is 
snapped \ Guido, we shall meet sooner than 
we deemed !" and, leaning on the back of the 
chair, she hid her eyes with her hand, and 
strove to fix her thoughts on a far and other 
world. 

The republican officer had expected a burst 
of womanish terror, and had nerved him- 
self in advance for passionate appeals; bu£ 
Francesca's quiet submission and calm re 
solve at once surprised and touched him 



143 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



His wrds were but a threat, which, to do 
him justice, he never dreamed of carrying 
into effect; but he had hoped, in the agi- 
tation and fear of the announcement, that 
he should be able to gather such particulars of 
the prisoner's escape and destination as might 
lead to his recapture. Her perfect beauty, her 
noble air, and her stately composure, inspired 
him with a respect and interest which influ- 
enced him unawares ; and when he next spoke 
it was in a gentler tone. 

"It must have been some strong motive 
which induced you thus to peril your life, and 
to set at nought the laws of the land in which 
you dwell. But why do I say strong motive 1 
There needs but one for your weak and ill- 
judging sex — the fair face of the young cava- 
lier, and perchance a few honeyed words, soon 
throw aside all restraints of duty, age, and of 
decency. Mr. Evelyn was your lover." 

" Sir," said Francesca, raising her eyes, 
"the meanest hind in yonder field is an object 
of as much interest to me ; I had no motive 
but compassion ; and I do now deem myself 
justified in aiding a fellow-creature to escape 
from a violent and dreadful death." 

"And so," exclaimed he, angrily, "for a 
foolish, vain, and womanish fancy — compas- 
sion, as you call it — you have let loose a fire- 
brand on this unhappy land, and defrauded a 
vengeance as just as ever exacted the fearful 
penalty of blood for blood !" 

"I will but answer," replied Francesca, 
" in the words of your own holy creed, — 
' Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord ; I will 
repay.' " 

"Maiden," interrupted Major Johnstone, 
pale with rage and a yet deeper feeling, " it 
is but a little while ago, according to ordinary 
reckonings — but a miserable eternity to the 
miserable — that I dwelt a man of peace, in a 
happy home — happy in content and affection. 
In one night that house was burnt to the 
ground — ground reddened with the blood of 
those nearest and dearest to me. I was left 
without one kindred tie on earth; and stood 
next morning beside the blackened heap which 
had been my happy, happy house, with but 
one thought of the future in my heart. Maiden, 
that was vengeance !" 

Francesca could not speak, but her eyes 
fully showed the intense sympathy the story 
had awakened. 

" That ruin — that w T ork of death — was the 
act of a midnight revel, the deed of those who 
sat at my board, and deemed it only too great 
an honour for the scorned Puritan to perish by 
their hands. Your young cavalier was the 
foiemost of those brawlers. One dear to me 
as a son fell by his sword. Others of that 
merciless band have fallen before me one by 
one, but he has eluded my pursuit. God de- 
livered him unto my wrath, and lo ! the vain 
foolishness of a woman has again deferred that 
righteous judgment which I feel written in my 
inmost soul it is given unto me to execute !" 

"Alas!" exclaimed Francesca; "I do not 
plead to excuse the cruel injuries to which an 
unnatural warfare has led; but, for your own 



sake, be merciful ; the heart knows no peaca 
like forgiveness." 

" What know you of forgiveness," inter 
rupted the other. "What injuries have yov 
had to pardon 1 Have you stood amid the dead 
and the dying, those for whom you wou!4 
have poured forth your heart's best blood V 

" There are other sorrows than those which 
are the heritage of the sword — other injuries 
than those wrought by the red right hand ; 
and life is more easily parted with than happi- 
ness." 

"And of that," exclaimed the other, draw- 
ing the inference more rapidly than Francesca 
had anticipated, "yonder truant malignant has 
deprived you?" 

" Nay !" replied she, for her pride revolted 
at the conclusion to which her own inadver- 
tent words had led. " Mr. Evelyn has over 
me no influence now," added she, in a falter- 
ing voice; for, however painful or humiliating, 
Francesca was too little accustomed to false- 
hood to take refuge in its meanness. But their 
conversation was interrupted by a sudden noise 
in the gallery. The door was thrown hurried- 
ly open, and Evelyn was again brought in a 
prisoner. 



CHAPTER LXV1II. 



" Who 
May well be said to represent his brother, 
For when you see the one, you know the other/' 
Leigh Hunt. 



The moment Major Johnstone's eye fell 
upon the prisoner, it kindled with a fierce and 
terrible joy, like that of a wild beast about lo 
spring upon the prey devoted alike by rage 
and hunger. A deadly whiteness spread 
round his mouth, rendering still deeper the 
blackness of his brow. No man could meet 
its dark, unrelenting frown, and not feel that, 
if there rested his doom, it was indeed sealed 
forever. For a moment Evelyn quailed before 
that fearful gaze ; and yet his emotion was 
not fear, but as if some painful memory was 
suddenly awakened — a memory to be dis- 
missed as soon as possible ; or, if not forgot- 
ten, at least to be braved. On his entrance 
into the room, the soldiers had released his 
arms though they stood with their stern im- 
penetrable faces, too harsh for any expression, 
fixed upon him in mechanical watchfulness of 
any attempt at an escape. 

Francesca leant, pale and breathless, against 
the chair, looking on the scene before her 
with that fascinated gaze which marks the 
progress of the dreaded evil it has become ut- 
terly hopeless to avert. The two enemies 
confronted each other, Johnstone's rigid fea- 
tures working with a slight convulsion, and 
his large gray eyes gleaming with that lurid 
light ever associated with insanity; and as- 
suredly with him the incessant dwelling on 
one thought had had its usual effect of unset- 
tling the mind which undergoes that perilous 



FRANC ESC A CARRARA. 



349 



trial. Vengeance had been the sole object of 
his existence; it was now about to be grati- 
fied — and the emotion of such a joy is awful 
as death. The young cavalier looked the 
more indifferent of the two; his arms were 
folded, as if the attitude were only studied on 
account of its grace; the eye wandered care- 
lessly round ; and a scornful, or what is best 
expressed by the common word audacious, 
smile-curved his lip. The republican officer 
felt his anger goaded by the insolence of his 
careless adversary. This time there was no 
recommendation to think of that God into 
whose presence the prisoner was so • soon 
about to enter. His lip trembled, a slight 
spasm distorted his mouth ; and even the 
trained and hardened soldiers started at the 
hollow and unnatural voice in which their 
commander gave his orders. 

" Habakkuk, go you first, and marshal a 
file of our picked carbines ; you," said he, 
turning to the others, w follow me, with the 
prisoner." 

No woman could stand by and hear such 
an order given without an attempt at suppli- 
cation, however vain. Francesca sprang for- 
ward, and, throwing herself at Johnstone's 
feet, implored him to show mercy. He raised 
her with the iron grasp of a giant, as strong 
and as pitiless. 

" Madam, this is no scene for a female," 
was his only reply. 

Francesca's appearance seemed to move 
Evelyn. He stood as if struggling with his 
feelings ; at last his resolution was taken, and, 
stepping forward, he addressed Major Johns- 
tone. 

" I believe, sir, even the tyrannical autho- 
rity now so unjustly exerted would scarcely 
condemn a gentleman of birth and honour to 
die without a few minutes' preparation. I ask 
but some brief words with yonder lady; and 
they are for her sake, not my own." 
" Speak V' said the officer. 
" Only for her ear," resumed Evelyn. 
" And so plan another escape, through some 
of the cursed passages with which this relic 
of popery abounds ?" 

"I give you my honour." 
" Trash ! exclaimed Johnstone, his black 
brow growing yet blacker with rage at the 
delay. "Behold yonder window — lead the 
lady thither; lean there see, though I hear 
you not. So courtly a gallant as yourself 
knows how to whisper." 

"Doubtless," said Evelyn, acknowledging 
the compliment by bowing low ; and, advanc- 
ing to Francesca, he led her towards the win- 
dow, Precious as the time was, he neverthe- 
ess hesitated when the gloomy shadow of 
Major Johnstone fell between the two. 

"I give you but ten minutes, and four are 
gone ;" and again he withdrew out of ear- 
shot. 

" Yes, I must speak ; and though I do not 

— cannot hope for your forgiveness, I must 

tell you, Francesca, how cruelly you have 

been deceived. I cannot die with a lie on my 

Vol I. 



soul ; but I am not he whom you take me 
for/' 

Francesca gazed into his face. She though! 
the shock of his situation had bewildered his 
reason ; but he met her look calmly — firmly, 
and continued : 

" It was my brother that you met in Italy ; 
our likeness is so great, that apart we are often 
mistaken the one for the other. I heard him 
speak of you, though our meeting in France 
was the effect of chance. Thither he followed 
you, saw you talking to me at the theatre, and 
believed that I had supplanted him. Re- 
proach was alien to his generous tempera 
ment; he commended you to my dear love, 
and left Paris." 

Francis Evelyn paused, for though he ex- 
pected agitation, he was not prepared for the 
shock which his words inflicted. Francesca 
sank senseless at his feet. The noise of her 
fall called the attention of the others. Alive 
to every chance of escape, fearing to see his 
prisoner vanish through some concealed door, 
Major Johnstone rushed forward. On observ- 
ing the State of Francesca, a gleam of com- 
miseration passed over his severe aspect; he 
aided Francis to raise her, and, beckoning one 
of the soldiers, gave her into his arms, and 
bade him carry the still insensible girl to the 
family. The man obeyed, and, with a kind- 
liness which indicated a gentler nature than 
his rugged look promised, bore her carefully 
as a child from the chamber. 

" Are you ready, sir '?" asked Major Johns 
tone. 

"Not yet! — not yet!" exclaimed Evelyn, 
with an appearance of agitation, which he 
strove in vain to suppress. " I ask but a very, 
very brief delay ; but I have done a grievous 
wrong to yonder noble creature, and to one 
worthy as herself I must repair it. You know 
my brother]" 

" I do ; and marvel how he can be a brother 
of thine." 

The rebuke passed unnoticed, and Francis 
hurriedly continued : 

" I ask but to write a few lines to him. I 
shall place it unsealed in your hands, so that 
you need fear no treason ; though I trust that 
even a Roundhead may have honour enough 
not to read it ; and to that honour I must trust 
for its delivery." 

"I reck not," replied his companion, " that 
worldly and vain honour which you set up as 
an idol, and worship beyond your God ; but 
for Robert Evelyn's own sake, that letter shall 
reach his hands in safety." 

Writing materials were soon brought, and 
Evelyn commenced his epistle: it ran thus— 

" Dear Robert, 

"Caught at last, and by those rascally 
Roundheads, whom you call patriots and saints, 
in a few minutes more I shall be shot — that 
is, if their clumsy carbines take good aim — tc 
be sure they can fire near enough their mark 
not to miss. But I write to tell you that you 
will hea: through all the various channels by 
° 2G 



350 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS, 



which news travels, — Francesca Carrara is in 
England, residing under the roof of Lawrence 
Aylmer ! Ah, dear Robert, let me commend 
Lucy Aylmer to your care — the only woman 
I ever loved, even, save that I have not your 
nobler nature, as you loved Francesca. I 
duped both yourself and that young and gene- 
rous Italian, who has just risked her life for 
mine. I passed myself upon her for you, and 
till this moment she has never been unde- 
ceived. But one who was attached to you 
must have found that I was an unworthy like- 
ness ; she felt the change, though she knew 
it not; — and mark these words, — I was scorn- 
ed and rejected, and anger kept me from unde- 
ceiving you. But death brings awful, and 
some kindly thoughts. Never did your true 
and strong affection rise up so vividly — so 
tenderly to my thoughts. I may have lived, 
but I will not die, quite undeserving of it. 
God bless you and Francesca ! — you deserve 
each other. I hear Major Johnstone walking 
quicker and quicker. How heavily he steps ! 
Good-by ! " Yours till death, 

(not very long, by-the-by), 

"Francis Evelyn." 

The captive cavalier calmly folded the 
scroll, rose up, and, presenting it to Johnstone, 
said, " Now, sir, I am at your service. I be- 
lieve my birth entitles me to precedence ;" 
and he left the apartment first. 



CHAPTER LXIX. 



"Let me die, 
At least, w ith an unshackled eye." 

Byron. 



The fresh air of the open windows, as they 
came to the inhabited part of the house, re- 
vived Francesca, though, when the soldier, 
who had found his way to the kitchen, gave 
her to the care of the astonished Aylrner him- 
self, she was still too dizzy and too confused 
to be conscious of her situation. Lawrence 
gave her a glass of water, and, restored in 
some aegree, she silently accepted his aid to 
reach their usual room. On their entrance, 
Aylmer was greeted by a new r surprise — 
his daughter Lucy, whom he very naturally 
supposed was quietly in her bed, lay on the 
window-seat, the casement open, and herself 
asleep ; but the traces of tears were upon her 
cheek, and her long fair hair loose, and yet 
saturated with the dews of night. 

"For God's sake, let her sleep at any ha- 
zard !" whispered Francesca, now fully re- 
called to all that had passed and was passing. 
" Another time for explanation. Poor, poor 
Lucy !" added she, as her mind reverted to 
the terrible awakening before her. 

"I must go," rejoined Aylmer, "and keep 
some sort of order ■ for my house is turned 



inside out." Then, gazing earnestly at Lucy, 
he said in a low tone, " I will not — dare not, 
ask what this means now ; my dear, my beau- 
tiful child !" — but his voice failed, and he 
hurried from the chamber. 

"Anything rather than this torturing sus- 
pense !" cried Francesca, who had been stand • 
ing with her face buried in her hands. "I 
can look into the yard from Lucy's bedroom—. 
pray God that she may not awake !" 

With that dizzy yet desperate feeling which 
braces, even to the last, the overwrought 
nerves, Francesca cast one more glance on the 
unconscious sleeper, whose bright hair and 
flushed cheek were golden and rosy as the 
morning now breaking around her; but Lucy 
was too thoroughly exhausted to awaken. 
There she lay, her head pillowed upon her arm, 
like a child that had cried itself to rest; while 
Francesca bent over her, pale, cold as a statue, 
for lip and cheek were both w r hite — only the 
blue veins were sw r ollen on the forehead, and 
the large closed eyes wore a strange expres- 
sion, most unlike their usual intellectual dark- 
ness. With a light yet hurried step, she went 
up stairs, and approached the lattice. At first 
she could not force herself to look out ; but 
the agony of endurance grew insupportable, 
and she leant forth. Her worst fears were not 
realized ; but there was enough to alarm her 
in the unusual aspect of the place. It was 
now about six o'clock, and that first freshness 
was on the air, which is to the day what youth 
is to life, — so light, so elastic, so sweet, and. 
so brief; the roofs of the thatched buildings 
glittered w ? ith the moisture rapidly drying up ' 
the fragrant breath of the cows, the long, lin 
gering odour from the hay ricks, were so per- 
ceptible on the clear atmosphere ; long sha- 
dows came down from the house and the trees, 
but they only made more visible the golden 
transparency of the sunshine. 

" O God !" cried Francesca, " this contrast 
of the glad external world is dreadful to tha* 
within !" 

The farmyard, though morning was upon 
it, showed none of its usual morning activity; 
the hinds stood staring and bewildered in 
knots of some two or three, who appeared as 
though they sought to draw nigh to each other 
for protection, not companionship, and cast 
half-sullen, half-scared looks at the intruders 
on their own domain. The soldiers were scat- 
tered about, some talking to each other with 
the most careless indifference, others collected 
round a gaunt-looking sergeant, who was read- 
ing from a small Bible, and whose nasal ac- 
cents were audible, though Francesca cruld 
not catch the words. A small body ci dis- 
mounted troopers were lounging near the gate v 
waiting for their leader's call to boot and sad- 
dle ; but there was one party that riveted her 
eye — six men, of grave and determined bear- 
ing, who stood apart, leaning upon their car- 
bines. The domestic fowls alone seemed un- 
disturbed by the unusual visiters, unless a 
more than ordinary noise of chirping and flat 
tering marked something of fear ; but the 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



351 



large house-dog could not be quieted, and kept 
up that savage bark and growl which indi- 
cated its consciousness of intrusion and danger. 
Suddenly all eyes turned in one direction, and 
Major Johnstone came from the house, follow- 
ed by the prisoner and four soldiers. Francis 
stepped lightly forward, and flung round a 
glance of the most careless contempt; and as 
he passed below the window 7 , Francesca could 
hear him humming the notes of a popular loy- 
alist song peculiarly obnoxious to the rigid 
fanatics. The insult caused many a dark 
brow to turn scowling upon him ; but he paid 
them back glance for glance, and met every 
irown with a smile. He reached the appoint- 
ed place; and, at a sign from Major John- 
stone, one of the troopers drew out a handker- 
chief and' attempted to bind his eyes. The 
prisoner flung him off with a force scarcely to 
be expected from one of his slight figure, and 
turning quickly, said, " Let me die like a 
man ! — whatever is my death, let me face it !" 
No further effort was made to blindfold him ; 
but the carbineers formed their deadly rank, 
looking, however, towards their commander 
for the signal. 

" I will myself give the word !" cried Eve- 
lyn. " When I take off my hat, fire !" 

Francesca had hitherto looked on with that 
sort of charmed gaze with which the fasci- 
nated bird watches the gray and glittering eye 
of the serpent which forces it to its doom ; 
but womanly terror now mastering strong ex- 
citement, she knelt down, and hiding her face 
in her hands, muttered incoherent ejaculations 
of prayer. 

Major Johnstone had, by a stern gesture of 
assent, marked his permission for the prisoner 
to give his own death signal ; and Francis, 
after a leisurely survey, expressive of the ut- 
most contumely of the iron faces that darken- 
ed round him, raised his hand to his head ; — 
every carbine was raised, too, in preparation ; 
and the sudden rise of the steel tubes flashed 
like some strange meteor in the sun. 

" God save King Charles !" exclaimed the 
reckless cavalier, and flung his white plumed 
hat in the air. 

A loud burst of musketry rang far away 
into the distant forest; many echoes took it 
up, and repeated the mimic thunder; a strange 
screaming rose from the startled birds ; — but 
loud above them all, was heard the shriek of 
a woman. 

Lucy, rousing from her sleep, as the morn- 
ing light fell upon her face, had sought her 
own chamber; she had entered unperceived 
by Francesca, who was kneeling in the last 
horror of having to look on a violent death. 
Approaching her friend, she was startled by 
Hie report of the carbines — scarcely aware of 
'mr )wr. act, she had looked from the lattice, 
and saw Major Johnstone standing in the cold 
triumph of gratified revenge beside the body 
of a cavalier, whose lifeblood was welling in 
a crimson flood to his feet. At a glance Lucy 
recognised Francis Evelyn. 



CHAPTER LXX. 

" Even beauty's shadow lies 
Like darkness on the earth." 

J. K. Hervev. 

For weeks it seemed as if the fearful trage> 
dy, acted at their very threshold, had left % 
gloom not to be dispelled on the whole party. 
Night and day the appalling death-note of the 
carbine rang in their ears ; and one event, and 
one individual, was the sole topic of dis- 
course. Still Francesca could feel horror 
only, not grief; and there were now hope and 
happiness at her heart, long strangers to its 
haunted circle. She had indeed been true to 
herself, and to her first and only love ; the 
image of Robert Evelyn might again be the 
one cherished thought, the one perpetual 
dream of her solitude. It was like returning 
to her native country — returning to that dear 
and early vision. Again life wore the beauty 
of promise — the deep and sweet well of sym- 
pathy, so long dried up, flowed again. The 
first time that she passed along the fields and 
entered the dim glades of the forest, she felt 
what a new life had awakened within her. 
She no longer turned a cold and dispirited 
gaze on the objects around — she could enter 
into and rejoice in all natural loveliness. The 
magnificent autumn, the royal spendthrift of 
the year, was now wearing the proud regality 
so soon to depart into darkness and decay ; 
and this it is, despite its purple and crimson, 
which laugh the glories of Tyre to scorn, that 
renders autumn the most melancholy of the 
seasons — the others have a further looking 
hope. Winter softens into spring, spring 
blushes into summer, and summer ripens into 
autumn, — all going on into increased good. 
But autumn darkens into winter, and is the 
only quarter that ends as the destro} T ed and 
the desolate. There is in autumn no hGpe, 
that prophetic beautifier of the foregone year. 
But just now, the glorious conqueror of wood 
and field was in the first flush of its radiant 
hours ; every object shone out transparent in 
the clear blue air of the bright brief noon. 
If the hedges had lost the may and the honey- 
suckle, the scarlet berries of the hip and the 
haw shone like carved coral — the rich orchard 
of the birds ; the slender bindweed wound 
about with its pale and delicate flowers — so 
delicate, yet so deadly; and one or two late 
flowers yet put forth their wan blossoms, 
pining as if gentle exiles of the spring, and 
yet very, very lovely. The noisy cheerful 
ness of rural occupation was over — the grass 
was mown, the corn reaped, the fruit gathered ; 
and the loudest sound in the lonely fields was 
when, adventuring too near some late brood, 
the partridge sought to deceive by a plaintive 
cry and seeming helplessness, crossing before 
your very feet, till, when drawn to a sufficient 
distance, suddenly the air vibrated to the flut- 
ter of her active pinions. Or sometimes, 
passing too near a sequestered copse, the shy 
tenants were startled, and the superb plumago 



362 



MISS LANDON'S "WORKS. 



of the pheasant dashed aside the branches, 
and the statel}' bird soared up on rattling 
wings. 

But if autumn wear the insignia of nature's 
royalty, its purple and gold, in only the shaded 
1 me or the green field with its one or two old 
trees, what is its more than eastern pomp in 
a wooded empire like the New Forest ! The 
stalwart oaks yet retained their dark green 
foliage, and the yews and firs stood un- 
changed ; all others bore the signs of that 
evanescent splendour, very type of all our 
earthly glories. The leaves now wore the 
colours which had been worn by the flowers — 
richer, perhaps, but wanting the tender bloom 
of the spring. Here the lime was clothed 
with a pale yellow, contrasted by the syca- 
more's glowing crimson; the elm showed a 
rich brown, mixed with dusky orange; the 
hawthorns were covered with red berries, re- 
lieved by the long wreaths 'of the drooping 
ivy. Thickets of hazelnuts clattered as the 
squirrels sprung from spray to spray in search 
of their winter store ; and the sloe was thick- 
ly hung with its dim purple fruit. The furze 
was dry and reddening, and only in one or 
two sheltered nooks did a late blossom hang 
from the withering heath. 

There is something peculiarly mournful in 
the sound of the autumn wind. It has none 
of the fierce mirth which belongs to that of 
March, calling aloud, as with the voice of a 
trumpet, on all earth to rejoice; neither has 
it the mild rainy melody of summer, when the 
lily has given its softness and the rose its 
sweetness to the gentle tones. Still less has 
it the dreary moan, the cry as of one in pain, 
which is borne on a November blast ; but it 
has a music of its own — sad, low and plain- 
tive, like the last echoes of a forsaken lute — 
a voice of weening, but tender and subdued, 
like the pleasant tears shed over some woful 
romance of the olden time, telling some 
mournful chance of the young knight falling 
in his first battle, or of a maiden pale and pe- 
rishing with ill-requited love. Onward passes 
that complaining wind through the quiet 
glades, like the angel of death mourning over 
the beauty it is commissioned to destroy. At 
every sweep down falls a shower of sapless 
leaves — ghost of the spring — with a dry, sor- 
rowful rustle; and every day the eye misses, 
some bright colour of yesterday, or marks 
some bough left entirely bare and sear; and 
ever and anon, on some topmost branch, as 
the foliage is quite swept off, a deserted nest 
is visible — love, spring, and music, passed 
away together. 

But the heart is its own world, and the out- 
ward influence takes its tone from that within. 
With how much lighter a step, with how 
much brighter an eye, did Francesca wander 
through the forest even in the last desolation 
of autumn, than she did in all the bloom and 
buoyancy of spring ! Not all the natural 
horror and pity, deeply and keenly felt at 
Francis's awful death, could disturb the sweet 
and secret satisfaction now garnered up in her 
inmost thoughts. All old belief in the good, 



the beautiful, and the true, revived within 
her. Doubt, that most oppressive atmosphere 
upon the moral existence, rolled away like a 
vapour from the future • once more she could 
hope and trust — she ieh happy enough for 
forgiveness. It had not been human had she 
not sometimes bitterly contrasted her present 
state with what might have been its lot but 
for the cruel deception of Francis; but she 
was strong in her newly awakened reliance — 
she could look forward — the future owed her 
some recompense for the wretchedness of thd 
past. The first time when she gave herself 
up to that aerial architecture, after the events 
we have just recorded, was her ensuing visit 
to Guido's grave. The sympathy was still 
entire between them, and it seemed as if her 
happiness were incomplete till shared with 
him ; and beside that green and quiet mound 
his presence was so actual ! Perhaps the 
stillness and seclusion aided the imagination — 
nothing was there to disturb or destroy the 
illusion. She threaded the narrow paths of 
the forest in the pleasant company of her own 
thoughts — these paths through which Evelyn 
had so often wandered. Frequently before 
had this idea risen in her mind, but then it 
was sternly banished — now she had dwelt 
upon it with eager delight. With what a 
feeling of joyful security did her heart go 
back to its old allegiance ! Till now she had 
scarcely been aware of its strength, for she 
had known it but by its disappointment — now 
she fully admitted that early and passionate 
emotion with which Robert Evelyn had in- 
spired her was indeed her destiny; both in 
the first developement of her affection, in the 
endeavour to make herself worthy of him, and 
in the mental strength acquired by the after- 
struggle with that very affection, when it 
seemed but as an unworthy weakness which 
needed to be subdued. His influence, and its 
consequence, had still been paramount — its 
good and its evil had formed her whole cha- 
racter. 

A high and generous nature is always 
trustful. Francesca never for a moment 
feared Evelyn's constancy; that a knowledge 
of the deception practised would instantly 
bring him to her side, it never occurred to her 
to doubt ; and in her full gratitude to fate, she 
relied upon their meeting again. She started 
— and the delicious revery in which she had 
been indulging was broken as she approached 
the grave of her brother. Another and a new- 
made one was beside it — there reposed the 
mortal remains of Francis Evelyn. Pale and 
faint, she took her usual seat on the sod, 
which covered Guido's lowly pillow ; but her 
eye and her thoughts fixed on its neighbour. 

There is nothing more dreary than a new- 
made grave — so bare, so desolate, so comfort- 
less, with the cold stones, and damp gravel 
scattered all carelessly round. After a little 
while the long grass and the sweet wild flow- 
ers sanctify the place — even as, in the human 
heart, gentle memories and subduing time 
throw a kindly soothing over the first bittel 
and ri^id suffering. " It shall not long be lefl 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



35.5 



thus dreary," thought Francesca, and turned 
aside her face, but in vain; she could think 
of nothing but the murdered cavalier — for 
murdered he was in her eyes — whose coihn 
was hidden but by a little heap of recklessly 
flung earth. Again and again she recurred to 
the scene of his execution, whose horror was 
heightened by the familiar circumstances with 
which it was attended. The customary scaf- 
fold has its own awe — justice and obedience 
and usage surround the place J but to die a 
violent death, and by the hand of man, amid 
life's daily scenes, all associations so domes- 
tic and so ordinary, aggravates the ghastly 
spectacle, and makes the doom seem at once 
cruel and undeserved. 

Francesca had never sufficiently commanded 
herself to pass through the farmyard since 
Evelyn's death ; but the sudden sight of the 
newly ducr grave recalled every occurrence of 
that dreadful morning. She thought of his 
daring demeanour — of the fearlessness w T ith 
which he met his fate — of his youth, and the 
promise which life held out to him. Young, 
high-born, handsome, rich, and brave — all 
these advantages were in one moment less 
than nothing. She fruitlessly struggled with 
the recollection that his evil had been her good 
— that but for the serious thoughts which 
throng before as the heralds of death, he might 
never have avowed the deception which he 
had practised — and never, on this side the 
grave, would she and Robert Evelyn have 
known how dearly and truly each loved the 
other. But this idea brought with it a chill 
and vagne terror. Was happiness, then, sur- 
rounded by loss and sacrifice 1 — was destiny 
to be propitiated but by a human victim] An 
unfathomable dread seemed to steal gradually 
over her spirits — only mournful images arose 
within her mind. Henrietta, Guido, perish- 
ing in their good and beautiful youth ! — Fran- 
cis Evelyn cut off with — she dared not think 
how many unrepented faults ! What was 
there in her that her fate should be better 
than theirs] In vain she strove to shake off 
her depression — she felt but the more subdued. 
The large tears fell like dew on the slender 
stalks of the wild flowers below — alas ! were 
they omens ] 



CHAPTER LXXI. 

" Still the rose is farm'd 
With life and love's sweet hues."— Crcly. 

In the mean time how did Lucy bear the 
horror of Evelyn's death ] — with an abandon- 
ment to despair it was heart-rending to wit- 
ness. Fortunately her health was delicate — 
we say fortunately, for the mind must have 
yielded, had not the body sunk under the pres- 
sure of this first great sorrow. In Lucy's 
brief and quiet career, crime and ang-uish had 
as yet been but words ; sad and genFle regrets 
might have flung a moment's lightest shadow 
on her path, but she had known no real suf- 

V t ol. I. — iS 



fering, and its first experience was a shock 
which left her scarcely the power of feeling. 
It is an old saying (and most old sayings 
are singularly true — we are not so very much 
wiser than our ancestors, after all,) that the 
most violent grief is the soonest over ; yes, if 
this violence rather alludes to the expression 
than to the emotion. Words and tears exhaust 
themselves — and certainly Lucy indulged am- 
ply in both. She was one of those timid and 
dependent tempers to whom weeping is natu- 
ral ; in all emergencies, great or small, her 
resource, if not remedy, was to cry. To such 
a one, sympathy is the first relief — confession 
half transferred the responsibility of the 
thoughts confessed to the hearer ; and the ex- 
tent of her regret was unconsciously measured 
by what she was expected to feel. Bodily fa- 
tigue soon follows upon the burst of sobs and 
the passionate exclamation ; rest must follow, 
and the JCfoee soon becomes physical as wen 
as mental. IVcspair is unnatural ; and the 
powers of Tims, th« comforter, can scarcely be 
exaggerated; but the agency by which he 
works is exhaustion. 

There is a grief which may darken a whole 
life, shut up the heart from every influence 
but its own, remain unchanged through every 
change of various fortune, flinging its own 
shadow over all that is fair, its own bitterness 
into all that is sweet ; but that grief is the 
silent and the secret — it goes abroad with a 
smooth brow and a smiling lip — it knows not. 
the relief of tears, and words it disdains. 
None have fathomed its depths, for its exist- 
ence is denied ; pride is mingled with its 
strength, for the hidden soul knows there is 
that within which parts it from its kind, and 
perhaps triumphs even in such agonizing con- 
sciousness. With such the spirits often seem 
buoyant without a cause — often too gay for 
the occasion. The truth is, that society is to 
them as a theatre ; and what actor is there who 
does not occasionally overact his part 1 Few 
ever penetrate their dark and weary seclusion 
for few ever look beyond the surface, unless 
actuated by some hope, fear, or love of their 
own, and then their feelings blind their judg- 
ment. Such motives turn all objects into 
mirrors, which reflect some likeness, even if 
distorted, of themselves. We conjecture, 
question, desire, anticipate — do every thing 
but observe. And slight, indeed, are the to- 
kens by which the seared heart betrays itself. 
But it has its signs ; there is that real disre- 
gard of the pleasure in which it shares, half 
as a disguise, half to avoid the trouble of im- 
portunity. But the eye, however trained to 
attention, will wander; the set smile becomes 
absent — weariness is pleaded as an excuse — 
and lassitude serves as the cloak to indiffer- 
ence. Moreover, though almost unconsciously, 
the words have a biting and shrewd turn — the 
opinions are either harsh or given with undue 
levity — contradiction is almost habitual — and 
the feelings, denied the resource of sympathy, 
take refuge in sarcasm. 

But Lucy's was too yielding and tearful a 
nature for "this strong endurance and hidden 



354 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



suffering. She was like those fragile creep- 
ers which, flung off from the protection of one 
branch, cling intuitively to the next. Her 
love for Francis Evelyn was an emanation of 
that romance which is in the heart of every 
gi:l ; her preference was as much circumstance 
as choice, and strengthened by no comparison. 
It was the natural consequence of solitude, 
and the belief in the necessity of having a 
lover, which flutters round the very youthful 
fancy ; and Francis was the only young and 
handsome cavalier who happened to have been 
thrown in her way. And perhaps the attach- 
ment owed half its power to its concealment 
and to its silence. Had she married him, she 
would have been very miserable— her beauty 
would inevitably have lost, in his eyes, its 
charm with its novelty ; and then all her real 
deficiencies would have been suddenly disco- 
vered, besides many which would only have 
existed in his own fancy. Nothing could 
have given her the tact, the presence of mind, 
the quick perception, the self-control neces- 
sary to success in society ; and her sweetness 
and gentleness would have been like a faint 
fragrance — too delicate for the overpowering 
atmosphere on which it was fated to waste its 
fragile existence. With his active and in- 
triguing temper, Francis would doubtless have 
taken an eager part in the court cabals and 
conspiracies which make the history of 
Charles the Second ; and how useless in such 
would he have found Lucy ! Neglect would 
have been her inevitable portion, and to her 
that would have been worse than death — per- 
haps death itself. 

There is a flower which our earth is too 
rude to nourish, and whose sole existence is 
in the clear pure atmosphere ; such a flower 
is Lucy's best emblem. The harsher duties 
and cares of this weary world were not for 
her — her natural element was affection. For 
days and nights Francesca watched beside 
her pillow, and patiently soothed the sorrow- 
ful invalid. Both had much to say — for the 
nurse had her own course of discipline to pur- 
sue with her patient. From the beginning- 
she recounted her own history ; and the effect 
was what she anticipated — indignation be- 
came Lucy's strongest sensation ; she could 
not comprehend such duplicity, and she even 
exaggerated its cruelty and its wrong. There 
was also a little feminine vanity — a quick 
sense of injury — which was wonderfully be- 
neficial. Francesca just suggested the idea, 
which was eagerly caught and tenaciously re- 
tained — namely, Francis's infidelity to her- 
self. What! could he go away, leaving her 
to a solitude wholly occupied with his image, 
and yet have his heart sufficiently vacant to 
admit even light and passing fancies, besides 
tho serious vow and faith offered to another! 
Lucy angrily disclaimed aught beyond pity 
for the memory of the treacherous cavalier; 
but said that, for his sake, she should hate 
the very name of love. Francesca thought 
this rather a rash assertion, as indeed, such 
disclaimers usually are. 

Winter was now setting in, and our Italian, 



with all the early associations of a southern 
clime, trembled before its gloomy influence, 
and feared lest she should see Lucy's spirits 
sink with the monotony of its long evenings; 
for she saw at once that she had not mind 
enough to be attracted by any abstract pursuit 
— the selfishness was so quiet and so kindly 
as to be almost imperceptible; still she could 
only be interested in something refeiring to 
herself. She had no energy for application — 
in music she never got beyond a few simple 
airs caught by ear; and Italian, which she 
began to learn, soon became equally weari- 
some to both mistress and pupil — for it is a 
wearisome task to teach where there is little 
inclination and less understanding. 

But an unexpected auxiliary appeared on 
the scene. We have before alluded to Charles 
Aubyn, the young clergyman of their village. 
One visit led to another, and soon every even- 
ing saw him a privileged visiter in their apart- 
ment, to Lucy's increasing pleasure, and Fran- 
cesca's great relief. 

The reason why so many fallacious opinions 
have passed into proverbs is owing to that 
carelessness which makes the individual in- 
stance the general rule. Of all feelings, love 
is the most modified by character; like the 
chameleon, it is indeed coloured by the air 
which it breathes. To half the world its 
depth is unknown, and its intensity unfelt. 
To such the expression of its wild passion, 
its fateful influence, its unalterable faith, are 
but mysteries, or even mockeries; while, 
again, to those who hold such true and fer- 
vent creed, the heartless change, the utter for- 
getfulness, the sudden transfer of life's deepest 
and dearest emotion, is equally absurd and in- 
comprehensible. 

Francesca could not at first believe her eyes 
when she saw the tremulous rose mount into 
Lucy's cheek at the sound of Charles Aubyn's 
approach. Scarcely could she credit that the 
absence and restlessness which her companion 
betrayed when his daily visit was deferred 
could be felt on the comparative stranger's 
account. But when she saw them sit mutual- 
ly contented by each other's side for hours, 
Lucy's soft blue eyes only raised to give one 
gentle smile, and then sink, half agitation, 
half timidity — and when, finally, by some 
process or other, Lucy usually contrived that, 
let their discourse begin on what subject it 
might, it regularly ended with some reference 
to Mr. Aubyn — she was obliged to yield to 
conviction, and to allow, what no romantic 
imagination likes to admit, that there may be, 
nay, actually is, such a thing as second love 
in the world; and with a pardonable, because 
natural, inconsistency, she felt almost disap- 
pointed that Lucy had followed her own ad 
vice, and forgotten one so unworthy of her 
affection as Francis Evelyn. It took some 
time to abate the poetry of her disappoint- 
ment, and to force from her the admission that 
Lucy was much more likely to be happy with 
her present lover — -for such he was now ac- 
knowledged to be. 

Charles Aubyn was one of those in whose 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



355 



composition the heart has a larger share than 
the head. With more talent, his native en- 
thusiasm would have been a powerful in- 
fluence; but it lacked that ability which, by 
strengthening- the impulse, gives it power 
over others. He felt keenly, but he neither 
reflected nor calculated — hence he lived in a 
little world of exaggeration. With Lucy this 
impetuosity served his cause — it carried, her 
along with it ; but when enthusiasm of any 
kind is unshared, it appears only on its ridi- 
culous side; and hence Francesca's good 
sense and good taste were perpetually revolt- 
ed by a thousand slight incoherences and ab- 
surdities utterly imperceptible to her compa- 
nion. Fortunately for Charles Aubyn, he 
was placed in a situation for which he was 
eminently calculated; his kind-heartedness 
was constantly called into action by his duties 
among his parishioners, and his excitable tem- 
perament found vent in religious fervour ; and 
in Lucy he met with that uplooking admira- 
tion which, under any circumstances, it is ex- 
ceedingly comfortable to inspire. 

Lawrence Aylmer was one of the best-sa- 
tisfied of the party. He much desired to see 
his daughter married — he felt that she was 
quite unfitted for those in her own sphere — 
had been frightened into almost poetry when 
he learnt her attachment to Evelyn— so many 
were the evil consequences which he antici- 
pated might have happened from so dangerous 
a connexion ; but now he was more than con- 
tented — he was delighted — and went to sleep 
every evening reckoning up the various kinds 
of worldly substance which he had amassed 
f}r her sake. 



CHAPTER LXXII. 

" The tears of youth dry as quickly as the dews in sum- 
mer: and the young heart rebounds from grief as quickly 
as the arrow from the bow."— The Buccaneer. 

Time passed as time ever does when pass- 
ed monotonously, that is, with a degree of 
rapidity which only astonishes us when it is 
recalled to mind by some chance circumstance. 
Time should be reckoned by events, not hours ; 
the heart is its truest timepiece, at least as 
concerns ourselves. Spring came, and found 
Francesca's situation unchanged. Lord Avon- 
leigh had been still retained a prisoner in the 
Tower; Robert Evelyn was still in Ireland ; 
and hope, somewhat wearied by feeding but 
"on its own sweet life," had taken a deeper 
tone of anxiety. Lucy's marriage was only 
waiting till the repairs were finished at the 
vicarage; and preparations occupied all her 
thoughts, and most of her time. But a great 
change was at hand. It would seem as if 
calm were necessary to convulsion; for the 
tranquillity of the last few months was again 
to be disturbed by political commotion. 

It matters little to the progress of this nar- 
rative to trace how the reins of government 
fell, rather than were taken, from the hands 



of the incompetent Richard ; and how the dull 
caution and straight forward devotion to expe- 
diency of George Monck replaced the Stuarts 
on the throne : thus giving a nation the fairest 
opportunity that was ever thrown away of 
adjusting ancient privileges and existing 
rights, of limiting power, yet preserving at 
thority, and of realizing those many theorier 
of liberty and justice which to this day remain 
theories. But England at the period of the 
restoration was, like a child escaped from 
school, weary of restraint, impatient for 
amusement, and little inclined to balance the 
future against the present. The whole island 
became one festival, to welcome the return of 
the man whom they had banished, and whose 
father they had executed. Heaven knows, 
consistency ought to be valued, were it only 
for its rarity. 

Lord Avonleigh was at once liberated from 
his imprisonment, well prepared to be consi- 
dered, and to consider himself, a martyr to 
the cause of loyalty ; and as the services of 
the rich nobleman, who wants nothing, are 
more easily requited than those of the real and 
poor sufferer, the attached and needy exile, his 
claims to notice and favour were most gra- 
ciously acknowledged. Accordingly, he re- 
turned to his seat in a little fever of royal de- 
votedness — it was the fashionable epidemic ; 
and who coming from Whitehall could be 
without it 1 

Bells ringing, flags waving, may-poles — so 
long unseen — bonfires in due preparation for 
night, morris-dancers, who had practised for 
the last four-and-twenty hours unremittingly 
to refresh their ancient craft, an ox roasted 
whole, cakes, ale, crowds, and confusion — all 
assembled in and about Avonleigh Park, to 
greet the master's return. A procession was 
arranged, and perhaps Francesca was the only 
individual in the whole country that did not 
go forth to join either actors or spectators. 
Lucy, full of girlish delight, eagerly pressed 
her to accompany her and Charles Aubyn to 
the park; but she refused. She felt that her 
place was not among her father's dependants, 
some chance might bring them in contact, and 
to her it would only be with a sense of degra- 
dation. Perhaps, too, an aversion to what 
had fallen under her own observation of the 
kind of amusement likely to be found, or con- 
tempt, which called itself distaste, strengthen- 
ed her resolution not a little. Still, when the 
care of watching Lucy's toilette, advising and 
altering, was completed — no sinecure office, 
for Lucy, hitherto confined to the most quiet 
and staid costume, was rather inclined to run 
into the extreme of bright colours — when she 
had watched her walk down the field with 
Charles Aubyn, looking as pretty and as 
pleased as possible, and returned into their 
deserted chamber, its silence and solitude 
struck her forcibly. The gay peal of the bells 
came upon the air, mingled with music, which 
owed much of its melody to being afar off. 
She could observe flags waving in the dis 
tance, and now and then a gayly dressed group 
crossing one of the heights ; but these were 



856 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



goon past. And as the view of their house 
was chiefly bounded by the forest, there was 
soon nothing to be seen — nothing-, save the 
ringing bells, recalled the festivity to her 
mind. 

Francesca was alone, quite alone in the 
house, and the consciousness of this was in- 
expressibly dreary ; not perhaps but that on 
any other day she would have sat, read, and 
thought by herself quite as much as she had 
done to-day ; still, the knowledge that there 
was no one near — that all others but herself 
were employed in one peculiar and cheerful 
pursuit, could noi but force her into a vein of 
ungracious comparison. The extreme stillness 
of every thing around jarred upon her nerves, 
instead of soothing them. She would have 
given the world for some one to speak to ; she 
opened a book, but she could not keep her at- 
tention to the pacre ; she touched her lute, but 
its music was distasteful ; she went into the 
garden, but it wearied her to pace up and 
down the well-known walks, — " I know every 
plant by heart," thought she, and returned 
listlessly to the house. Then the ringing of 
the bells in the distance became so irritating — 
they kept perpetually distracting her mind. 
At length the peals ceased — dinner attracted 
even the ringers — and the stillness was now 
unbroken. But the one painful idea which 
had taken possession of Francesca's imagina- 
tion haunted her. 

" Alas !" murmured the lonely girl, " others 
have kindred and friends, with whom gayety 
becomes indeed pleasure, for it is shared. 
xMany a happy circle will gather together to- 
day, exchange hopes, and lay up recollections 
for months to come. But I, how neglected — 
how isolated do I feel ! not one living being 
at this moment of mutual gratulations even 
thinks of my existence; no one knows or 
cares that I am sitting in melancholy seclu- 
sion, while all but myself are glad around. 
What have I done to be so shut out from hu- 
man affection and sympathy ?" 

Almost for the first time since his brother's 
disclosure, she found no comfort in thinking 
of Evelyn. Never had the chances of their 
reunion seemed so precarious ; never before 
had she felt so hopeless. Unfortunate as she 
had hitherto been, how could she believe that 
destiny would yet relent 1 She unlocked the 
casket wuich contained her mother's picture, 
and gazed even more earnestly than usual on 
that beautiful face; its frank, glad smile was too 
painful ; it seemed an omen of all that could 
make a joyous and beloved existence ; and yet 
how had hers terminated ! The memory of 
what others have suffered makes us tremble 
for ourselves. Her peculiar course had never 
seemed so difficult as it did now, on the very 
verge of its termination. What would be her 
father's reception ] Perhaps, all old love for- 
gotten, he would look upon her but as an in- 
truder from an unwelcome past, recalling all 
he wished to forget — all that he had forgotten. 
Could she bear to wring from him a cold ac- 
knowledgment, dictated but by justice ! And 
vet affection, could it spring up at a moment's 



warning ! How could he love a stranger whc 
for attraction brought before him theremem 1 
brance of all the faults and the follies of his 
youth ! 

Francesca rose and paced the room in an 
agony of doubt. The more she thought of her 
situation, the more she saw the necessity of 
advancing her claims. Lucy would soon be 
married, and then Lawrence Aylmer's could 
be no home for her; and her cheek burned 
with sudden fire at the thought, that in a little 
while the slender remains of the money they 
had brought from Italy would be exhausted. 
She knew how helpless then would be her 
condition — young, a female, a stranger, with- 
out acquaintance or introduction, what could 
she do ? The idea that she would not seek 
her father, which had sprung up in the des- 
pondency of the moment, faded away. How- 
ever painful, the task must be accomplished. 

She was awakened from her gloomy revery 
by the beating of a sudden shower against the 
lattice ; some books lay on the window-seat, 
and she went to shut the open casement. She 
stood looking out, involuntarily attracted by 
the beauty of the scene. The sunshine glit- 
tered through the diamond shower, which 
came like a flight of radiant arrows; while, 
outlined on a dim purple cloud, a magnificent 
rainbow' spanned the mighty forest; instantly 
a second, but fainter, spread beneath the first; 
but even while she looked, the vast cloud dis- 
persed, broken fragments of delicious hues 
coloured the atmosphere, a soft violet faded 
into pale primrose, and touches of rose deep- 
ened into red. Gradually the sky cleared into 
one deep blue, over which a mass of white 
clouds, broken into a thousand fantastic shapes, 
went sailing slowly by. 

The freshness of the fragrant hour was ir- 
resistible, and Francesca again sought the gar- 
den; but now the influence of the lovely day 
was upon her, and her step unconsciously grew 
lighter. Grass, leaf, and flower caught new 
life from the genial rain ; a thousand odours, 
unperceived before, were abroad ; a thousand 
colours, bright with the noon, now shone out 
upon the green or painted foliage ; every breath 
was aromatic, and not a spray but mirrored a 
sunbeam in the hanging raindrop. Francesca 
gazed around, and hope and reliance arose 
within her. She looked up touchingly and 
gratefully to heaven, while her late discontent 
seemed almost as a sin in her own eyes. 



CHAPTER LXXIII. 

' : It speaks of former scenes— of clays gone by— 
Of early friendship— of the loved and the lost ; 
And wakes such music in the heart, as sigh 
Of evening woos from harp-strinii3 gently crost." 

Malcolm. 

It was late in the evening before Lucy 
came home, in the gayest possible spirits ; 
she had been equally amused and admired, 
and now returned in. a little flutter of pleasure 
and vanity. She had a great deal to say, but 
very little to tell ; snd repeated over and ove' 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



357 



again, that Lord Avonleigh had spoken some- 
thing so kind about her to her father, though 
she could not remember the exact words; and 
that Lord Stukely had danced with her ; more- 
over, that it was very hot in the middle of the 
day ; and that when they went into the hall 
to supper, there was a peacock, from whose 
mouth ascended a little flame; but beyond 
these important facts, no information could be 
elicited from her. 

It is curious to note how few people ever 
contrive to give you any idea of what they 
have seen ; they seize upon some little per- 
sonal fact, and there the memory halts. 
While others, who allow their observation to 
travel out of their own sphere, contrive to 
bring the scene vividly before you, and with- 
out the aid of invention, but with a dramatic 
power many a writer might envy, give the 
most lively and graphic description, simply be- 
cause they have attended to what passed around 
them. 

Francesca had a hundred questions to ask 
about Lord Avonleigh, but her curiosity re- 
mained ungratified for two reasons ; first, be- 
cause she could learn little from Lucy, ex- 
cepting the reiterated " so handsome, so po- 
lite ;" and secondly, because she was aware 
of her own interest on the subject, which she 
was yet unwilling to avow — and what oc- 
cupies ourselves we always fancy must be 
obvious to others. Nothing ever teaches us 
the extent of our mutual and universal indif- 
ference. 

Late as it was when they separated, Fran- 
cesca did not retire to rest, but retrimming the 
lamp, she drew the little table towards her, 
and prepared to write to Lord Avonleigh. 
More than once she had begun to address him 
before, but her resolution had always failed, 
and she deferred the execution till to-morrow, 
which, as usual, never came. Now, what- 
ever she intended to do, it became imperative 
upon her to do at once. She was unwilling 
that her father should hear of her, and not 
from herself; besides, and her heart warmed 
at the thought, he might feel hurt at the ap- 
pearance of neglect. How often did she com- 
mence writing ; but how impossible she found 
it to say what seemed sufficient to herself! 
Wearied out by her own indecision, she at 
length sealed the following letter, most tho- 
roughly dissatisfied with it, but feeling hope- 
less of another attempt. 

" In entreating your lordship's attention to 
the enclosed packet, I have nothing to rely 
upon but your kindness, and the hope that some 
sad, perhaps tender, remembrance from the 
past may plead the cause of the present. It 
explains itself, and, till read, I trust you will 
pardon the intrusion of a seeming strano-er. 

F. de C." 

The packet contained Arden's confession, 
Ayonleigh's own letters, and her mother's 
miniature. What a world of passion and of 



suffering were within its slender folds ! But 
the passion was now cold as the dust in which 
it had long slept, and the suffering was now 
but a memory. Her letter finished, Francesca 
retired to rest, but in vain. What the morrow 
might bring forth kept her awake with fever- 
ish anticipation. 

There is something in human nature that 
shrinks from any great change, even though 
that change be for the better. Alas ! all ex- 
perience shows us how little we dare trust our 
fate. At length, worn and wearied, she slept; 
but the turmoil of her thoughts was also in 
her dreams. Now, pale as she last beheld 
him, she saw T Guido, beckoning her with a 
sad and mournful aspect. Suddenly he changed 
into Evelyn; but he, too', seemed grave and 
cold; and yet she followed him through a 
dim uncertain country, weighed down by that 
sense of oppression and helplessness which is 
only known to sleep. His silence appeared 
so strange, and fear was upon her ; she tried, 
but could not speak — at last he passed away ; 
terrible shapes crowded round her; and, in 
the effort to avoid their loathsome contact, she 
awoke. 

The sun was shining into her room, and the 
birds singing cheerfully, while the many 
odours from the garden below, came in at the 
open lattice. All was reviving and joyous ; 
and the depression of the previous night va- 
nished like the fear in -her visions. Her first 
act was to despatch her letter to Lord Avon- 
leigh ; that done, she could settle to nothing, 
but wandered from the house to the garden, 
and from the garden to the house, in all the 
restlessness of anticipation. Suddenly, she 
thought Lord Avonleigh would, as soon as 
the packet was read, perhaps come to see her. 
A natural emotion of feminine vanity made 
her desire to look as well as she could ; and, 
to her foreign and classical taste, the close cap 
and gray bodice which she had lately been 
wearing were odious — besides, she wished, if 
possible, to recall by her appearance all his 
early associations with Italy. 

For the first time for many weeks her beau- 
tiful black hair was released from the confine- 
ment of the plaited muslin border, and bound 
up in its own rich braids round the small and 
graceful head. For a moment she turned a 
hesitating glance towards the gay attire that 
had only been opened to show Lucy since she 
left Paris ; but, to say nothing of the incon- 
sistency of such courtly garb in her present 
abode, their fashion would call nothing to her 
father's mind, while a more national costume 
would carry him at once back to Parma. She 
therefore assumed the novice's garb, so uni- 
versally worn by young Italians — a robe of 
black silk, only fastened round the waist by a 
girdle. And scarcely could she have selected 
aught more becoming ; for her exquisite shape 
required no aid beyond the relief of the flow- 
ing drapery. Lucy, who had only seen her 
in either the large loose wrapping dress of 
serge, or in the quaint simplicity of the Puri 



358 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



tanic garb, then so general in England, could 
not restrain an exclamation of admiration as 
she returned to their chamber. 

Where there is no envy in the case — and 
envy rarely exists where there is no rivalry — 
I believe there is nothing more genuine or de- 
lightful than one woman's admiration of ano- 
ther's beauty. There is a pure and delicate 
taste about their nature which gives a keen 
sense of enjoyment to such appreciation ; and 
loveliness is to them a religion of the heart, as- 
sociated with a thousand fine and tender emo- 
tions. It would have been difficult to find 
two more perfect, yet more opposed specimens 
of beauty, than the two now before us. Lucy's 
was the result of the sweetest colouring. 
The golden hair, the violet blue of the eyes, 
the pearly white skin, tinted by the softest 
rose that ever opened on an April morning, 
were blending together both the lights and 
shadows of a spring atmosphere- — soft and 
timid — a creature made for gentle words and 
watchful looks. 

But Francesca's beauty belonged to features 
and to expression — features perfect in the 
Greek outline. A brow noble as if never un- 
worthy or ungenerous thought had crossed its 
wide expanse ; the red lip somewhat scornful, 
but smiling, when it did smile, with the sweet- 
ness of a thousand common smiles. Large, 
lustrous eyes, passionate, thoughtful, clear, 
and calm — their general character was repose ; 
but the lightning slept in the midnight depths 
— that flash which the mind alone can give, 
but whose light is that of the sky whence it 
emanates. Usually of a clear, delicate, yet 
healthy paleness, any strong emotion would 
flood her cheek with crimson — a rich, regal 
dye, as the heart poured forth its wealth in one 
glowing and prodigal tide ; and that surest 
test of beauty — some might say that it was 
not to their taste, which contradiction, whim, 
or some other association had turned in favour 
of a different style ; but no one could deny its 
existence — no one would have thought of 
calling her merely pretty. 

Long indeed did that morning appear to 
Francesca — the longer as her anxiety was un- 
expressed ; for it certainly does shorten a pe- 
riod of waiting not a little to spend it in talk- 
ing over its various probabilities of termina- 
tion, wondering what will happen while we 
are consoled by the strong sympathy we ex- 
cite in the listener. But Francesca had never 
mentioned her peculiar situation with regard to 
Lord Avonleigh. Naturally proud and sensi- 
tive, she was necessarily reserved ; and, per- 
haps from never having had to practise it, she 
had the highest idea of the duty owed by 
child to parent, and held herself bound in si- 
lence on a matter which implicated and de- 
pended upon her father. Whatever she might 
hope and expect herself, she could allow no 
other to hazard a conjecture on the subject. 
To her own thoughts, therefore, she confined 
the hopes and fears, whose agitation she might 
repress but not subdue 



CHAPTER LXXIV 

" He scanned, with a rapid but scrutinizing giance 
each of the papers contained in the parcel."— The'Bucca 
near. 

It was a large, long room, whose height, 
though disproportioned to its other dimen- 
sions, had this advantage, that the painted 
ceiling was completely seen. That ceiling 
was covered with square compartments, each 
filled with strange figures, flowers, fruit, he- 
raldic devices — all blazoned in the richest co- 
lours, so minute, so fantastic, and so highly 
finished, that the painting might well have ex- 
hausted a whole imagination, while its execu- 
tion w r as the business of a complete and busy 
life. It was supported by a gilded cornice, 
carved into a thousand curious shapes and em- 
blems, among which the horned wolf, the crest 
of the Avonleigh family, was conspicuous. 
Beneath was a black oaken wainscot, each of 
whose pannels was set in gilded frames, to 
match the cornice. Little, however, of the 
wall was seen, for it was nearly hidden by the 
arched bookcases ; and the ponderous tomes, 
mostly bound in black or white vellum, long 
since grown dingy with age, contrasted forcibly 
with the gayer ornaments of their habitation. 

The chimney-piece was of party-coloured 
marble, covered with figures, some of whose 
faces were beautiful, but generally running off 
into those grotesque combinations which cha- 
racterized the peculiar taste of their time. 
Fire there was none ; but a large china jar 
was filled with green boughs and flowers, and 
occupied nearly the whole hearth. Opposite was 
a range of some half-dozen narrow high win- 
dows, through which the sunbeams came slant- 
ing, and seemed striving to make acquaintance 
with heavy arm-chairs, covered with elaborate 
embroidery — with the dusky shelves, whence 
glittered occasionally the silver clasps of some 
old volume — and with an antique cabinet, 
whose open doors showed a collection of toys, 
cumbrous and odd-looking, but a convincing 
proof that the taste for knick-nacks is no mo- 
dern invention. 

Towards one of the windows a table was 
drawn, and there, loitering over the remains 
of an ample breakfast, were seated Lord Avon- 
leigh and his son — sometimes talking eagerly, 
and looking with a pleased and prolonged 
gaze on the many familiar objects around. 

" This is better than the tower," exclaim- 
ed Lord Avonleigh, as his eye followed the 
green sweep of the park to where it merged 
in the forest. 

" But will you never have finished?" ex- 
claimed Lord Stukely. "I am impatient to 
run over the old place. Half an hour ago, I 
agreed with you, that avant tout il faut de- 
jeuner" — (a few days at Whitehall had al« 
ready imbued the youth with the prevailing 
fashion of using French when English would 
have done as well, if not better) — " but really 
we are spending half the day looking out of 
the window." 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



359 



What answer his father might have made 
it is impossible to say ; for at that instant a ser- 
vant entered, and gave in Francesca's packet. 
" A lady's writing! and very pretty writing 
it is, vraiment monpere. I do not know whe- 
ther I can allow this." 

" Well, you can save me the trouble of open- 
ing it : I doubt much my taking any interest 
in the matter." 

Albert opened the packet, and proceeded to 
read Francesca's note aloud. 

" Very mysterious ! Why, my dear father, 
this is quite a delightful adventure." 

" Let me look at the note," said Lord Avon- 
lei gh ; " I am sure I do not know the hand." 
While he was considering the scroll, his 
son unfastened the miniature. " A picture, 
too!" exclaimed he; "I wonder whether it 
be that of our unknown correspondent? She 
could not have sent a better letter of introduc- 
tion. Did you ever see so lovely a face]" 
and he gave the portrait to his father. 

Had a spectre risen from the yawning earth 
at his feet, Lord Avonleigh could not have re- 
ceived a greater shock. He leapt from his 
seat, and stood gazing, as if spell-bound, on 
that long forgotten face. Years flitted by, 
and Padua's walks and walls seemed to cir- 
cle him round. The little garden and its 
moonlight meetings, with the fair girl, the 
spirit of the place — all arose as the things of 
yesterday. A shudder passed over him. What 
suffering might he not now have to learn ! 
He dreaded to seek the contents of these let- 
ters. 

He was roused by Albert's cutting the siring 
round the next enclosure. " I believe," said 
he, in a broken voice, " I must look over these 
letters myself: they relate to a long-past pe- 
riod of my life, and, perhaps, are ill-suited to 
meet any eye but mine." 

Albert started as he marked the sudden 
change in Lord Avonleigh's countenance. 
" My dearest father," exclaimed he, as he 
gave him the letters, " do not exclude me from 
your confidence ; my love for you will supply 
the place of experience." 

" Not now," replied his father ; " as yet I 
know not what I have to learn; — leave me for 
the present." 

rs I may soon return]" asked the youth, as 
he paused on the window-sill. 

" Certainly, my child." 

And, satisfied with the affectionate look 
which answered his own, Albert sprang down 
into the park. 

Lord Avonleigh drew the papers towarus 
him, and, turning his back to the light, pre- 
pared to examine their contents ; but it was 
long before he could detach his gaze from the 
picture. The fair young face seemed to 
brighten beneath his look, even as it was 
wont to do of old : could it be so many, many 
years since they had parted'? Deeply at that 
moment did Lord Avonleigh feel the convic- 
tion, that never had he been loved as he was 
loved by that forsaken Italian. His marriage, 
if not unhappy, had been indifferent; ° it 
brought back none of those passionate and 



tender thoughts associated with the image of 
Beatrice — it was not the one charmed dream 
of his glad and eager youthhood. 

From the contemplation of the portrait he 
turned to his own letters : he began to look 
them over, and mournful — for all things de- 
parted are mournful — was the train of feeling 
with which they were connected. Saddened, 
softened, and subdued as he felt while read- 
ing them, yet more than once he laughed aloud 
— so absurd did the exaggerated expressions 
of the boy appear to the man. At last, in pure 
shame, he laid them down. " Good heaven !' 
exclaimed he, " could I ever have written such 
nonsense? — and ) 7 et how delicious was the 
folly ! Ah ! wisdom is little worth what it 
costs !" and, with a graver brow, he tujned 
to Richard Arden's letter. He read on, every 
feature convulsed with emotion, till he came 
to her death, when the paper dropped from 
his hand — he had never dreamed of such hor- 
ror. To one who had known but the lulled 
emotions of domestic life, which had passed 
in the sunshine cf prosperity — a quiet, plea- 
sant, indolent sort of ready-shaped existence 
— such things appeared impossible till they 
had actually happened. His only relief was 
to execrate Arden ; and, with the self-indul- 
gence natural to one whom no bitter expe- 
rience had ever forced upon still more bitter 
reflection, he excused himself by blaming him. 
At length he read to the close. His own- 
Beatrice's child in England ! — to her, at least, 
he would make ample reparation ; and, with- 
out waiting to think over the subject, he has 
tily locked the papers in a drawer of the cabi- 
net, and hurried to Lawrence Alymer's. 

Even exaggerating, if that be possible, the 
difficulties of a young female left, without re- 
lation or friend, to her own resources, he was 
impatient to extend his protection to the hither- 
to orphan. It was fortunate for him, that re- 
paration took such an easy form. It cannot 
be denied that there are some persons whose 
faults are more severely punished than other 
persons' crimes : how much heavier had been 
Beatrice's portion ! But Lord Avonleigh, af- 
ter the first shock, put the worst part of the 
business aside, letting pity for the luckless 
Italian assume its most soothing form. He 
dwelt principally on Arden's shameful con- 
duct, and his own intended kindness to Fran- 
ceses ; and by the time he arrived at the farm- 
house, he had also arrived at the conclusion 
that he had been only a singularly ill-used 
person, and was sufficiently recovered to won- 
der if his daughter was presentable and hand- 
some. " If she is but pretty, we shall man- 
age. Albert can very well spare a sister's 
dower; and, no doubt, she will marry bril- 
liantly." Thus, occupied with pleasant pro- 
spects for the future, instead of gloomy re 
miniscences of the past, Lord Avonleigh en 
tered the house. 

Francesca was alone, and at once her eai 
detected a strange step in the passage. Hei 
heart died within her; in vain she endeavour- 
ed to control her emotion; — the objects grew 
indistinct around her ; and when Lord Avon 



360 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



eign approached and took her hand, she sank 
Kneeling at his feet, and burst into tears. 

People who have not strong feelings them- 
selves dislike their display in others. Want- 
ing in that sympathy which intuitively teaches 
how to console, agitation always embarrasses 
them; they are puzzled, and know not what 
to say, and feel that they are in an awkward 
and disagreeable position. 

Lord Avonleigh raised the agitated girl, 
and, leading her to a seat, took his place be- 
side her. 

" Do not weep, my sweet child !" said he : 
" surely our meeting is not a misfortune ?" 

At the word " child," Francesca raised her 
eyes to his face, and smiled through her tears 
— so delightful to her unaccustomed ear were 
the expressions of affection. "My dearest 
father!" exclaimed she; and at that moment 
what a security of future happiness seemed 
around her! A parent's love and a parent's 
care were indeed a guarantee against misfor- 
tune. Was not her fate now in his hands'? 

Lord Avonleigh soon recovered his self- 
possession. He had those elegant and finish- 
ed manners which are prepared for any thing 
except emotion. He led Francesca to talk of 
herself and of her past life ; and was equally 
satisfied with her conversation and her ap- 
pearance. The classic and poetic seclusion 
in which the commencement of her life had 
passed, was, in the grace and the refinement 
which it nurtured, well-fitted to receive the 
polish of the French court ; and her great 
beauty flung its own charm over the slightest 
action. Lord Avonleigh was delighted with 
nis daughter, and she was both delighted and 
astonished. Was it possible that this dread- 
ed interview could pass over so placidly 1 It 
was, however, not ended yet. 

" I deeply feel," said Francesca, " your 
kindness in asking no questions, and demand- 
ing no proofs, beyond Mr. Arden's narrative." 

"Do not speak of him," interrupted Lord 
Avonleigh, who, in truth, wished to avoid all 
mention of the disagreeable past. 

" I believe," continued she, " there are still 
some papers which, for our mutual satisfac- 
tion, it is fitting you should examine." So 
saying, she unlocked the little casket. " This," 
said she, in a faltering voice, " is the certificate 
of my — your marriage," — she could not pro- 
nounce her mother's name to him ; — " this 
the register of my own baptism ; and this the 
record of her death and interment in the bury- 
ing-ground of Santa Caterina." 

Lord Avonleigh glanced over them ; but as 
ne read the last his whole countenance 
changed. " Great God !" he exclaimed : 
' her death occurred in August, and I was 
married in England seven months before ! 
Francesca, if I acknowledge you, Albert is — " 
But his voice failed, and he leant back in 
speechless consternation. 

For the first time in his life, an insuperable 
obstacle arose before his intention. He could 
not but feel most forcibly the justice of Fran- 
cesca s claims; he could not hope that she 
would relinquish them ; and yet, Albert to be 



disgraced, disinherited, and through whoso 
fault! — his father's ! He sprang up and ap- 
proached the door, gasping for air. Francesca, 
who had not comprehended his meaning, 
thought him ill, and approached him with 
gentle words of inquiry. 

"Not yet," said he; and drawing her hand 
within his, he walked into the garden, and 
followed the first path into which they turned. 

It led to a gentle ascent that commanded 
the road ; and there, as if sent to startle and 
reproach him, Lord Stukely met his sight. 
He grasped Francesca's arm, who was terri- 
fied by his sudden agitation, and whispered, 
" Look there !" 

She looked, and saw one of the most grace- 
ful cavaliers that ever reined in a mettled 
horse. The white plumes of his cap danced 
gayly in the air, while the long curls hung 
over his shoulders. The likeness between 
him and his father was striking. The same 
fair broad brow, the same clear hazel eyes, 
the same frank smile ; and as he bent forward 
to caress the greyhound leaping up at his side, 
Francesca thought that she had never seen a 
handsomer youth. 

"That is your brother," said Lord Avon- 
leigh. 

She gazed upon him with an eager glance 
of pleasure and affection. " I shall like him 
so much ! W 7 ill you not speak. to him ?" 

" Speak to him!" interrupted Lord Avon 
leigh; speak to him! and for what ]— to tell 
him that he is a beggar — disgraced — that he 
has no right to the very name he bears ! 



Speak to hii 



are impatient to assume 



your honours as heiress of Avonleigh !' 

Francesca was hurt by the manner, even 
more than astonished by the words. " What 
mean you V exclaimed she. " You look at 
me reproachfully: you withdraw your hand 
from mine! What have I done ! You were 
so kind. What has so suddenly changed 
you ?" 

" Francesaa," resumed her father, " put 
yourself in yonder boy's place, and then fancy 
what his feelings will be, w»hen he finds that 
the rank, name, and wealth in which he has 
been brought up are not his 1 Do you think 
it is in human nature to welcome the sister 
who comes to deprive him of them V 

" Deprive him of them !" repeated Fran- 
cesca : " why should I deprive him of them 1 
Give me a home, with your mutual affection; 
and if you could look into my heart, you 
would see how little I care for your wealth." 

" Are you not aware that my first marriage 
makes my second invalid? If you are my 
lawful child, Albert is not ; I cannot acknow- 
ledge the one without disgracing the other." 

" Let us go back to the house," said Fran- 
cesca, faintly. 

Silently they returned by the narrow green 
path, Lord Avonleigh thinking himseff the 
most unfortunate man in the world, and his 
daughter nerving herself to fulfil the resolu- 
tion which she had instantly taken. Tho 
walk was short; yet what a world of emotion 
passed in its brief limit ! Lord Avonleigl. 






FRANCESCA CARRARA 



361 



was bewildered and undecided ; he was like 
a man who, having- received some great shock, 
stands dizzy and pained, but quite unprepared 
to meet its consequences. Not so with Fran- 
ceses. She knew that every vision in which 
she had indulged was annihilated at a blow: 
she saw at a glance the disadvantages of her 
future position. But only from one image did 
she turn away : she could not bear the thought 
of Evelyn. Still her mind was determined. 
No name, no rank, no wealth, no dream of 
love fulfilled, could reconcile her to purchase 
them at the expense of another. " I," thought 
she. " am used to adversity — I know how to 
bear and suffer; and sometimes I think that 
my spirits are too much broken to enjoy hap- 
piness, even if it came. But my brother — let 
me call him by that name, and fill my mind 
with the claims of so near and dear a tie — he 
is in the first flush of youth and hope, and 
knows not how the one will darken and the 
other deceive. Can I bear to write shame on 
that fair young brow — send him forth a wan- 
derer from the home of which he has been the 
delight — sow dissensions between a father 
and sop., who now idolize each other? Never, 
never! Evelyn, dearest Evelyn! I could 
not purchase even our reunion on such terms : 
I were unworthy of you if I could. There is 
but one course for me to take ; and, harsh 
and bitter though it be, that course is 
mine." 

They had now arrived at the door. " I 
pray you enter," said Francesca to her com- 
panion, who paused irresolute on the threshold. 
She approached the table whereon stood her 
mother's casket. She replaced the papers 
within, and, turning the lock, she gave the 
key into Lord Avonleigh's hand, at the same 
time pushing the casket towards him. " You 
will never," whispered she, "be further trou- 
bled with claim of Francesca! No avowal 
could avail my mother. In her case, silence 
is the only justice needed by the dead. Let 
the noble youth, now the acknowledged heir 
of your house and heart, so remain." 

"Albert," interrupted Lord Avonleigh, 
" will never allow it. You know not the 
pride of that young heart." 

"He must never hear it," was the reply. 
" Let the past be what it now is — a secret be- 
tween ourselves." 

"But you, my noble, my generous girl!" 
exclaimed Lord Avonleigh, " I dare not let 
you pay the penalty of my former folly." 

"Nay." said she, soothingly, "I shall still 
rely 0:1 somewhat of protection and of kind- 
ness from you." 

" And that, indeed, you shall have. I have 
power and wealth, — both shall be at your 
command. I will do every thing I can to pro- 
mote your future happiness. You will of 
course, fix your abode at Avonleigh." 

" In that," replied Francesca, " I shall be 
ruled by you. Here, certainly, I cannot re- 
main; for Lucy Aylmer's marriage takes 
place in a week." 

"You shall see me again this evening," 
answered Lord Avonleigh. " Bv that time, 

Vol. I. — 16 



preparations shall have been made for your 
reception and welcome to the house of a fa- 
ther, whom you must learn to forgive ere you 
learn to love." 

He kissed her brow, and left her. She 
watched him unconsciously, till the winding 
walk hid him from her sight, and then sank 
back on her seat, every nerve relaxing from 
its high-strained excitement into utter and 
still despondency. 



CHAPTER LXXV. 

" Fear is true love's cruel nurse."— Coleridge. 

Lord Avonleigh pursued his w r ay home 
uncomfortably enough ; but still greatly re- 
lieved by Francesca's prompt renouncement 
of her claims. Rapidly the injustice of per- 
mitting such a sacrifice became merged in its 
expediency. He laid a thousand flattering 
unctions to his soul, in the way of future 
plans for her welfare; which all ended in that 
usual remedy of the weak and worldly — mo- 
ney. He could portion her handsomely, and 
marry her well ; and by the time Lord Avon- 
leigh arrived at his own house, he felt as if he. 
were not only a just, but a very generous in- 
dividual. 

No self-complacency can equal that of the 
selfish. Not content with its indulgence, 
they actually idolize it into being praise- 
worthy. Lord Avonleigh was glad to escape 
from trouble and vexation, both of which must 
inevitably have fallen to his share if Frances- 
ca had insisted on her right; and he did feel 
grateful to her for what she saved him. But 
he was quite incapable of appreciating the de- 
licacy, the generosity, the high-mindedness, 
which prompted her conduct; still less could 
he enter into the bitter and painful sense of 
degradation which sank into her very soul. 
From her childhood, the pride of ancestry, in 
its noblest and most imaginative feeling, had 
been cultivated by her grandfather's narratives 
of the heroic deeds and knightly bearing of 
the noble house of Carrara. The pride which 
most bestow on the present, he lavished on 
the past; or, rather, all he could spare from 
science he gave to history ; and his two child- 
ren were deeply imbued with a sense of 
what they owed to their illustrious race. 
Their name was as a bond against meanness 
or disgrace. The pure and high blood which 
flowed in their veins was its own and best 
security. 

No one could have felt more keenly than 
Francesca what she resigned. For the last 
few weeks, hope, so long dormant — for even 
hope yields to the impossible — hope had de- 
lighted to dwell on a future, from which it 
had so long turned away. She had imagined 
herself acknowledged and beloved — seeing 
Evelyn again with every advantage — and who 
that ever loved but pined to bestow every 
worldly good on the loved one ? She had in 



362 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



rented all possible circumstances but those 
under which they were now likely to meet. 

The day was cold and clear, yet the atmos- 
phere of the chamber where she sat oppressed 
her breathing. She drew her cloak round her, 
and went forth ; but the air did not revive her, 
the sunshine could not cheer her. The re- 
action of the over-excited spirits aided the mo- 
ral depression, and she sought the churchyard. 
With the living she had no ties of sympathy 
—she had with the dead. 

The grass was now long and green upon 
Guido's grave, and filled with small, pale wild 
flowers. A heavy cloud rested over the en- 
closed space, where the black yews waved 
dismally ; while, far away, the sunshine re- 
posed on the distant heights. Francesca gazed 
upon it— it was the very emblem of her fate. 
So did the light of youth and hope recede from 
her horizon, leaving around her but the weight 
and the shadow. 

She took her usual seat beside the grave, 
and, leaning her head upon her arm, gave way 
to bitter weeping. The gloomy belief of 
Richard Arden rose present upon her mind ; 
the melancholy foreboding of her brother, the 
mournful realities of her own experience — all 
pressed heavily upon her. 

" I feel it written deep within my heart," 
exclaimed she, " that we are a doomed race — 
that to us the common success and enjoy- 
ments of life are denied ! My mother perish- 
ed fearfully, desperate with her wasted youth 
and broken heart. Guido ! how soon he- took 
refuge in a tomb, made welcome by disap- 
pointed aspirations and outraged affection ! 
And I — how little happiness have I ever 
known ! how friendless, how desolate, has 
been my existence— how thrown back upon 
myself! At a time when most of my age and 
sex are surrounded by care — idols of the 
dearest and the fondest home they can ever 
know, I was left to myself — my sorrows un- 
shared, my joys unthought of, my difficulties 
unsoothed. How soon has any little gleam 
of sunshine flung upon my path been over- 
cast ! Love, which to so many turns the com- 
mon earth to paradise — true, deep, ay, and 
requited as mine has been, yet to what morti- 
fication and to what misery has it not con- 
demned me! I seem fated to suffer for the 
faults of others." 

But even as she spoke, her eye rested upon 
the yet scarcely covered grave of Francis Eve- 
lyn, and she involuntarily softened the re- 
proach that had been linked with his memory. 
He had dearly expiated his faults; all Eng- 
land now rung with rejoicing at that very 
event which had cost him his life in attempt- 
ing to forward — another sacrifice to that cruel 
and mocking destiny which rules despotic 
over our lower world. 

The recollection of that ghastly scene op- 
pressed Francesca still more. She trembled 
to think that her feet were on English ground, 
so much had she suffered since her first arri- 
val. The long anxiety of Guido's illness — 
Ins death, severing her only tie of name and 
kindred — the utter desolation that followed — 



the brief period of feverish hope now so cruel- 
ly dashed to the ground — the mingled morti-* 
fication and despair with which she looked to 
the future, might well excuse the many and 
heavy tears that fell on the wild flowers be- 
low. 

" I would to God," said she, gazing earnest- 
ly upon the green sod, " that I were laic 
quietly to sleep in this deep and silent home. 
I desire rest even more than happiness. My 
heart is wasted, my spirits weary. Let what 
may come of good, I almost doubt my power, 
now, to enjoy it. It matters not; earth has 
her step-children — the neglected and the 
wretched. I am one of them. Guido, my be- 
loved Guido, O that I were with thee !" 

The sunshine had dispersed the shadows, 
and faded itself into the dim twilight, before 
Francesca roused from her gloomy revery, 
which perhaps would have Continued even 
longer had it not been broken by Lucy's ap- 
proach, who, missing her, had sought her out 
to bring her a letter of Lord Avonleigh's, 
which ran thus : 

"Dearest Francesca, — For, if not avowed 
ly my child, still mine in heart and truth — I 
have ordered all necessary preparations to be 
made for your reception at the castle, where 
you will be received as the Signora de Car- 
rara, the daughter of an old Italian friend. 
Albert alone is aw 7 are of our nearer connexion ; 
he is prepared to meet you with a brother's 
affection, though he knows not what he owes 
to your generous forbearance. Command me 
in every thing, your affectionate 

" Avonleigh." 

There was a kindness in this letter which 
somewhat reassured Francesca, though she 
could not help wondering at the ease with 
which it was written. To a sensitive temper, 
like hers, keenly alive to the feelings of others, 
because their knowledge had been taught by 
her own, nothing is more astonishing than the 
careless and easy manner in which the many 
pass over the surface, gloss over the inquiry, 
and take the exertion and the sacrifice as things 
to be expected. Not that she in the least ex- 
aggerated the merits of her conduct ; she acted 
as her feelings prompted — she could not have 
done otherwise. The very phrase of " gene- 
rous forbearance" shocked her as overstrained ; 
but she did not marvel that Lord Avonleigh 
felt neither pained nor embarrassed in a situa- 
tion where such sensations seemed inevitable. 

" The answer, as you were not within," 
said Lucy, " will be sent for in an hour. But, 
what is this, dear, that the page said of pre- 
parations making for your reception at the 
castle] Are we going to lose 3^011 ? Deal, 
dear Francesca, you do not know how I shall 
miss you !" 

" Mr. Aubyn," answered Francesca, with a 
faint smile, " will soon console you, and we 
shall still be near neighbours." 

" But do," exclaimed Lucy, " tell me ah 
about it." 

" There is very little to tell," replied hei- 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



363 



companion, with hesitation, for falsehood to 
ner noble and ingenuous temper was as dis- 
tressing- as new; "I am the daughter of an 
old friend of Lord Avonleigh's, who repays 
kindness and affection to himself by promised 
kindness and affection to me." 

" And so you will live at the castle ! Ah ! 
how happy you are going to be — it is the most 
beautiful place in the world !" 

" Not quite," replied Francesca, smiling in 
spite of herself. " But we must make haste 
home, or what will Charles Aubyn say when 
he finds your haunted chamber lonely 1 ?" 

" I wonder what he will do !" replied Lucy, 
who had a true girl's pleasure in talking of 
ner lover. 

And this wonder, together with anticipa- 
tions for Francesca, in which Francesca could 
not join, enabled them to reach home without 
finding the path too long. 



CHAPTER LXXVI. 

With that she struck her on the 

So died double red ; 
Hard was the heart that save the blow — 

Sweet were the lips that bled." 

Ballad of Fair e Rosumunde. 



lips, 



"It is well you have returned home to din- 
ner," exclaimed Albert, as he caught sight of 
his father in the avenue, and ran forwards to 
meet him, " or I must have starved ; since 
eating before my curiosity is satisfied is quite 
out of the question. You have been the whole 
morning at Lawrence Aylmer's, and I hear 
that he has had for months past the most 
beautiful stranger residing under his roof. 
Like the wandering princess of an old ro- 
mance, no one knows who she is, or where 
she came from, only that she arrived with a 
brother to whom she was devotedly attached, 
but who died a few months after their landing. 
Now, my dear father, do give me a full and 
particular account of this mysterious beauty. 
They say that she is evidently noble — surely 
she is not going to live forever at the farm]" 

" She is going to take up her abode with 
us," replied his father. 

" In what capacity 1" asked the youth, 
laughing. 

"To everyone else," said Lord Avonleigh, 
" as the daughter of an old friend ; to you, as 
your sister." 

" My sister !" exclaimed Albert. 
_ " Your sister. It is a long and mournful 
history, and one whose repetition I would fain 
be spared ; but we have all our faults and our 
fdlies, and, take my word for it, boy, that 
ws pay dearly enough for the latter. She is 
my daughter— friendless and unprotected; 
and it were hard that the innocent should suf- 
fer for the guilty." 

It is odd how easily the commonplaces of 
morality or of sentiment glide off in conversa- 
tion. Well, they are " exceedingly helpful," 
and so Lord Avonleigh found them. 

" Poor girl !" continued he, " she has 



known much adversity — we mLSt at least be 
kind to her." 

" Indeed we will," exclaimed Albert, eager 
with, all the ready affection of youth; "I have 
always wished for a sister — I am sure I shall 
like her so much." 

" But remember, Albert," added his father, 
" I rely on your discretion. To you alone is 
intrusted the secret of her birth." 

" My dear father, can you doubt my pru- 
dence 1" said the youth, with a little air of 
pleasure at being thought worthy of confi- 
dence. 

The next day brought Francesca to the cas- 
tle. Of all concerned, she felt most at parting 
from Lawrence Aylmer's kind and accustomed 
roof. Lucy, though her tears fell fast when 
it came to actually bidding good-by, yet was 
too deeply impressed with what she consi- 
dered her friend's good fortune to feel regret 
beyond the present. Besides, she was more 
than consoled by Lord Avonleigh's declara- 
tion, that they should all attend her wedding 
in the following week : it was impossible to 
be very miserable with such a prospect before 
her. 

But Francesca felt a deep depression. Here 
was another great change in her life ; and 
how little encouragement could she draw from 
its predecessors ! None had been for the bet- 
ter. She had quitted the lovely and quiet 
scenes of her youth for the vexation and va- 
nity of Paris — what a period of fever and dis- 
appointment had it been ! She had sought 
England, to see the grave close over the only 
human being linked to her by ties of blood 
and long affection — and to find a father who 
feared to acknowledge her — and to enter an- 
other home, as a stranger and as a dependant. 
She had all life to begin over again, without 
the buoyancy or the hope that render its path 
endurable, and which surmount difficulties, 
by colouring them with those pleasant hues 
of delusion which make the yoke of existence 
easy, and its burden light. 

Accustomed to the airy and cheerful archi- 
tecture of Italy, cheerful even in its decay — 
for proportion is still perfect in its grace, and 
luxuriant nature hides the ravages of time — 
or to the gay crowds which fixed attention 
upon themselves in the courtly hotels of Paris 
— and of late to the air of occupation and of 
comfort in Aylmer's house, — a strange sense 
of oppression came over Francesca as she en- 
tered the gloomy baronial hall of Avonleigh. 
The high narrow windows shed shadows ra- 
ther than light below ; the carved walls were 
black with time ; and the armour hung around 
suggested no images but those of warfare and 
death. Many of the figures, clad in mail 
from head to foot, were ranged above the dais ; 
and she could almost fancy a skeleton form 
beneath, or that wild and fearful eyes glared 
through the apertures of the closed visors. 
The hall was cold, too, and chilled her south- 
ern temperament almost like unkindness. 

" Is this my welcome," thought she, " to 
my father's house? — is it an «raen?" She 
wished to hurry through tne Gctnic space 



364 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



complaining of the cold, .o the discontent of 
both father and brother, especially the latter, 
who delighted in the legends attached to every 
weapon or scutcheon on the wall. They for- 
got that the early associations which had made 
their interest were blanks to Francesca ; but 
her indifference was quite enough to put them 
out of temper — and both were too self-willed 
to conceal it. In the mean time, unconscious 
of her offence, poor Francesca could only 
wonder within herself at the change in their 
manner, and assign it to every cause but the 
right one. 

She was conducted to her own apartment ; 
and as she braided back her hair and changed 
her dress, it was well for her that the young 
waiting-maid appointed to attend her was 
more alive to the duties of the toilette than 
her mistress ; for, depressed and bewildered, 
Francesca scarcely knew what she was doing. 
Still, when she entered the supper-room, no 
longer muffled up in her ridinghood and 
cloak, though pale, and her eyes heavy with 
unshed tears, neither Lord Avonleigh nor his 
son could restrain an exclamation of delight 
at her exceeding beauty. Albert's good hu- 
mour, too, was completely restored ; for the 
falcon, alluded to at an earlier period of the 
narrative, had been brought to the castle, and 
he was full of gratitude and pleasure. Supper 
passed off more cheerfully than coufd have 
been expected ; but its after conversation 
drove the blood from Francesca's cheek to her 
heart, there to fever with anxiety, or freeze 
with fear. 

"So I hear," said Lord Avonleigh, " that 
young Roundhead, Robert Evelyn, is excluded 
by name from the general pardon. But for 
him, that vacillating Henry Cromwell would 
have proclaimed Charles Stuart in Dublin 
upon his father's death." 

" Is he a prisoner ?" asked Albert, while 
Francesca gasped for breath. 

" No ; but he is too dangerous to be let es- 
cape so easily. It is amazing what a hold 
those Evelyns have on the peasantry in this 
county; glad am I that we are to be rid of 
them, for I hate the very name." 

" Francis was shot by that mad fanatic 
Johnstone," added Albert, turning to his sis- 
ter, " before Aylmer's door — did you see any 
thing of the prisoner 1 ?" 

" Nay," interrupted Lord Avonleigh, " this 
is not the most agreeable subject wherewith 
to entertain our guest; you will have ample 
time to talk over every event that ever hap- 
pened to either. I see that the Signora de 
Carrara looks fatigued. Albert, will you call 
her attendants 1" 

"Yes," replied the youth, "and light her 
myself through all our endless galleries." 

Tears rose to Francesca's eyes at even this 
siignt mark of kindness. Albert noticed 
them, for long indulgence had not yet wrought 
its usual work of hardness and indifference; 
and, taking her hand kindly in his, he said, 
as he led her along, " We are all very new 
and strange to you now ; but we shall be such 
^iends soon ! Good night, my sweet sister." 



Francesca felt too much to speak ; but hei 
grateful look gave Albert more pleasure than 
any words. Almost immediately dismissing 
her attendant, she sat down in a large carved 
oaken settle that was drawn close by the 
hearth, where the wood fire threw a multitudes 
of fantastic shapes in rapidly changing sha- 
dows around. It was scarcely possible tc 
imagine a more gloomy chamber. The pur- 
ple velvet curtains of the bed looked almost 
black in the dim light, and heavy plumes of 
hearselike feathers drooped from each corner. 
The floor of polished wood gave no relief to 
the general dulness ; and the walls were hung 
with tapestry, where the ghastly figures, large 
as life, waved to and fro with a human like- 
ness which yet seemed to mock humanity. 

It represented the history of Fair Rosa- 
mond, one of those legends which take that 
hold on the popular imagination which love 
and crime usually do when stamped by death, 
and chronicled in the simple poetry which is 
the truest echo of the heart. In the first com- 
partment, she was sitting with her maidens, 
binding up flowers ; and, rude as were the 
outlines, and harsh the tints, the artist had 
well contrived to express the attention they 
were giving to their simple employment, — an 
attention that could only be given by the 
easily pleased, and the lighthearted. But a 
cavalier, who was gazing on them from the 
background, seemed to indicate that one at 
least would soon find that there could be a 
deeper interest excited than that taken in 
binding a garland of lilies. In the next, that 
period had already arrived. A maiden was 
seated apart from her companions, the very 
flowers scattered neglected by her side ; but 
it was obvious that idleness — that first sweet 
symptom of love — was pleasanter than her. 
graceful task; for the colour was rich upon 
her cheek, and the smile parted her scarce 
conscious lips. In the third, a cavalier was 
kneeling at her feet, while the downcast eye, 
and the yielded hand, betrayed that his suit 
was granted almost before it was asked. To 
this succeeded a splendid banqueting-room. 
The cavalier and the maiden are seated be- 
neath a royal canopy, and the cavalier wears 
the insignia of his high station. Rosamond 
is at his side, her hand still clasped in his; 
the gems are bright in her braided hair, and neck 
and arms laden with orient pearls ; but her 
cheek is paler than its wont, and the soft blue 
eyes have a look of care far different from 
what they wore when but heeding how best 
the primrose and the violet might consort to- 
gether. This was followed by the parting 
between the frail Rose and her royal lover. 
The spur is on his heel, and the sword at his 
side ; — honour with a knight is stronger than 
love, and he must go — yet she clings to his 
arm — alas ! why may not she accompany 
him ! Henry's face is averted ; but the agony 
on that of his unhappy mistress is terrible — it 
is the desolation of a life. Next you saw he* 
alone, a kneeling penitent at the foot of the 
crucifix; her long fair hair is unbound, and 
the sackcloth robe is girded by a cord round 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



3G5 



her slender shape : her hands are clasped, and 
tears are flowing fast from the quenched radi- 
ance of those shadowy eyes ; no penitence can 
avail the. still cherished sin, and no humilia- 
tion express the depths of her self-conscious 
degradation. She looks above, but it is in 
despair, not hope; she weeps, yet dares not 
pray, for the image of Henry is in her heart 
even while prostrate before the image of her 
Saviour. The scene changes — it is the ban- 
quet-room again. Another sits beneath the 
purple canopy— a lady, but alone. The dia- 
dem is on her cold and haughty brow ; there 
is no pity in her stern aspect, and the smile on 
her lip bodes death. Before her stands the 
lovely culprit, whose fatal beauty, and still 
more fatal love, are about to be dearly requited. 
Her mouth is yet red with the blow of the 
vindictive queen; but her eye, if sad, is calm, 
and her cheek, though pale, is resolved. The 
dark cup is in her hand — she has turned aside 
from the dagger — it is too cruel a weapon for 
her gentle clasp. 

Francesca, who knew not the story, gazed 
eagerly on the last compartment. It is a little 
chapel, where the mourners are ranged, torch 
in hand, and at the altar the robed priests are 
chanting the service for a departed soul. An 
old man stands near, but his face -is buried in 
his cloak ; and in the midst, laid upon an open 
bier, is the fair Rosamond. The decent shroud 
hides that perfect form ; and two long braids 
of hair, parted on the white forehead, extend 
their length even to her feet. Death has not 
yet subdued the beauty of that angel face ; it 
has come upon it like a lovely sleep, but sad, 
very sad, for their dying look is still upon the 
features. A king is kneeling by that coffin — 
one who would give his crown to restore life, 
but for a day, to those pale lips — to ask their 
latest wish — to implore pardon — and to say 
farewell ! In vain King Henry bends in 
speechless despair over his victim and his love. 

" Everywhere the same!" exclaimed Fran- 
cesca, as she resumed her seat — " the same 
human misery — the same human portion ! 
The loud wind, which I now hear howling 
around the battlements, seems but a mighty 
echo of the universal pliant wrung from mor- 
tal suffering. I would to heaven, that if this 
is to be my chamber, it were hung with a less 
mournful history ! A place for rest and sleep 
to be perpetually haunted by such misery as I 
see pictured there — and one grief ever brings 
another to mind — how many sorrowful records 
of my own land does that tapestry recall ! 
Alas ! amid so many instances of ever-recur- 
ring wretchedness, how can I hope that an ex- 
ception will be made in my favour ?" 



CHAPTER LXXVII. 

O. weary heart, that must within itself 
Close all its deepest leaves."— L. E. L. 



routi 



i few days brought time into that general 
itine of small observances which make up 



ordinary existence; but never had Francesca 



felt herself in a more uncongenial atmosphere. 
There was a littleness and an indolence about 
Lord Avonleigh which — unless concealed by 
the magic of long association, when affection 
is matter of habit — were insuperable barriers 
to attachment. Had Francesca grown up by 
his side, she would have loved him; and a 
thousand indulgences, the result of careless 
good-nature, would have linked the child to 
the parent, till the mutual affection would have 
become a thing of course. But he was not 
one whom you could begin to love with the 
judgment ripened and the feelings accustomed 
to examination. Albert was much more an 
object of interest; but, with a naturally noble 
and generous nature, his faults were precisely 
of a kind that made daily life wretched. 
He was arrogant, petulant, and self-willed ; 
every thing was expected to fly before him ; 
and though, after an ebullition of passion, no 
penitence was held too great on his part, still 
the hasty word had been said, the wound in- 
flicted, and still the offence was soon repeated. 
One perpetual source of annoyance, too, was 
her father's continual allusion to the Evelyns. 
He seemed to hate the name with a hate 
which was the only strong feeling he possess- 
ed. The truth was, that he had been humili- 
ated by the superiority of both father and son ; 
and with the genuine ingratitude of a little 
mind, he could not forgive the kind offices 
which he owed to both. Uncertain of what 
Robert Evelyn might now feel towards her — 
sometimes almost tempted, for his sake, to 
wish that he might have changed — it will 
easity be supposed that Francesca's most trea- 
sured secret never passed her lips — ah ! the 
solitude but added to its strength. Deep, un- 
utterably deep, is the love treasured in the 
hidden heart, on which the eye never looks, 
and of which no tongue ever tells. 

A few days brought Lucy's wedding; and 
Francesca was with her early in the morning. 
The important duties of the toilette passed 
under her inspection. The white silk dress 
was her own gift ; but that was nothing to 
the attention which devoted itself to the grace- 
ful adjustment of its drapery. It is in our na- 
ture to be much more grateful for that which 
flatters than for that which serves u" — perhaps 
because the latter implies the superiority of 
another, while the former insinuates our own. 
The bride looked very pretty — with her golden 
hair allowed to hang beneath the veil, and a 
cheek whose blushes were of the most ortho- 
dox brightness ; and the bridegroom appeared 
as happy as awkwardness and confusion could 
indicate. " But after all," thought Francesca, 
" a wedding is a melancholy affair. How 
much responsibility is in those few and scarce- 
ly audible words, which give away your very 
life to the keeping of another ! What a sud- 
den change is wrought in existence! — a change 
whose consequences none may foresee. It is 
standing on the threshold of youth, and fling* 
ing its flowers behind you. The ideal merges 
at once into the real, and the dream, at least, 
of love is over. Well if the substance depart 
not with the shadow !" 

2 h 2 



366 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



With irrepressible emotion Francesca thought 
npon the desolate house now left for the fa- 
ther; the accustomed music of Lucy's step 
was gone from his floor forever. When next 
she trod there, it would be as a visiter. The 
long and lonely evenings that he would have 
to pass — no fair and cherished face to raise up 
images of hope and affection, whenever he 
chanced to look in its direction — alas ! how 
many other ties must be broken to link the 
strong and engrossing one of love ! She felt 
this most keenly when, after Charles Aubyn 
had led Lucy away, they themselves took their 
departure, and she saw Lawrence Aylmer 
walk slowly down the garden with a loitering 
step, and saw more than once his hand dashed 
across his eyes, as if for him there remained 
no object in the world. Pity became a far 
truer feeling than congratulation. 

It is a painful thing to think how the purest 
and dearest tie that can exist — that which 
binds the parent to the child, and the child to 
the parent — is doomed to sever by the very 
course of nature ; that a new and vivid emo- 
tion will inevitably enter the heart of youth — 
and before that emotion, how cold and faint 
seems all that was held precious before ! And 
yet, so inextricably blended are happiness and 
sorrrow on our earth, that fortunate, thrice for- 
tunate, are they who have such ties to sever. 

" You seem quite out of spirits to-day," 
said Lord Avonleigh, when they met at sup- 
per. " But never mind, Francesca — I dare 
say we shall be able to find you a husband in 
England." 

Is there aught more provoking than the mis- 
interpretation of our saddest thoughts 1 How- 
ever, Francesca forced a smile, and endea- 
voured to answer the raillery in which he 
continued to indulge, while her spirits felt 
more and more depressed at every word. 
What an extraordinary mental delusion jesting 
is — that sort of laboured vivacity w r hich fan- 
cies it pointed when it is only personal; and 
more extraordinary still, it is always the re- 
source of stupid people. " Take any shape 
but that !" is what I always feel tempted to 
exclaim when dulness attempts a joke ; striv- 
ing to pervert some poor innocent and ill-used 
word front its lawful meaning till it ceases to 
have any at all — worrying some unfortunate 
idea till, like the hunted hare, it is worried to 
death — dealing in witticisms whose edge has 
long since been worn off by constant use; and 
truly, to the many, witticisms not only require 
to be explained, like riddles, but are also like 
new shoes, which people require to wear ma- 
ny times before they get accustomed to them. 
Nd, let the generality inflict upon you histo- 
ries of themselves and their kind, even to the 
third and fourth generation — let them talk of 
their feelings, when they mean their temper — 
et them, for the hundred and fiftieth time, di- 
late on the lovers who made the delight of 
their youth, or the receipts which make the 
glory of their age — let them even give advice — 
let them do any thing but jest — "the power 
if patience can no farther go." 
It is said that the name of love is often ta- 



ken in vain, compelled to stand godfather to 
feelings with which he has nothing to do, and 
made answerable for all the faults and follies 
which interest, vanity, and idleness comnr 
while masquerading under such semblance. 
Wit is just as much put upon — blamed for a 
thousand impertinences over which it would 
not have held for a. moment its glittering 
shield; it is like the radiant fairy doomed to 
wander over earth, concealed and transformed, 
and only allowed on rare occasions to shine 
forth in its true and sparkling form. It is 
well that wit is an impalpable and ethereal 
substance, or it must long since have evapo- 
rated in indignation at that peculiarly wretch 
ed and mistaken race, its imitators. 



CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

" Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed 
A crown for the brow of the early dead." 

The next morning Francesca was seated r> 
one of the windows with her father, occsi-isr 
ally talking in the hope of amusing him, h},t 
often allowing her attention to be dravsm t o 
the scene before her. It was the atmo?plure 
and heaven of summer redeeming the whiter 
spread over the earth — just one of tho>e glad 
and genial days with which November some- 
times delights to mock itself. The f.ky was 
of that deep rich blue which is brou^l-, out so 
vividly by the few scattered white clouds, 
whose vapours are soft as if dew, not rain, 
were gathered in those snowy raasies. Be 
neath, the grass of the park is of the brightest 
emerald, while the sunbeams chased one ano- 
ther over the undulating herbage, as if rejoicing 
ing in their prolonged dominion, and unwilling 
to waste one moment of their brief and bril- 
liant empire. The lake lay before them spark 
ling and silvery, and the eye could just catch 
the swans, outlined in light, not shadow, in 
their graceful progress over their own domain. 
The majority of the trees were leafless,, but 
many yet wore a cheerful array of green. 
The holly upreared its shining leaves — the 
ivy drooped from the older stems, a dream of 
their once lovely youth — and the misletoe 
crept round many of the oaks — that pleasant 
parasite whose associations belong rather to the 
hearth and lighted hall than to its native 
branches. The gay singing of the birds came 
wakened by the soft west winds ; and imme- 
diately before the window, a robin, with its 
scarlet plumage, and dear soft eye, was pick- 
ing up the crumbs which Francesca had flung 
from the breakfast table. 

Nor did the scene lack human life and hu- 
man action. In the foreground Albert wa3 
trying the mettle of a horse that had been a 
recent purchase. The eye of father and sister 
alike forgot every other object while watching 
the evolutions of the young and graceful boy, 
who realized the descriptions of romance, as 
his golden curls danced on the wind, his 
cheek flushed with exercise, and his large 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



367 



Mae eyes dilatbd and flashing with triumph, 
le ruled the snow-white palfrey by a wave of 
the hand and an imperceptible pressure of the 
knee.' It seemed as if the docile creature in- 
tuitively divined his will. Francesca looked 
from the youth to the fair domain which was 
his portion ; it was but a moment, and her at- 
tention again fixed upon him — but it was 
mingled now with many sad questionings of 
fate. Never before had she seemed to feel so 
keenly the inequalities of human allotment. 
" Why should Guido have perished in his 
youth]" she inwardly exclaimed. "Why 
should Robert Evelyn be an exile from the 
home of his fathers'? — and why should I be 
doomed to waste the best years of my life, and 
the deepest feelings of my heart, in anxiety 
and neglect, while fortune lavishes every gift 
upon a favourite'? Albert has never known a 
real care nor a real sorrow ; and every earthly 
advantage conspires to the promise of his fu- 
ture. Alas ! how much is there in life of 
which he little dreams ! — and God forbid that 
its bitterest lessons should ever come within 
his experience ! May that brow long wear its 
present glad openness, and those clear eyes 
long remain unshadowed ! Methinks they 
are their own omen." 

While this train of thoughts were passing 
in her mind, a favourite greyhound was seen 
coursing rapidly through the park. Catching 
at once a sight of his master, the dog came 
bounding forwards, and sprung up at the 
horse's side. The palfrey was startled, and 
dashed off at full gallop. 

" How gallantly he sits !" exclaimed Lord 
Avonleigh, as the agile figure of his son cut 
through th.3 air, till the eye w T as dazzled with 
the rapidity of the motion. A moment after, 
a cry broke from the lips of both. The horse 
rushes under the drooping boughs of an old 
oak — the young rider reels in his seat — the 
bridle falls from his grasp — his arms extend 
helplessly — and the next bound flings him to 
the earth. Neither Francesca nor Lord Avon- 
leigh dared to exchange glances, but both 
sprung forward and ran to the place, where 
the palfrey, panting and trembling as if with 
some mysterious instinct of evil, stood beside 
the prostrate corpse — for corpse it w r as ! In 
one short instant the hope of youth had been 
laid low — and the beautiful temple, where a 
parent had garnered up all that made life pre- 
cious, was dust and ashes. There he lay, 
his face turned towards them, pale as a statue, 
but sweet as sleep. The sudden summons 
had assuredly been unfelt — the only sign was 
a slight wound on the fair forehead, whence 
trickled a small stream of blood, which had 
already reddened the bright ringlets and the 
green grass. Lord Avonleigh stood as if the 
same blow had struck him also — conscious 
that a weight of horror was upon him, but 
stunned by an agony too great to bear. Fran- 
cesca sunk on her knees, and raised the inani- 
mate head in her arms. At first she did not 
believe the worst; but she looked on those 
white set features and knew there was an end 
of all! 



The servants now crowded round, and car* 
ried the body to the house. Lord Avonleigh 
followed mechanically ; but he staggered, and 
his daughter offered to support him. Almost 
fiercely he repulsed her aid, and walked on 
with a hurried and uncertain step. Poor 
Francesca! — the bitterness which swelled in 
her heart! — "He is no father in his love 
towards me !" 

The leech was summoned when they reach- 
ed the castle. He could but give one look at 
the piteous spectacle and turn away : the fa- 
ther needed his skill — the son no more. 

" Let the horse and the hound be destroyed 
at once !" were Lord Avonleigh's only words ; 
and that order given, he sought the chamber 
where they had laid his child, and throwing 
himself on the bed, gave way to the wildest 
expressions of despair. Francesca knelt — 
she wept at his feet, and implored him to 
have pity on his own soul; but it was in vain. 
About midnight he slept, exhausted with his 
own violence — slept beside the extended 
corpse ! 

It was a fearful vigil that Francesca kept 
— for the office of watching in the chamber of 
death she had taken upon herself. How often, 
during her young life, had she looked upon 
the face of the dead 1 — it was now almost 
more familiar than the living. Again she 
marked the still repose, the calm, cold hue, 
the superhuman beauty, the look which is not 
of this world, here strongly contrasted by the 
troubled countenance of Lord Avonleigh. 
Sleep lacked the quiet of death. The veins 
were swollen on his temples- — the dew rose 
on his knit brow — his cheek was livid, not 
pale — and the inward struggle convulsed 
every feature. The torches flung round their 
long and fantastic shadows, while the wind 
howled amid the battlements — a wild, shriek- 
ing wind, like a great cry of nature's agony. 
Yet there the young Italian waited and watch- 
ed alone, dreading her ghastly solitude, but 
dreading still more the despair of her father's 
awakening. And terrible, indeed, was that 
awakening : it was the desperate grief of the 
prosperous, who have not dreamed that the 
arrows of calamity can be pointed at them — 
whose sky has been sunshine, and whose 
pathway over flowers, till the ordinary lot of 
mankind seems to them an injustice. They 
look not to drink of that cup which is mea- 
sured unto all — to others they apply the rule, 
and to themselves the exception. But, alas 
for the graceful and noble boy, on whom na- 
ture and fortune had lavished every gift but 
to make a richer prize for death ! How many 
lofty hopes, how many generous emotions, 
how many joyous aspirings, were quenched 
in that unfulfilled destiny ! That young heart 
had had no time to harden — that young soul 
no time to chill; warm and fresh, true and 
kindling, they went down to the grave, all 
trace of paradise not worn away in the brief 
career. 

" Whom the gods love die young," is one 
of the truths taught by the old Greek poets 
those poets half sage, half seer. And me 



368 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



thinks, that though tears are shed abundantly 
when the coffinlid presses down some fair 
and bright head, we were wiser did we keep 
those tears for the living-. Let the young pe- 
rish in their hour of promise — how much will 
they be spared ! — passion, that kindles but to 
consume the heart, and leaves either vacancy 
or regret, a ruin or a desert ; ambition, that 
only reaches its goal to find it worthless when 
gained, or but the startingplace for another 
feverish race, doomed again to end in disap- 
pointment ; enemies that cross us at every 
step ; friends that deceive — and what friends 
do not 1 ? — the blighted hope, the imbittered 
feeling, the wasted powers, the remorse, and 
the despair — all these are spared by the mer- 
ciful, the early grave. 

The week passed, with its days, like ghosts, 
flitting by in silence and awe, till at length 
came the evening when Albert Lord Stukely 
was to be laid to the long last sleep of his 
ancestry. The red glare of the tapers flung 
a strange unnatural hue on the painted win- 
dows of the little Gothic chapel, where none 
slept save the noble of name, and the high of 
blood — purple and crimson, the colours min- 
gled together in fantastic combinations, till 
the rainbow-hued figures seemed to move 
with supernatural life. The banners hung 
from the roof — frail and faded memorials of a 
glory which now formed the archives of a 
house, instead of the history of a nation. Tab- 
let and escutcheon were suspended from the 
walls ; and below were the sculptured tombs, 
each with its marble efligy. Here was the 
armed knight, his head upon his shield, his 
foot on his hound — the image having long sur- 
vived the original ; the one yet gave a stern 
likeness of humanity, the other was now but. 
a handful of dust, ready to be dispersed by 
the first breath of air that might penetrate its 
carved sepulchre. How much of empty dis- 
tinction above mocked the nothingness below! 
Here was the storied trophy, the blazoned 
arms, the name, with its array of titles — the 
inscription, with its long flattery; and there 
was only the mouldering bones, and the dank 
vapour. God of heaven! how mortality 
mocks itself! — how far extends the solemnity 
of its foolishness, the vaingloriousness of its 
delusion ! The living console themselves by 
the honours which they pay to the dead ; and 
yet this self-deceit is not all in vain. Every 
feeling that looks to the future elevates hu- 
man nature ; for life is never so low or so lit- 
tle as when it concentrates itself on the pre- 
sent. The miserable wants, the small desires, 
and the petty pleasures of daily existence have 
nothing in common with those mighty dreams 
which, looking forward for action and action's 
reward, redeem the earth over which they 
walk with steps like those of an angel, be- 
neath which, spring up glorious and immortal 
flowers. The imagination is man's noblest 
and most spiritual faculty ; and that ever 
dwells on the to-come. 

But to return to the Gothic chapel, and its 
mournful solemnities. A strain of music re- 
verberated along the arches as a gloomy train 



entered, faces and shapes alike hidden in then 
black and sweeping garments. In the midst 
was the coffin, covered with a white velvet 
pall, on which was embroidered a golden bor- 
der of the arms, of the house of Avonleigh. 
The lid was closed — human eye had looked 
its last on that young and beloved face. That 
glance would dwell on the memory forever — 
pale, calm, and unearthly. Well that it should 
be so ; for who could bear to have their mid- 
night haunted by the vision of corruption ! 
The music ceased; slowly the bearers depo- 
sited their burden before the altar; and the 
deep melodious voice of Charles Aubyn was 
heard repeating the holy words which sanctify 
the act that restores the corpse to its mother 
earth. Lord Avonleigh sat at the head of the 
coffin, and, in the negligence of sorrow, his 
cloak had fallen to the ground, and his coun- 
tenance fixed and rigid with despair, was 
fully given to view. It was awful — for suf- 
fering in its extreme is awful — to mark how a 
few days had changed him. Francesca knelt 
at his side, but he turned not towards her; 
and mute and motionless she listened to the 
service — only an occasional large bright drop 
falling through her closed hands told that she 
was weeping. The voice of the reader paused 
for a moment. Again the bearers took up the 
coffin, and cold and damp the subterranean air 
came from the opened vault. The tapers were 
lowered, and shed a ghastly light on the rows 
of piled coffins, and the moisture glittering on 
the walls. A shudder ran through the assem- 
bly as all looked towards that drear recep- 
tacle. 

" One moment !" said Lord Avonleigh, in 
a low hoarse whisper; "that boy perished for 
my sin, — I feel, I know that his death was a 
judgment upon me. Let him be the inanimate 
witness of an atonement that comes too late. 
Francesca Stukely, I here entreat your forgive- 
ness of the wrong which I have done you, 
prompted by my dear love for him who is no 
more. Cruelly'has Providence visited it upon 
me. In the presence of the dead and of the 
livincr, I acknowledge you as my only lawful 
child!" 

A murmur of astonishment ran through the 
chapel. It was hushed instantly, for, at a 
sign from Lord Avonleigh, the coffin was car- 
ried into the vault; and again the voice of 
the priest was the only sound, breathing the 
last and solemn benediction of the mournful 
obsequies. 



CHAPTER LXXIX. 



He who commands me to mine own content, 
Commands me to the thing I cannot find." 

Shakspeare. 



We must entreat our readers to suppose 
that the following few winter months glided 
away in all the unmarked monotony of usual 
existence. How little does what we wished 
fulfil, when realized, what we expected. But 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



369 



a brief period passed, and Francesca would 
have held that her present position was all 
that could be dreamed — all that could be de- 
sired. Acknowledged child of a noble house 
—heiress to its name, and to its wealth — 
young and beautiful — it was as if some good 
fairy had stood godmother to her fortune. So 
much for the outward seeming. But whoso 
had paused here had left the story but half 
told. Young she was, but the buoyancy of 
youth had departed from her forever — her 
spirits were broken by care, sorrow, and the 
frequent presence of death ; beautiful, but she 
was not vain, — and what recked she of the 
fair face on which one beloved eye seemed ne- 
ver fated to rest again 1 Rank she had, but 
he to whom it equalled her was now an exile; 
and wealth — but what of that, unless it could 
be shared with Robert Evelyn 1 Alas, how 
little chance did there seem to be of their ever 
meeting 1 He had been excepted by name from 
the general amnesty — would never, in all hu- 
man probability, hear of his brother's treachery 
— and could look upon her in no other light than 
as ungrateful and inconstant. She had not the 
poor comfort of thinking that he dwelt upon 
her memory, — even in heart they were sepa- 
rated. 

Drearily did the winter exhaust itself, 
equally without interest and without occupa- 
tion. It was obvious that Lord Avonleigh 
considered the past entirely expatiated by his 
tardy acknowledgment; he had given. justice, 
but his daughter also asked affection — that he 
gave not, indeed, had it not to give. He as- 
sociated her in the idea with his lost son, and, 
by a strange and unjust connexion, in a degree 
reproached her as the cause of his bereave- 
ment. Common minds always blame some 
one or other for every misfortune that happens; 
complaint relieves them, and their style of 
complaint is always personal. And yet it was 
wonderful how he got over the loss; he soon 
fell into his ordinary round of employments 
and amusements, spoke of going to White- 
hall in the spring, and dwelt with increasing 
animation on his hopes of a marquisate. 
When he talked of Albert, it was rather talk- 
ing at Francesca, as if she were to be made 
responsible for the death of her brother. Ah, 
that talking at ! — only those who have suffered 
from it can understand its wearing and petty 
misery, especially when placed in circum- 
stances which forbid reply. 

We are eloquent about oppression on a large 
scale, — we deprecate the tyranny of govern- 
ment, which, after all, extends but to few ; 
and yet how little pity is bestowed upon those 
who suffer from that w T orst of tyranny in daily 
practice, in daily life. What grievances would 
most family histories disclose! — how much 
comfort is put aside — how much kindly feel- 
ing wasted, by the arbitrary cruelties of tem- 
per ! I say cruelties; for what torture of rack 
or wheel can equal that of words'? Take the 
annals of the majority of hearths for a twelve- 
month, and we should be amazed at the quan- 
tity of wretchedness that would be writ in 
them, if writ truly. 

Vol. I.— 47 



Francesca felt every hour more keenly the 
pain of her unappreciated affection, and of her 
unvalued existence. All the higher faculties 
of her mind lay utterly dormant. No one en- 
tered into her emotions, no one took note of 
her thoughts. The atmosphere of indiffeienco 
clipped her round like a prison, but from which 
there was no escape. No imagination could 
defy the dull monotony in which days upon 
days wore away. It was some relief to go 
and see Lucy, who was practising domestic 
felicity as it is practised at first, ft is not in 
the deep passion, the keen feeling, the thought- 
ful mind, that are sown the seeds of earthly 
enjoyments. They are flowers that take root 
best in the light soil. 

Lucy was the beau ideal of simple content — 
delighted with her husband, delighted with 
her house, finding a little accession of dignity 
in the idea of beings married, and having al- 
ready discovered that servants were a great 
trouble, it being scarcely possible to get good 
ones — a complaint which, we believe, is the 
usual after-dinner talk of all married ladies 
even in our own time. 

Francesca thought Charles Aubyn a little 
more wearisome in his capacity of husband 
than he had been in that of lover ; perhaps 
because he addressed more of his discourse 
to herself. He* had now to do the honours of 
his house; and he conceived that he supported 
the dignity of the clerical character by long 
statements of his own opinions, exaggerated 
and confused enough, but listened to by his 
pretty wife with a face of charmed attention. 

Well, nature makes some wise provisions, 
it must be confessed. We should be envious 
of others' happiness if, in nine cases out of 
ten, we did not despise it. Francesca felt 
Lucy's pleasant lot ; but felt, also, that such 
would not have suited herself. 

In the mean time, Lord Avonleigh found a 
wonderful resource in being loyal ; he attended 
county meetings, denounced the Puritans, dis- 
couraged conventicles, discountenanced long 
graces or long sermons, and was seized with 
a sudden veneration for the church as establish- 
ed by law, which led to fines and imprison- 
ment on all absentees from worship as ordain- 
ed by law. Hitherto the commanding influ- 
ence of Sir Robert Evelyn's character had 
sunk his own into insignificance — now he had 
no " rival near the throne," alias the bench of 
county magistrates. It was amazing, how 
much more discontent, however, accrued under 
the management of the good-natured Lord 
Avonleigh, than under the resolved, nay, some- 
what stern Sir Robert Evelyn. The truth is, 
the one never swerved one inch from what he 
held to be the right ; while the other had a 
thousand whims, favourites, prejudices, and 
interests, all to be gratified or conciliated. 
Complaints became of daily occurrence, and 
it was said that a great portion of the tenants 
on the Evelyn estate contemplated emigration 
on a large scale. But the castle was not des- 
tined to remain long in its present quietude. 

One morning Lord Avonleigh received a 
packet from London, whose contents filled 



370 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



him with joy, which he could not communi- 
cate in too great haste. It contained a letter 
from the king himself, craving hospitality for 
a few days, as his mother was about to visit 
England, and to take up with Lord Avonleigh 
her residence at the castle. A slight incog- 
nito would be preserved, and as little form 
and ceremony expected as was possible. 
Language was quite inadequate to express the 
earl's feelings en the occasion ; he was a mar- 
quess already in idea, and the castle itself 
was soon in as great confusion as his own 
thoughts, for no preparations seemed to be 
sufficient. Hitherto the recent death of Lord 
Stu.kely had rendered seclusion necessary ; 
but the now comforted parent was not sorry 
to have a decent pretext for enlivening a soli- 
tude very uncongenial to his taste. Among 
other names on their list of visiters was that 
of the Comtesse de Soissons. How many 
reflections were connected with that name ! 
However unkindly neglected by that early 
friend, still her image was associated with all 
that had been most interesting in Francesca's 
life ; and so little had she now to love, that 
she looked forward, not only with forgiveness 
of the past, but even with pleasure to a re- 
newal of their former feelings. Ah ! the past 
is the true source of confidence. "We must 
recollect together before w r e can confide. 



CHAPTER LXXX. 

"You're very welcome."— Shakspeare. 

The change which had so suddenly elevated 
Charles Stuart to the throne of his ancestors, 
and, from a poor, wandering, and powerless 
exile, made him one of Europe's most power- 
ful monarch's, had taken the various courts 
where he had sojourned, neglected, if not 
contemned, completely by surprise. None 
saw the error more clearly than Mazarin ; and 
none, therefore, were more prompt to repair 
it; while no one could be less troubled with 
any false delicacy which might suggest that 
the change was somewhat barefaced, nor so 
little deterred by any scruples lest the inte- 
rested motives should be too apparent. 
Laughing openly and secretly at the princi- 
ples which he called prejudices — very good 
for the many, but never meant for the few — 
flattery and bribery were the two great levers 
by which mankind were to be moved ; and if 
these failed, why it must be set down, not to 
him, but to fate. 

" Would to St. Peter," he sometimes ex- 
claimed, " that the offices of priest and pro- 
phet had been united, as of old, in my person ! 
My niece would now be queen of that island, 
whose worse fault is that it never knows its 
own mind, and whose politics areas uncertain 
as its climate. France would now have an 
ally, instead of an enemy that has hitherto 
been a thorn in her side. Well, well, who 
can foresee the impossible 1 ? — and impossible 



it appeared to all rational calculation that 
these raving fanatics should suddenly veer 
round, and become as mad on loyalty as they 
were on doctrine. We must do what we can ; 
beauty and gold can still accomplish much, 
or his recent majesty has strangely altered." 

To form a strict alliance between the cabi» 
nets of Paris and London — which meant, thai 
he should influence both, — to induce Charles 
to marry the loveliest of his nieces, Hortense 
— thus making a common interest betw r een 
them, were now the great objects with the 
cardinal; and the present visit was of his 
projecting. The queen mother, Henriette, 
was strongly in the French interest. Nothing 
ever seems to have taught her the character 
of the English nation; and at this very time 
she considered an alliance with France as 
Charles's best security for remaining on what 
she thought his most uncertain throne. The 
marriage, too, met her approval ; the dower 
offered was enormous ; and she was, more- 
over, influenced by the present flattery of the 
Mazarin family ; and intending, as she did, 
to fix her residence in France, there might be 
a little private wish to conciliate, on her part, 
the powers that were. There was another 
motive, too, the most powerful of all — she 
was devotedly attached to the young princess, 
her only daughter; and the lure held out, of 
her marriage with monsieur, was the strongest 
inducement to secure her warmest efforts in a 
cause likely to promote a project so dear to 
her hopes. Madame de Soissons attended 
her, for the cardinal thought he could trust 
her talents for intrigue. Moreover, her going 
was a sufficient reason for Hortense accom- 
panying her ; and Mazarin hoped as much 
from her beautiful face as from all the other 
potent reasons with which he had cha r ged his 
negotiators. 

In the queen mother's suite was Lord Cra- 
ven, one of those most devoted lovers w T ho 
sometimes illumine the page of history with 
an episode which seems taken from the olden 
chronicles of chivalry. It is the fate of some 
women to inspire those deep yet picturesque 
attachments, which, amid all the ordinary 
prose of life, need to be well authenticated to 
be believed. Henriette w r as one of these; — 
poetry records nothing more ideal than the 
passion with which she inspired Lord Cra- 
ven, who sought the Holy Land to forget the 
too lovely queen, and only returned to his own 
to risk his life in her service. Even now, 
faded by age, but still more by sorrow, Lord 
Craven esteemed existence but given to be 
spent in her service — his time, his wealth, 
were lavished for her sake. We need only 
add the name of the Chevalier de Joinville, 
as Francesca's old acquaintance, and leave 
the rest unmentioned. 

The whole party left Dieppe early, and a 
favourable wind soon carried them across the 
channel. Yet they had to pass the Isle of 
Wight, which held Carisbrook Castle, — that 
melancholy prison which Charles I. only left 
for that drearier cell which was but the pas 
sage to the scaffold. Lord Craven, however, 






FRANC ESC A CARRARA. 



371 



contrived that they should be in the cabin 
when the island appeared in sight. 

The queen knew nothing of the environs, 
and it was dusk when they landed. Lord 
Avonleigh was in anxious attendance — car- 
riages were ready for the whole suite — lamps 
and torches were soon kindled — and they ar- 
rived at his residence about midnight. It had 
a noble effect, as a hundred attendants, each 
with torch in hand, lined the avenue, whose 
yet leafless boughs were dark with night if 
not with foliage. The red glare on their path 
but made more beautiful the silvery moon- 
light, which rested unbroken on the park 
around, across which bounded the deer, roused 
from their quiet sleep by the unwonted intru- 
sion on the silent night. Ablaze of fireworks 
kindled the whole atmosphere, while the 
stately battlements shone distinct as at noon, 
when the queen alighted ; and at the foot of 
the flight of steps which led to the hall, Fran- 
cesca was in waiting at the head of the female 
attendants. She knelt while her father pre- 
sented her. 

"Nay!" exclaimed Henriette, "I cannot 
allow homage where I would only receive 
kindness." 

Lord Avonleigh accepted the gracious 
speech with a due return cf acknowledgment. 
They passed on, and his daughter was left to 
do the honours of welcome to the other guests. 
The light of the illuminated arch raised above 
fell direct on her face; and, attired in the 
splendour which suited her own rank and the 
occasion, never perhaps had she appeared to 
greater advantage. Her long black hair was 
left, according to the fashion then prevalent — 
the more prevalent from the complete contrast 
which is offered to the close cap and banded 
tresses of the Puritans — to flow in rich masses 
down her neck, only knotted by strings of 
diamonds, while a bandeau of the same pre- 
cious stones crossed her forehead. Her robe 
was of violet satin, embroidered in black and 
silver; her stomacher shone with brilliants 
set in jet ; and in one hand she held a fan 
formed of black feathers, confined in the mid- 
dle with a diamond star. 

Madame de Soissons and Lord Craven 
were the first of the company, and she step- 
ped forward to receive them with the grave 
courtesy necessary ; but her eyes rested on 
the face of the comtesse with a glance of re- 
cognition. 

" Mon Dieu ! is it possible ?" exclaimed 
her visiter. 

"Yes — how much I have to tell you!" 
whispered she, as she advanced to receive the 
others. 

Astonishment was never more legibly writ- 
ten than in the Chevalier de Joinville's coun- 
tenance when Francesca's smile confirmed her 
identity. He made no remark, but followed 
to the banqueting-room, which had been pre- 
pared with the utmost splendour. A canopy 
of crimson velvet, heavy with a deep fringe 
of gold, was placed over the dais, where the 
queen was standing, having refused to sit till 



her young hostess appeared ; and then she 
made Francesca take her place at her side. 

" Surely we have met before 1 ?" said she, 
in a low tone, the first moment that Lord 
Avonleigh's attention was forced to his other 
guests. 

" Yes, your grace," replied Francesca, " at 
Compeigne." 

" Believe me, I have not forgotten your 
kindness," whispered Henriette. " Alas ! 
our service has indeed been fatal. Would to 
God that you were not the only one to whom 
gratitude can now be shown!" 

Francesca could not control her embarrass- 
ment. She perceived immediately that the 
queen alluded to Francis Evelyn, and to their 
supposed attachment. 

"I have been placed," said she, at last, ral- 
lying her faculties, "all my life in most pecu- 
liar circumstances. One favour I will dare 
to implore of your grace — silence. 

" Poor child !" said the queen, pressing 
her hand in token of assent. 

Here, to Francesca's great relief, the con- 
versation was interrupted ; for her father held 
the royal notice too precious to be engrossed 
even by his own daughter. 

I remember reading a story, where some 
royal dowager — utterly powerless, be it ob- 
served — resides in a small tranquil town, 
where she believes the golden age to be very 
respectably represented. Suddenly the calm 
current of their ordinary existence is disturbed 
by a visit from the reigning monarch ; all the 
little, mean, and malevolent passions — vices, 
we should rather say — engendered of vanity 
and vexation of spirit, rise at once to the sur- 
face of the troubled waters — troubled by the 
demon of ambition ; and the poor princess is 
left in mute dismay, to wonder what has be- 
come of the humility, the independence, and 
the content which she had so rashly eulogized. 

Francesca was in much the same position 
with regard to her father. Accustomed to see 
him irritable and indifferent, she could 
scarcely believe the courier, full of flattery 
and emprcssement, who seemed to consider 
himself and household but created for the 
Queen Henriette's pleasure. 

Yet the banquet went off heavily. In the 
minds of some, now for the first time during 
many years treading their native shore, the 
past predominated; it was impossible to fix 
the thoughts on any thing but the dark record 
of blood, suffering, crime, and death, written 
on the last few years. Others, again — Ma- 
dame de Soissons and the Chevalier de Join- 
ville, usually the most entertaining of the 
company — were silent, fairly overpowered by 
intense curiosity ; and the rest were tired to 
death. 

All were rejoiced when the queen rose, 
and, pleading extreme fatigue, entreated her 
host's permission to retire. Francesca at- 
tended her to her chamber, received the most 
flattering thanks and compliments on her re- 
ception, but was not permitted to remain. 

The queen embraced her, saying, "If vve. 



372 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



may judge of the exertion by the effect, we 
are sure our young hostess must need rest. 
We lay our royal commands upon her, that 
she take it as soon as possible." 

Francesca expressed her deep sense of her 
grace's kind consideration, and left the cham- 
ber; but rest was the farthest thing in the 
world from her thoughts. She was impatient 
to speak to the Comtesse de Soissons, for the 
ties of an old friendship are not easily broken; 
and her very sight brought back a thousand 
remembrances of their joyful childhood, and 
their once confiding youth, which effectually 
pleaded the cause of reconciliation. 

With her first touch at the door of the 
dressing-room it was opened. Marie seemed 
to have divined the intended visit, — the one 
felt that she was forgiven, and the other that 
such forgiveness was welcome. The attend- 
ants were dismissed; and each, drawing a 
huge arm-chair to the blazing hearth, began 
eagerly to question and reply. A few words 
gave the general outline of Francesca's his- 
tory, and Marie was warm in her congratula- 
tions. 

" A veritable princesse de roman ! I must 
give Madame de Scuderi the story on my re- 
turn. Dearest Francesca, you are situated as 
you ought to be; you look your rank. You 
were superbe as you received us at the en- 
trance. We want nothing but a hero to com- 
plete the romance." 

Francesca shook her head mournfully, and 
the conversation flagged a little. Marie 
seemed to hesitate with some question which 
she yet shrunk from asking. Al length, hold- 
ing up her handkerchief, as if to screen her 
face from the fire, but more to screen it from 
her companion, she said, in a low uncertain 
tone, "I do not see 1 "m here : has Guido re- 
turned to Italy ?" 

"Italy!" replied Francesca, sadly; "do 
you not know that he died a few months after 
our arrival in England ?" 

She started from her seat in dismay at the 
violent effects which her words produced. 
Marie sprang to her feet, the hair streamed 
back from her forehead, the dew stood upon 
her temples, her eyes dilated with a wild un- 
natural glare, while every tinge of colour pe- 
rished on lip and cheek. Some inarticulate 
words died upon her tongue, and the next 
moment she sank insensible at Francesca's 
side. 

It was long before the united efforts of her 
attendants could rouse her from that stony 
trance; and when at length she opened her 
eyes, their expression was wandering, and her 
words unconnected. In despair, the leech 
was summoned ; and saying something about 
sxcitcd nerves and over-fatigue, he adminis- 
tered a sleeping draught; and Francesca 
never left the comtesse till she saw her sunk 
m d. profound slumber. 

" Strange," thought she, " how love and 
ambition have struggled for empire in that 
divided heart ! How this passion of sorrow 
would have soothed Guido, could he have 



believed how keenly his loss would be felt. 
The love which was restrained for the living 
defies control when aroused for the dead." 



CHAPTER LXXXI 

" 'Tis not alone 

The human being's pride that peoples space 
With pride and mystical predominance." 

Coleridge. 

It was early the next morning when Fran- 
cesca was awakened by the curtains of hei 
bed being put aside, and the red light of morn- 
ing fell on the pale countenance of Madame 
de Soissons. 

"Francesca, dearest!" said she, in a hol- 
low and constrained voice, "I have a favour 
to implore. Lead me to Guido's grave : my 
soul cannot rest in peace till I have knelt and 
prayed beside it." 

" Marie," exclaimed Francesca, gradually 
recalling the events of the preceding evening, 
" you are in no fit state to meet more agita- 
tion. Some other time." 

" Now, now !" interrupted the comtesse 
impatiently. " All is quiet in the castle. I 
entreat you to accompany me. I know how 
strange you must think my conduct ; but 
there — there I will tell you all." 

Francesca made no further opposition ; and 
conducting Marie down a small winding stair- 
case, which led to the garden, they soon found 
themselves in the open air. They had to 
traverse a portion of the park, after which 
they entered the forest, on whose branches 
the hawthorn blossom was just beginning to 
break, while the first pale gold was peeping 
forth on the fern. At the rapid and excited 
pace with which Marie walked, they soon 
arrived at the churchyard. 

" There !" whispered Francesca, pointing 
to the lowly mound which sheltered the last 
sleep of the once impassioned and now quiet 
tenant. 

Marie spoke not, but throwing herself on 
the ground, bowed her head upon the wild 
flowers. But though her face was hidden, not 
so were the convulsive sobs which shook her 
whole frame. 

For a time, Francesca turned away and 
wept ; all her own sorrow came back fresh 
upon her heart as she thought how sweet 
during life would have been that affection so 
vain and so violent after death ! 

Marie's tears ceased at length from absolute 
exhaustion ; and allowing Francesca to raise 
her from the earth, they sat down together 
beside the grave. 

" Do you think he has forgiven me ?" said 
the comtesse, suddenly : methinks all looks 
so calm and so lovely, that earth has no wrong 
that might not here be forgotten." And she 
almost spoke truth ; for beautiful was the 
mingled repose and animation of the scene. 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



373 



It was yet very early, and the crimson flush 
of daybreak still lingered in some of the float- 
ing clouds. A silvery haze veiled the more 
distant landscape — melting, however, fast be- 
fore the sunbeams, which were filled with that 
clear yet gentle light which belongs only to 
the first few hours of day. Deep yet soft 
shadows fell from every tree; but the sun 
shone full on the old church, turning the nar- 
row panes of its glittering windows into 
molten and wavy gold ; and kindling the 
clustering ivy, till every broad and smooth 
leaf was a mirror silvered with the dew. The 
air was musical with the singing of innume- 
rable birds, the fragrance of the first violets 
came upon the wind, and the last primroses 
spread their pale beauty over Guido's tomb. 

"It was on the third day of that 

Guido died," said Marie. 

" How ever do you know so accurately ?" 
exclaimed Francesca, astonished ; " I thought 
you said last night you were, till then, unac- 
quainted with my bitter, my heavy loss]" 

" I knew not of his death till I came to 
England ; but now I, — but you will mock 
me — yet surely not here. I will tell you all. 
That night I saw Guido as distinctly as I see 
you — you, in this open daylight, and before 
blessed heaven. I was alone, when I saw his 
sad and reproachful eyes, his pale and beauti- 
ful countenance, grow as it were on the air. 
A strange horror came over me, and I fainted ; 
but the recollection is as actual as any other 
circumstance of my existence. Shall I tell 
you the truth 1 The first awe passed away — 
I % firmly believed that, by some inscrutable 
means, he had gained access, and deemed it 
best to preserve strict silence on the subject; 
but now I know it was no living form that 
passed before me !" And again Marie hid 
her face in her hands, while Francesca was 
too oppressed to speak : she remembered the 
terror that had been upon her previous to 
Guido's death. 

" We will not talk of it," she whispered, 
in a faint voice ; " there are mysteries on 
which it is not good to dwell. I feel deep 
within my inmost heart, that now his rest is 
dreamless and unbroken." 

For a little while longer they sat in silence, 
when suddenly the comtesse, whose burst of 
passionate agony had subsided into almost 
unconscious weeping, snatched up a handful 
of the wild flowers on the grave — they were 
wet with her tears. 

"What a weak, inconsistent fool am I! 
The sun in a few hours will dry all traces of 
this heart-wrung moisture from the glistening 
leaves ; and so will the glare, of my busier 
life efface the traces of this emotion from my 
own memory — at least, if remembered during 
an occasional, sad, and lonely hour, I shall not 
be the less immersed in the pleasures, the in- 
terests, the thousand small hopes and fears of 
the day." 

" It avails little," answered Francesca, " to 
dwell upon the past." 

Vol. I. 



" You are right," interrupted Marie ; " the 
present is every thing." 

" Nay," returned the other, " I meant not 
to make so sweeping an assertion." 

" But I did," continued Madame de Sois- 
sons. " Of the past, to be very candid, I am 
a little ashamed. The future is but a chance ; 
but the present — let me be amused, flattered, 
successful in ninety-nine out of my hundred 
projects — (I need an occasional stimulus) — 
and I shall get through life as pleasantly, or 
rather more so, than most persons. Let us 
forget this morning. I was wrong in yielding 
to an impulse, which is quite contrary to my 
system. It is a great mistake, cultivating 
what are called feelings. Encourage your 
vanities, your follies, your wishes, and you 
lay up perpetual sources of delight in their 
gratification. But feelings; why cherish the 
serpent that will sting, and the fire that will 
consume — dreaming of a return which is never 
made, and of some impossible happiness which 
never comes !" 

"And yet," replied Francesca, "there is 
that in the deep or the lofty feeling that re- 
deems itself. I cannot waste the precious 
thoughts of my solitude on objects which are 
utterly unworthy — the petty triumph, or the 
transient amusement." 

"0!" cried the comptesse, laughing, "I 
cry you mercy, if you come to the romantic 
imaginings of which solitude is the inexhausti- 
ble mother. I know that my own is the very 
worst company I can be in, and I therefore fly 
from it as much as possible." 

" W T e shall never agree," replied Francesca. 
"The life in which you are involved would 
weary me to death." 

" Nevertheless," exclaimed Madame de 
Soissons, " you must bear it for the next 
week, during which we intend to trespass on 
your hospitality. There will be time enough 
for your king to have his head turned by my 
pretty sister, and for you to develope the in- 
cipient inclination of De Joinville, who will 
find his former admiration of the beautiful 
Italian greatly revived by discovering her to 
be the heiress of ' a certain fair castle.' Her 
Grace and Lord Craven will offer and accept 
les hommages, like the stately lovers of the 
good old days ; and I— -why, where there are 
human beings I can never lack entertainment. 
But let us return home. I have taken up too 
much of my hostess's time ; and the toilette 
is one of those imperative duties whose neg- 
lect few circumstances can extenuate, and 
none justify." 

She passed her arm through her friend's, 
and led her from the churchyard. As ths .: ti- 
tle gate swung after them, she started and 
looked back. For the last time, she caught 
sight of Guido's grave. She turned hastily 
away, and walked rapidly down the path 
which led to the forest; but she walked in 
silence ; and though her face was averted 
Francesca could occasionally see the tears 
glistenino- as the sunshine touched her cheek 
21 



374 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



CHAPTER LXXXII. 

"The royal marriage lias engrossed all tongues." 

Before they met next morning, the Cheva- 
lier de Joinville had learned as much of Fran- 
3esca's history as was known in the castle. 
It is wonderful what a talent some people 
have for extracting- information, and combining 
it when extracted — how one fact is made to 
elucidate another, and the conclusion inferred 
from evidence fine as the spider's thread ! It 
is a pity that this genius should be wasted on 
the events of ordinary life. Half the inge- 
nuity lavished on news — by news we mean 
the topics of the day as connected with their 
own circle — half this ingenuity would set up 
a whole Society of Antiquaries, and immor- 
talize at least a dozen of them. 

The chevalier possessed in its perfection 
that happy art which illuminates the known 
by the imaginative, and in such light discovers 
the actual. Having satisfied his curiosity, he 
had only another desire to gratify, viz. that of 
communication. Just now his sphere was 
somewhat limited ; for, from their terms of 
familiarity, he might infer that Madame de 
Soissons knew all he could tell — and the fair 
Hortense was preoccupee et distraite. Lord 
Craven was engaged with the queen ; and to 
Francesca herself, he had too much tact not 
to know, that beyond a brief congratulation, 
the less he said the better. However, he pro- 
mised himself ample dedommagement, when 
he returned to Paris ; and in the mean time 
he shared the usual lot of ,mortals — that is, 
he lived on expectation. Ah ! what would 
life be without its perspective. Still he had 
a little present enjoyment — how much he had 
to tell of all that had occurred in France dur- 
ing Francesca's absence ! 

After a long and magnificent breakfast, the 
queen — well aware that, next to themselves 
and their own merits, people are most alive to 
those observed in their houses and lands — pro- 
posed to Lord Avonleigh that he should show 
them his superb palace ; and a happy man 
was he while doing the honours of old tapes- 
tries, carved cornices, and portraits in mail ar- 
mour, or silks nearly as' stifF. 

At length the beautiful morning tempted 
the whole party into the open air; and while 
walking up and down the terrace, the cheva- 
lier easily contrived to engross Francesca's 
ear. After a few compliments and acknow- 
ledgments, the conversation naturally reverted 
to Paris ; and Francesca soon found that she 
was as ready to make inquiries as De Joinville 
was ready to answer them. 

" In good truth," replied he to some ques- 
tion, " one single subject has engaged all our 
attention — we have asked, we have heard, we 
have dreamed of nothing but his majesty's 
marriage. The' cardinal declared, that the 
alliance having given peace to France, he 
Bhould die content — the queen mother, that the 
hope of her life having been realized, she 
could die content, too. I began to be alarmed 



lest the whole world, fancying it could never 
find a finer opportunity, might also come to an 
end in 

' One last great act— the windingup of fate.' 

However, the consequences have not been 
quite so desperate — no one died after all." 

" But the young queen," asked Francesca, 
" what is she like ?" 

" Why she is one of those persons whom 
negatives seem invented to describe— I doubt 
whether she is worth one single bad quality." 

" Surely," said she, smiling, "that is a de- 
ficiency which may readily be pardoned." 

"No such thing!" exclaimed he; "we 
need bad qualities to set off our good ones. 
A few faults are indispensable in those with 
whom we are to live — they are needed to ex- 
cuse our own. This sort of dull perfection is 
a perpetual reproach to ourselves; besides, 
light cannot exist without shadow. Choose 
what fault you please; but, for pity's sake, 
have one, if you ever mean to be liked or 
loved." 

" Still you have not told me if your new 
queen be handsome." 

" Ah ! I should have known that a lady's is 
always a personal question. Well, then, she 
is pretty, but it is the mere prettiness of 
youth — a radiant complexion, and long bright 
hair. I thought her handsomer the first time 
I saw her in Spain than I have ever thought 
her since — a sure sign that she is not beauti- 
ful, for nothing grows upon you more than 
beauty." 

" You have been in Spain, then, since we 
last met V 

" Yes ; I accompanied the embassy sent to 
negotiate this very marriage. Such an embas- 
sador for a love affair as the Bishop of Frejus ! 
The king had given him a letter for the Infan- 
ta, which, however, the strict etiquette of the 
Spanish court forbade her receiving. However, 
with a Christian charity, worthy of commenda- 
tion, he resolved that he would give her the epis- 
tle. Accordingly,on his first interview he watch- 
ed his opportcnity, and said, while he held the 
scroll in his hand, ' Madam, I have a secret to 
tell you.' Now the very word secret is enough 
to rouse any one's curiosity ; and, giving a 
quick glance round to see if her duennas were 
on the alert, 'she prepared to listen, and I saw 
that her eye had caught sight of the letter. 
Our excellent bishop continued: 'Alas, my 
master is not so happy as he believed, for your 
father will not allow ycm to receive this epis- 
tle, which I yet venture to offer. 'Can you 
imagine aught so stupid as this — suo-gestino" 
the idea of her father's anger at the very time 
when his object was to make her forget that 
there was such a thing as a father in the 
world ] What could he expect but the an- 
swer he received — ' I cannot take it without 
permission of the king, my father V ' And 
will you not say one word to his highness ?' 
asked Frejus. ' What I say to the queen, my 
aunt, may also be understood by the king, her 
son.' Now if this was not encouragement, I 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



375 



do not know w\iat is ; and yet our stupid en- 
voy went away with the letter still in his pos- 
session." 

"I do not see how he could help it," said 
Francesca. 

" Help it ! why he might have dropped it 
at her feet, and trusted to her ingenuity for its 
Concealment. Believe me, it is the greatest 
mistake ever to ask a consent in such cases. 
Pray, allow the fair lady the decent excuse of, 
4 But how could I help it?' " 

" Very considerate, indeed," answered his 
companion, laughing. 

" Nothing could be more splendid than the 
marriage ; but as such details are only inte- 
resting when they are personal, I shall spare 
you all the cloth of gold, the embroidery, and 
the precious stones, displayed on the occasion, 
and merely tell you a pretty comparison made 
by the young queen. When her wedding pre- 
sents, feathers, ribands, flowers, precious 
stuffs, &c. &c. were carried past the Escurial 
windows, she said ' that they put her in mind 
of a moving parterre.' " 

" How did mademoiselle," asked Frances- 
ca, who remembered all the histories de la 
Hgne which were uppermost in every one's 
mind when she arrived in Paris, "endure the 
royal marriage, and see that crown on the 
brow of another, which she had so long hoped 
for to encircle her own V 

" 0, exceedingly well — with that best of 
philosophy born of les amusemens et ks distrac- 
tions. She made a journey incognita to Spain, 
and was so full of her own wonderful courage 
in venturing across the water in a high wind — 
of contempt for the dress of the Spanish wo- 
men — and, finally, so intent on the etiquettes 
of train-bearing, and calling the Princess Pa- 
latine ' ma cousme,' that the greater interest 
was lost in a succession of minor concerns. 
And now, I believe, little that is important re- 
mains to be told, excepting that for a whole day 
the discourse of the court turned on nothing but 
the King of Spain's meanness. The queen mo- 
ther sent him a magnificent clock, where time 
sparkled as it passed — for it was literally co- 
vered with diamonds ; and the only return 
made was a present of some Spanish gloves. 
I hear that Anne herself in private avowed 
her extreme mortification." 

" And now, that we have discussed the 
past." said Francesca," what do you say of 
the present ?" 

" Why, that Mazarin will see no niece of 
his on the throne of England." 

" To promote which design is the object of 
this visit." 

"And, like many other grand designs, will 
be discomfited by a very slight obstacle. Not 
to offend your loyalty, a pretty face, so well 
set (diamonds themselves require to be mount- 
ed in gold,) might have its weight with your 
monarch, if report speak truth ; but every one 
of the Mancinis have a will of their own, and 
la belle Hortense will not belie her race. 
Every age has its extravagances, and love be- 
longs to her time of life. A certain Count de 
Meilleraye has already obtained a hint of our 



destination; he left Paris before us, and pro- 
fiting by his acquaintance with the Duke of 
Buckingham, will accompany him — and at 
sixteen 'Pamant vaid bien le Rot. 1 " 

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Francesca, 
" how many cross purposes there are in this 
intricate game of human life ! We only mock 
ourselves by laying down plans for the futuie 
— at least if those plans embrace others." 

" Whence I draw the conclusion," replied 
De Joinville, " that we ought to lay none, 
saving for ourselves. It is an old error, but 
one fruitful in human disappointment, that we 
will offer our services to Providence, and ar- 
range the destinies of all our relations and 
half our acquaintances." 

" Still no one can deny that the cardinal 
has been a kind and affectionate relative. His 
nieces, at least, have cause to be grateful." 

" And of course, as they ought to be, they 
are not. We receive great obligations as if 
they were our due, and are thankless as much 
out of vanity as ingratitude." 

" We will drop the subject, if you please," 
interrupted Francesca ; " they are old friends 
of mine, and I at least do not wish to hear of 
faults I have no power to amend." 

The chevalier paused, and for a few mi- 
nutes they pursued their walk in silence ; but 
De Joinville soon hit on another topic. " I 
saw an old — friend I can scarcely say, in Pa- 
ris lately — Mr. Evelyn." Francesca turned 
pale, and involuntarily leant against the balus- 
trade ; with an effort, she muttered a faint 
" Indeed !" and the chevalier, concealing his 
surprise at her extreme emotion, added, " but 
so thin, and so altered, that I think even you 
would forgive him could you see him." 

" You are great friends," replied Francesca, 
scarcely knowing what she said. 

"We were," replied the chevalier; "but 
this time, when we met by accident in the 
Boulevards, he very quietly looked at me 
without a symptom of recognition, and, when 
i spoke, civilly told me ' that he could not re- 
coll M r.r ever having seen me before.' Of 
course I touk the hint. I saw him once since, 
as he was leaving the presence of Cardinal 
Mazarin, and he again passed me in silence. 
He goes into no society, participates in no 
amusement, and, verily, seems to be perform- 
ing as much penance as even your displeasure 
could justify." 

The chevalier was evidently confounding 
the two brothers, but it could now only be 
Robe#t of whom he was speaking. To unde- 
ceive him appeared both impossible and unne 
cessary — at least at present — for a thousand 
improbable schemes of communication with 
Evelyn, through his means, flashed across 
Franeesca's mind, though only to be instantly 
dismissed. To pursue the conversation, how- 
ever, on different subjects, was now unbeara- 
ble ; her thoughts wandered, and if she still 
heard the sound of De Joinville's voice, the 
sense of his words was lost upon the aii. 
With much good nature, he allowed their dis- 
course, or rather his own, to drop gradually 
into silence, and employed himself in wonder 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



ing if she still loved Evelyn, that his name 
could thus move her; "and if so," thought 
he, " I shall believe in disinterested attach- 
ment lasting upon nothing." 

But Francesca was not permitted the luxu- 
ry of solitude and reflection ; vain was the at- 
tempt to seek her own chamber, and indulge 
in one quiet half hour, for at that very mo- 
ment three cavaliers rode up the avenue. 
Lord Avonleigh, first summoning all his 
household, hurried to receive them. Fran- 
cesca noted that the cheek of Hortense bright- 
ened, while the brow of her sister darkened, 
as they recognised in one of them the Count 
de Meilleraye. All individual.emotions passed 
unnoticed in the general enthusiasm with 
which the king — for it was he — was received 
as he entered, leaning on the arm of the Duke 
of Buckingham. 



CHAPTER LXXXIIi. 

<: We make ourselves the path wherein we tread." 

" Well, all we can do is to amuse our- 
selves," exclaimed the Comtesse de Sois- 
sons, as she leant back in the large arm-chair 
in her dressing-room that night. " All my 
uncle's fine matrimonial projects are vanished 
into thin air. I see that his Britannic Majesty 
will not marry Hortense— I see that Hortense 
will marry Meilleraye. Business before plea- 
sure, I am ready to grant ; but when there is 
none, ilfaut s'amuser.''' 

" We will do our best," replied Francesca ; 
" but I fear, to use «a national proverb, you 
must take the will for the deed." 

"I shall take no such thing," returned Ma- 
rie ; " for here the will and the deed rest with 
myself, and I am one with whom they always 
go together." 

" You are fortunate." 

" Rather say resolved — je veux is life's pass- 
port." 

" You must not judge of others by yourself; 
you will surely allow that your own lot in life 
has been a golden one." 

" It is of my own gilding, then. My first 
design was magnificent, and spoke genius ; 
but it was rashly conceived and rashly exe- 
cuted. Of course it was unsuccessful ; but 
it was not without profit. Your proverb I 
will answer with another : ' He who aims at 
being pope will die cardinal at least.' I lost 
the heart of Louis, but I gained the hand of 
the Compte de Soissons ; and a prince of the 
blood royal, rich and manageable, was no bad 
beginning for la petite Italienne. Marriage in 
real life is the very reverse of what it is in 
romances ; we begin where they finish. I 
felt that a brilliant marriage was but the very 
commencement of my career. To assist my 
friends (because, if they hope nothing from 
you, what have you to hope from them ]) — to 
injure my enemies, for fear is the best preven- 
tive — to make a failure useful, if only in its 
experience, have been my rules. I can re- 



commend them by that best test, success. 
Show me any one at our court who possesses 
my influence. The queen mother detests, but 
she dreads me — my uncle is indifferent, but 
finds me of use — our new queen is already a 
nonentity — and Louis knows that my house is 
the most agreeable, in Paris." 

"No one," said Francesca, for good wishes 
are as useful as any other form of speech 
when you do not know very well what to say, 
and hers, at least, had the merit of being sin- 
cere, — " can wish you more success, or mo/e 
happiness in your success, than I do." 

"I believe you," returned the comtesse, 
"which is what I would say to few. But 
really, dear Francesca, I must protest against 
your extreme sincerity." 

" It is my nature," answered the other with 
a smile. 

" And pray, for what was our nature given 
us but to change and to control it? I pay 
truth a much higher compliment than you do 
— I hold it too precious to be pressed into the 
service of every common occasion." 

" But I have not your talents, replied Fran- 
cesca, well aware that argument, when only 
to be met by ridicule, is fruitless. 

" I admire your modesty ; but this quality, 
like the one we were just speaking of, is only 
useful to ornament our discourse. It is per- 
fectly judicious to profess both. Let us say 
how modest and how candid we are — let us 
even lament over an excess in these particu- 
lars — let us avow that we often find them in 
our way — but let us not practice them. Peo- 
ple judge us much more by what we say than 
by what we do. We are taken upon our 
word." 

" Whence I infer that we ought to be very 
careful of what we say." 

"For once we agree — words alike make the 
destiny of empires and of individuals. Am- 
bition, love, hate, interest, vanity, have words 
for their engines, and need none more power- 
ful. Language is a fifth element — the one by 
which all the others are sw T ayed. The king 
addresses his people, and the heaviest impost 
is levied with acclamations — the general ha- 
rangues his troops, and thousands rush upon 
the smoking cannon and the gleaming bayo- 
nets — the lover whispers his mistress, and she 
forgets even herself for his sake. A word 
will part friends, and forever — a word floats 
down the stream of time when all else has 
perished ; in short, how do we persuade, in- 
vent, create, and live, but by words 1 — they 
are at once our subjects and our masters. Ju- 
dicious those who devote at least half their 
life to their study." 

" After all, they are but the outward signs." 

" And is not the outside every thing in this 
world ?" interrupted Madame de Soissons. 
" Why, we might take a lesson from the very 
earth on which we tread. All that is valuable 
and delightful lies upon its surface." 

" You forget ' silver and gold, and heaps 
of shining stones.' " 

" For which, miserable wretches dig into 
its depths, and bring thence for the more for- 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



377 



lunate. We might take a lesson from them. 
Let us penetrate beyond the green and flowery 
crust, and what do we find 1 — danger and 
darkness — that some precious things may be 
brought up, I grant you, but the seekers pe- 
rish. I own I have not the interest of others 
sufficiently at heart to run any such risks. 
And now let me apply this image to human 
life. I am well content to take the courtesies, 
flatteries — falsehoods, if you will — which 
grow on the external of society. I wish not to 
dive into the depths of envy, hatred, and ma- 
lice, that lie below. I never examine but in 
self-defence." 

" 1 could not," replied Francesca, " be con- 
tented with a friend whose thoughts were con- 
cealed from me, or with a lover whose feel- 
ings I did not at least believe were laid open 
to my knowledge." 

" But I do not go about the world with such 
improbable expectations of love and friend- 
ship as you do. I expect from my lover, first, 
flattery; secondly, falsehood. I know I am 
very charming, but nothing in this w 7 orld. lasts 
— not even my fascination. In a little while, 
my dark eyes, my pretty hands, and my white 
teeth, will become too well known for admi- 
ration. We actually do not see what we see 
often. After a time, he will have heard every 
thing witty I have to say : a repeated epigram 
is like a broken needle, and has no second 
point. We shall have exhausted the absurdi- 
ties of our friends — I shall no longer talk with 
animation — he will no longer listen with de- 
light — both will feel the necessity of change 
— and my only object will be to change the 
first. As to friends, so long as we have mu- 
tual interests, our friendship is made for eter- 
nity; but let them come in contact, and we 
have nothing left but wonder how it ever ex- 
isted." 

" I thank you for the name of friend, which 
you bestow upon me," said Francesca. 

-• Why, my addressing these remarks to you 
is the greatest possible compliment. You are 
in duty bound to suppose they do not include 
you. The stronger the rule, the more flatter- 
ing the exception ; and the truth is, Francesca, 
1 do indeed make you an exception. I think 
better of you than I do of myself — and that, 
too, without hating you. My liking for you 
is grounded on divers reasons — all so good 
that one alone would be cause sufficient. First, 
our friendship began at that early time w T hen 
alone it is unalloyed and sincere ; secondly," 
— and here, in spite of her vivacity, Marie's 
voice trembled — u you are associated with the 
only being in the world I ever really loved ; 
and thirdly, I have behaved exceedingly ill to 
you, and, consequently, feel it quite magnani- 
mous not to hate you, which is the established 
rule on such occasions." 

" Pray, continue your magnanimity." 
"It is my full intention; and as friends 
make a point of being as disagreeable as pos- 
sible, I shall at once begin with that last ex- 
tremity — giving advice. Now, tell me, Fran- 
cesca, what use do you intend makii.o- of the 
Vol, I.— 48 



many advantages which surround you at this 
moment'?" 

" I see no advantages. Ah ! Marie, you are 
little aware of my many drawbacks. My fa- 
ther, though he has avowed me, has no affec- 
tion for a child whose very existence he knew 
not for many years." 

"And of what earthly consequence is it, 
whether he love you or not 1 You are not 
the less his acknowledged and only child, 
heiress of this noble domain, very beautiful, 
and, if well managed, with half England at 
your feet." 

"I am sure I should not know what to do 
with a quarter." 

" I believe you ; but do try and learn. It is 
obvious that the Duke of Buckingham is come 
dow r n with a full intention of laying siege to 
la belle heritiere." 

" It is a matter of perfect indifference to 
me." 

The comtesse gazed at her earnestly for a 
moment, and Francesca coloured deeply. Quite 
misinterpreting the blush, she went on eagerly. 
" I really have some hopes of you. While 
your king is unmarried, you do quite right to 
look at nothing under royalty. Charles is not 
mother and minister-ridden, like Louis. I re- 
marked how much he was struck by your ap- 
pearance. I entreat your future majesty to 
remember that I predict the success of an at- 
tempt." 

" Which will never be made," exclaimed 
Francesca. "There is nothing more absurd 
than refusing what never will be offered ; but 
1 would not marry Charles Stuart if he had 
the crown of the world, instead of England's, 
at his disposal." 

"And why not] unless you are planet- 
struck with the Duke of Buckingham. Never, 
my dear, allow your fancy to interfere with 
your interest." 

"So little notice did I take of the duke, 
that 1 should not know him again." 

Madame de Soissons leant back in her chair 
thoughtfully. " She knows England better 
than I do. Perhaps these demi-sauvages may 
stand upon their dignity as much as Louis 
himself; and the coronet is what the crown is 
not — attainable." Then pursuing the thread 
of her thoughts, she said aloud, "But, Fran- 
cesca, you will surely accept his grace ] What 
can you hope for more]" 

" Much, much more — a heart for which rny 
own will be given in exchange. I would not 
marry the man I did not love for all the wealth 
of the east, and for the united honours of France 
and England." 

" Love !" ejaculated the comtesse ; " and so 
throw away the chances of a life upon a month 
of honey ! I say a month, which is allowing 
a latitude tenderness never took. Love ! why 
that is cheating yourself into marriage, as they 
cheat the chifdren — a little sugar at first, to 
conceal the nauseous draught which follows. 
You will find that, at the very best, marriage 
is a state which requires all sorts of resources 
to make it even endurable ; but to marry foi 
2i2 



378 



M'SS LANDON'S WORKS. 



ove aggravates the evil — it adds contrast to 
ts other disappointments. Far better to make 
up your mind to the worst, and say at once, I 
know that weariness is the regular matrimo- 
nial feeling; but that may be alleviated by a 
splendid house, magnificent fetes — by influ- 
ence in society, jewels, laces, a lap-dog, and 
half-a-dozen lovers. 

" I will be content with one," replied Fran- 
cesca. 

" Don't marry him, then. Marrying for love 
s like putting from shore to dwell in the morn- 
ing palace the fay Morgana builds at daybreak 
on the coast of Naples. Fair and far the glis- 
tening halls extend, and the shining gardens 
seemed rilled with fruit and flowers ; but the 
wind gets up, the glittering pinnacles melt 
into the cloudy sky, the haunted terraces 
vanish, and the golden chimera, born of sun- 
shine and vapour, is no more. Suddenly you 
find yourself in a little wretched boat, rocked 
by the waves into sea-sickness, scorched by 
the hot noon, tossed about by a rough breeze, 
and left to weep or curse your fate, as may 
best suit your peculiar disposition." 

" But you say nothing about your compa- 
nion in the boat'?" 

" Because I look upon him as a nonentity. 

But though I have your interest at heart, I 

lso have my own complexion : we may dream 



fixed on the ground, and whose cheek was 
suffused with the deepest carnation. 

With the vanity of a man whose conquests 
had lacked only one charm — difficulty, he im- 
mediately applied the blush to himself; but 
Madame de Soissons, who, in spite of the 
lively dialogue which she was carrying on 
with the king, observed a favourite rule, which 
was, to allow nothing to escape her notice, 
marked Francesca's change of countenance 
also — from its first deadly paleness to its 
crimson confusion ; and her inference was 
quite opposite to that of the duke. He, how- 
ever, was stimulated to complete a conquest 
so happily commenced : first, because he con- 
sidered love as a proper compliment, which all 
women owed him; secondly, because Fran- 
cesca was a beauty ; and, thirdly, an heiress, 
— the last motive being the most powerful ; 
for, as the worthy biographer of Sir John Par- 
rot justly observes, " nothing doth more stimu- 
late men to action than desire of gain." Hold- 
ing imitation to be the most delicate of flattery, 
the duke usually made it a point of conscience 
to adopt the tastes of the fair dame to whom, 
for the time, he devoted himself. " Self-love,' 
as he was wont to observe, " was thus enlisted 
on his side of the question — she preferred her- 
self in him." 

In a moment Francesca recovered herself, 



them to-morrow, if ' we look pale and weary 
with long watching,' — so adieu !" 

Francesca took the hint and her taper, not 
sorry to retire ; for she found her resolution 
inadequate to ask the question which hovered 
upon her lips, whether Marie had seen Mr. 
Evelyn in Paris. No sooner had she reached 
her apartment, than she began to reproach her 
own indecision. Ah ! no questions are so dif- 
ficult to ask as those wmich the heart deeply 
and dearly treasures ! When alone, we shape 
them into a thousand forms — imagine every 
possible occasion for asking them — say them 
over to ourselves, as if there were a charm in 
the sound ; but the time comes, and they die 
unheard upon the lip,— -we have not resolution 
to ask them. 



of conquests to-night, but we shall not make and, joining as carelessly as she could in the 

conversation, said, " As far as my experience 
has gone, I infinitely prefer the country to the 
town. There is something to me at once de- 
solate, and yet confined, in a city. The mul- 
titude of faces continually passing and repass- 
ing, all strangers,»overwhelm you with a sense 
of your own nothingness. The brick walla 
are so dreary, the streets so dirty — all the as- 
sociations belonging to whatever is most 
commonplace in our existence — that whenever 
I gaze from the window, I always feel lowered 
and dispirited. But, in the country, the green 
fields are so joyous, the pure air so fresh, the 
blue sky so clear; the fine old trees, redolent 
of earth's loveliest mythology, when the dry- 
ades peopled their green shadows ; the fair 
flowers, at the unfolding of whose leaves 
some line of delicious poetry springs to mind ; 
the singing of the wind, like a natural lute, 
plaining amid the leaves, — all combine to 
carry me out of myself. I feel a thousand 
vague and sw T eet emotions, and am both better 
and happier. Yes, I do love the country." 

" Well," exclaimed Madame de Soissons. 
" the fate of our sex and of the country seems 
to be much the same : we are doomed to have 
a thousand fine things said of us, which no- 
body means or ever acts upon. Your philo- 
sopher talks of the virtue only to be found in 
rural life, and remains quietly in his arm-chair 
and his town lodgings : your lover raves of 
your cruelty, which he vows he cannot sur 
vive, leaves your presence, and orders a good 
supper. Considering how much we say tha 
w T e do not mean, how fortunate it is that wo 
are not taken at our word ! We should then 
be cautious how we talked of rustic and inno« 



CHAPTER LXXXIV. 

* A man so various, that he seem'd to be 
No man himself, but man's epitome." 

Dryden. 

"So I hear that his majesty has granted 
you the manors of Evelyn," said Lord Avon- 
leigh to the Duke of Buckingham. "Our 
hunting is very good ; and I trust w T e shall 
have you for something more than a temporary 
neighbour." 

" I only hope that you will not see too much 
of me. Human nature never yet resisted temp- 
tation. Sylvan shades that boast such a Diana 
have attractions w r hich might tempt us to real- 
ize the visions of ' Old Arcady,' " replied the 
#>iher. turning to Francesca, whose eyes were 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



37D 



gent pleasures, of dying for love, and eternal 
constancy." 

"We deceive ourselves on most subjects," 
said the duke ; " but I own, especially when 
I am out of humour, that a vision of some 
calm retreat, far 'from the busy hum of men,' 
is apt to rise upon my imagination, — all my 
poetry takes refuge 'in lonely glade or haunted 
dell.' I could not love a woman whose image 
was forever accompanied in my memory by 
brick and mortar." 

"All our poetical feelings," replied Fran- 
cesca, " delight to link themselves with na- 
tural objects. The leaf, the flower, the star, 
the dew, are the inexhaustible sources of 
imagery." 

" And one feeling, loveliest of all, delights 
in such connexion. The poet bears love with 
him to his own haunted solitude." 

"Ah!" exclaimed Francesca, "all the 
finer mysteries of the spirit vanish in the 
crowd. Vanity is to the many the stimulus 
that affection is to the few." 

" Yes," answered Buckingham, in a tone 
of voice so low that it was all but a whisper, 
" there is nothing so heartless as that hurry- 
ing intercourse — careless, and yet constrained 
— which constitutes society. I can imagine — ■ 
nay, fancy I was meant for an existence so 
different — an existence where all the deeper 
feelings would not be wholly wasted, as they 
are now. But I need the wand of the en- 
chanter to lead me through the weary maze 
in which habit and indifference soon entangles 
one hitherto without a dearer aim. Just now," 
for he perceived Francesca was meditating a 
retreat — a design which he set down to em- 
barrassment, " my head is full of some exqui- 
site lines I was reading this morning in your 
library. I hear, Lady Francesca, that it is a 
favourite room of yours. Do pray join me in 
admiring the picturesque tenderness with 
which the poet invests his dream of futurity." 
So saying, in a voice low and sweet as just- 
heard music, he repeated the following lines : — 

"I disdain 

All pomp when thou art. by : far be the noise. 
Of kings, and courts, from us, whose gentle souls 
Our kindred stars have steer'd another way, 
Free as the forest-birds we'll pair together — 
Fly to the arbours, grots, and flowry meads, 
And in soft murmurs interchange our souls; 
Together drink the crystal of the stream, 
Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields ; 
And when the golden evening calls us home, 
Wing to our downy nest and sleep till morn." 

' What a feeling of security," continued 
he, " is flung round the uncertainty of love, by 
the calm and gentle images with which it is 
hert invested ! — " 

But their disquisition was interrupted by 
Lord Avonleigh, who came to announce that 
a deputation from Southampton waited with 
out, full of eloquence and loyalty. From the 
reluctance with which the monarch rose from 
Madame de Soissons' side, this was evidently 
not half so attractive as the Parisian anecdotes, 
whose malice lost nothing in her hands. 
However, all hastened to the hall, and one 
half the day was spent in receivino- the con- 



gratulations of the worthy mayor, and the re* 
mainder in ridiculing them. 

The Duke of Buckingham, in an old wig 
which he borrowed from the steward, and his 
worship's actual red cloak, which had been 
purloined by his orders, the owner having 
lost all distinctions — even those of property, 
to which he was, generally speaking, keenly 
alive — in the canary which he had drained to 
the health of his most gracious majesty; — in 
this said wig and cloak his grace gave a most 
faithful representation of the pompous little 
magistrate, to the great amusement of the 
company, who had now no decorum to re- 
strain their mirth. Lord Avonleigh's laugh 
might, perhaps, be rather forced ; for to be 
candid in our confessions, the deputation had 
been arranged by himself, and the very speech 
which the Duke of Buckingham had just 
mouthed with equal powers of memory and 
mimicry, had been the joint production of 
himself and the mayor, the latter having only 
learnt by heart what the former had con- 
cocted. However, as the king laughed, it 
it was his duty, as a loyal subject, to laugh 
too ; and as for his Grace of Buckingham — 
intending him, as he did, for his son-in-law — 
he was for the present privileged. All depends 
upon circumstance — anger as much as any 
thing else. Interest is your only true cosme- 
tic for smoothing' the brow. 



CHAPTER LXXXV. 

" Old friendships, which renew the days of youth." 

The old friendship between Marie and 
Francesca had returned with something of 
the warmth and confidence of its earlier time. 
As usual, the motives which led to its re- 
newal were of a very mixed nature. At once 
affectionate and reserved, Francesca's temper 
needed an object to love, but she was too shy 
to make the first advances ; hence an old at- 
tachment, made easy by the freedom of child- 
hood, and unrestrained through long habit, 
had upon her a more than ordinary hold. 
She had also been so long debarred from any 
interchange of feelings and sentiments — sc 
surrounded by strangers, that it was a true 
enjoyment to meet with one, who, if she 
did not enter into many of the emotions con- 
nected with it, was yet able and ready to talk 
of the past. Moreover, to a generous nature 
like her own, the very fact of having much 
to forgive rather endeared Marie than not; 
and in immediate circumstances there was no* 
thing to call forth the worst parts of her cha- 
racter. 

Madame de Soissons' return to her girlisn 
friendship was modified by many more worldly 
reasons. She was unconsciously influenced 
by the changed circumstances in which she 
found Francesca. Accustomed to regard rank 
and wealth as the gods of this lower worli, 
it was impossible not to pay them homage 
wherever she found them. She also really 



380 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



ioved our heroine as much as it was in her 
nature to love any one. The gloss of novelty 
was still fresh upon their intimacy ; both had 
much to tell and hear; their past was in com- 
mon, and they did not interfere in the slight- 
est degree at present. There was also one 
mutual feeling which they had, like their 
whole sex — confidence is a feminine neces- 
sity. There are very few women but who 
like each other's society, and of this liking 
sympathy is the grand secret : none but them- 
selves can fully enter into their hopes, fears, 
and plans ; all of which are nothing without 
being discussed. A woman only can under- 
stand a woman; and it is pleasant to be un- 
derstood sometimes. 

Within the last day or two, Madame de 
Soissons' interest in Francesca had received 
a new impetus. A brain so fertile as her own 
in projects could not long be without one. 
The Duke of Buckingham had been the means 
of overthrowing a scheme of hers — she would 
try if it would not be possible to overthrow 
one of his. " Diamonds and hearts," ex- 
claimed she — " the same game over again. 
I have lost the first game, but I shall have 
my revenge." That very day Madame de 
Soissons had learned from Henriette, that all 
hope of an alliance between her son and Hor- 
tense was hopeless. kS Her predilection," 
said the queen, " for the Comte de Mielleraye 
is so marked." 

The comtesse, in her heart, execrated the 
blind folly of her sister, but still more the 
subtle policy of the adversary which had 
thrown the early lover in the way of ambition. 
Perhaps it would have given her little plea- 
sure to have seen Hortense so far elevated 
above herself; but envy was now hors de 
combat, and, except vengeance, nothing re- 
mained to console a disappointment rendered 
more bitter by defeat. She knew, however, 
from whose hand the arrow came, and she re- 
solved on returning it. The truth was, that 
the Duke of Buckingham had a better memory 
for the sleights of the French court than his 
indolent master; and when he heard of the 
proposed visit, resolved to do all he could to 
frustrate its. design. He forthwith sent the 
Comte de Mielleraye due warning of the pro- 
ject, asked him to England, and offered to in- 
troduce him to Avonleigh Castle. It may 
readily be supposed that the comte accepted 
the proposal, left Paris, and his appearance 
at so critical a moment turned in his favour 
whatever might have wavered of Hortense's 
heart. 

Charles was too good-natured to interfere 
with an inclination which did not interfere 
with his own ; and left the weight of expla- 
nation to his mother or Buckingham, who 
was eloquent about the expectations of the 
people of England, and the necessity for a 
royal alliance; while his master was perfect- 
ly content, as long as the visit lasted, to per- 
mit himself to be amused by Madame de Sois- 
sons. 

Buckingham, in the mean time, was not 
without a scheme for his own advantage. He 



was attracted by Francesca's beauty, but stli 
more by her being the rich Lord Avomeigh's 
only child. He had already received a grant 
of the Evelyn estate, and the two united would 
form the finest property in England. Already 
he meditated obtaining possession of the whole 
county of Hampshire; for he was as avari- 
cious in acquisition as he was lavish in ex- 
penditure. The gallantry which then pre- 
vailed, and made the language of love so 
universal as almost to divest it of meaning, 
allowed him to try his acknowledged powers 
of fascination on Francesca without commit- 
ting himself; who, her heart wholly occu- 
pied with the image of another, 

" Smiled, "and then for<rot 
The gentle things to which she listen'd not." 

Not so Madame de Soissons, who at once 
divined his intentions and watched his pro- 
gress, internally resolving to render him every 
ill office pique could suggest, or ridicule exe- 
cute. Still, she feared him, for every thing 
was in his favour — rank, fortune, personal ad- 
vantages ; but, most of all, she dreaded him- 
self. She noted that he had read Francesca's 
character truly, and sought to propitiate her 
favour by the refined sentiment, and an under- 
current of exalted and poetic feeling, which 
showed to great advantage, veiled, not hid- 
den, by his lively and graceful manner. But 
Francesca's sudden paleness and deep blush 
at the name of Evelyn threw a new light upon 
the subject. Marie at once recollected the 
young and handsome Englishman who had 
occupied so large a portion of their attention 
in Italy. She remembered vaguely some his- 
tory of a quarrel, she could scarcely recollect 
what, between him and Francesca; and she 
also recalled having seen him lately in Paris 
so altered as to attract her attention, though 
only for the moment. Would it be possible 
to effect a reconciliation] At all events, she 
resolved to introduce the subject. 

Little did she know how ever present it 
was to Francesca's thoughts, still less the 
many difficulties which it involved; the dif- 
ficulties, however, would have been an attrac- 
tion : — the genius for intrigue needs a few 
obstacles to stimulate its powers. 



CHAPTER LXXXVJ. 

" But this divinest universe 
Was yet a chaos and a cave."— Shelley. 

"I really congratulate you on your bril- 
liant conquest," said Madame de Soissons, 
as she was seated in the usual tcte-a-tete with 
her hostess, which concluded the day. "Are 
you not afraid of the consequences of the de- 
spair of your five hundred rivals ? Asa friend, 
I advise you, after you are Dutchess of Buck- 
ingham, never to move out without a guard, 
and to drink but from a Venetian glass ; thus 
taking all possible precautions against ' the 
poison or the steel.' " 

" When I am dutchess, I will take all th. 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



3S1 



care you advise ; but it is waste of time 
guarding against evils which never can ar- 
rive." 

"Never! What will you wager that the 
rirst letter I receive from you in France does 
not contain a full account of all the prepara- 
tions for your marriage at least, if not of the 
marriage itself?" 

" I will stake heart, life, and soul, on the 
impossibility." 

" You speak earnestly," replied the com- 
tesse. " We all know the worth of a lady's 
negative. The more forcible the resolution, 
the more chance there is of its being broken." 

" Not with me. Under no possible cir- 
cumstances could I love the Duke of Buck- 
ingham. He is too unreal — he affects too 
much to suit what he supposes is your taste. 
Life is to him a scene de comedie.- he aims at 
acting his many parts brilliantly; but, in our 
admiration for the actor, we lose all interest 
in the individual." 

" The truth is, or at least such I suspect it 
to be, that you have no heart, Francesca, to 
give. I remember a certain young English 
cavalier, whom we usually found loitering be- 
side the ruined temple in the pine wood. You 
had some lover's quarrel ; but you are dis- 
posed to Christian charity, are you not? Nay, 
nay — don't blush, nor turn away that pretty 
head ! I shall be a most indulgent confessor. 
What! tears, Francesca? You love him 
still?" 

" I do," said Francesca, " more dearly, 
more deeply than you can dream !" and again 
she hid her face in her hands. But this was 
one of those subjects on which, speak but 
once, give but one little hint, and the heart 
forces its way to the lips — it must have the 
relief of words. 

" I loved him when but a girl, when only 
alive to the intense happiness which he taught 
me could exist. I could have passed days, 
content but to look upon his face, to watch 
his shadow wave on the long and undulating 
grass; to hear his voice; and when he gazed 
on me — when he spoke, though in the most 
indifferent words — to feel my heart beat as 
if it had started into sudden existence, and 
yet could have died upon the moment — its 
every purpose of life fulfilled in that deep and 
unutterable delight. He loved me. I should 
have perished when his presence was no 
longer around me, had I not lived upon that 
sweet and secret knowledge. We met once 
more — he seemed changed ; his unworthiness 
was forced upon me, and we parted — never, 
never to meet again ! Humiliated, angry, 
resolved as I was, yet even then I loved him : 
all recent injury faded before the tender me- 
mory of our early love. At length I learned 
that we had both been cruelly deceived— that 
he was all I once believed him. Judge how 
my heart sprang back to its old allegiance, 
hopeless thougH it was — though it is ! Marie, 
I tell you, that were every worldly advantage 
heaped in one balance, and his own exiled 
self placed in another, I would rather follow 



him a beggar through the world, live a neg* 
lected slave at his side, than take the fairest 
portion that fortune ever yet assigned a fa- 
vourite. Nay, more: — uncertain as 1 now 
am whether his affection may have survived 
my supposed faithlessness, I would rather 
preserve the poor privilege of treasuring up 
his remembrance — of carrying for his sake a 
wrung but undivided heart to the grave — thar 
aught else that life can offer — my first, my 
last, my only love ! I cannot even imagine 
a destiny uncoloured by his influence, or a life 
undevoted to his idea." 

Both were silent. The language of strong 
passion or deep feeling was strange to Marie; 
she scarce knew how to answer it. For a 
moment she jdelded to a confused sensation 
of tenderness and sympathy; but the worldly 
calculation soon arose. She now felt assured 
that the duke would never succeed. Still, 
habit was ail powerful, and she thought with- 
in herself, " les absens out toujours tort." 
Would not Evelyn's presence be additional 
security ? But how was that to be managed * 
She must know more. " Have you no means 
of communicating with Mr. Evelyn?" askea 
she. 

-"None," replied Francesca; "never was 
situation more awkward or more painful than 
my own. But have you patience to hear the 
history ?" 

" Not only patience, but inclination," cried 
Marie, drawing her chair eagerly forward, and 
looking the curiosity she felt. 

Thus encouraged, Francesca proceeded as 
briefly as possible to detail the events of the 
last two years, interrupted only by an occa- 
sional exclamation of surprise from her com- 
panion ; and at last concluded by saying, 
"And now, can any thing be more hopeless? 
An exile in all probability from his country 
forever, what chance have I of meeting Robert 
Evelyn again? And even were we to meet, 
it would be in coldness on his part, which 
would be an insurmountable bar to explana- 
tion. Often and often do I feel so wretch- 
ed, so despairing, that the quiet rest of the 
grave seems all that I dare desire, or can 
hope." 

" Not quite so desperate, dearest Francesca. 
I never will believe but that fate owes you a 
recompense. I will for once prophesy from 
my wishes, and predict a happy meeting be- 
tween yourself and Mr. Evelyn." 

Francesca pressed her extended hand, but 
gave no further answer; and the friends sepa- 
rated for the night — one to think, the other to 
act. Madame de Soissons had just finished a 
packet to be despatched to her uncle. Late 
as was the hour, she sat down and wrote a 
long letter, which, when concluded, she en- 
closed to the cardinal. Apparently, she was 
satisfied with her performance, for a smile of 
triumph curled her lip as she sealed the scroll 
and whispered to herself, "The game, I think, 
is in my own hands. I would not give much 
for his grace's chance of this fair castle and 
its fairer heir." 



382 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



CHAPTER LXXXVII. 



" O man ! hold thee on in courage of soul, 
Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way." 

s Shelley. 

It was a small and gloomy looking apart- 
ment in one of the retired streets of Paris, 
where all was as quiet as if it had not been in 
the centre of that busy metropolis. Only a 
distant and incessant murmur, like the rolling 
of the sea against the resounding shore, told 
that life was pouring the perpetual tumult of 
its restless waves around. The contrast was 
oppressive, for the stillness of the place itself 
was that of inaction, not of repose. Like one 
excluded from the general struggle, not like 
one retired from it, a young cavalier was the 
sole tenant of that lonely chamber ; and for 
the last half hour he had sat in a desponding 
revery, watching the blaze of his wood fire 
gradually dying away on the hearth — his sole 
employment, meditating over a past whose 
every recollection was a disappointment — and 
his sole solace, drawing fanciful similitudes 
between the faded embers and his own quench- 
ed hopes. " So have they perished before me, 
one and all, the dreams in which I have in- 
dulged — the aims to which I aspired. Love 
— that which should have been the one sweet 
flower on my weary path — has indeed been to 
me the reed which pierced the heart that leant 
on it so confidingly. Since falsehood could 
wear such fair similitude of truth — since Fran- 
cesca could deceive me — whom can I ever 
trust again 1 And, good God ! to think that it 
was my own brother, from whom I had not kept 
back one thought — who knew how I prized 
the treasure of which he robbed me — that he 
should have turned away from me that affec- 
tion I deemed so entirely my own ! But, poor 
Francis ! I must not think of him now with 
anger. Cut off in the pride of youth, he has 
dearly paid for all his faults and follies. But 
a few months more, and what a change would 
have awaited him ! The Stuarts are now on 
the English throne — an event which must have 
realized all his hope of brilliant fortunes. Had 
he lived, my father's house would not have 
passed into the hands of strangers. How vain 
are the schemes in which we all delight! 
Francis, ardent and courtly, devotes himself 
to that royal cause which, when he has pe- 
rished, becomes triumphant. I delude myself 
with vain aspirations for that liberty which the 
few secure to the many ; and I see the servile 
shackles of old rights and prejudices more 
closely riveted than ever. Now, a future with- 
out hope that can elevate, or aim that can attach, 
is before me. A worthless mercenary in some 
foreign service, or an idle loiterer in stranger 
lands, is all that remains for a life that once 
believed in its higher and nobler calling." At 
this moment his page entered with a packet. 
"Lights!" said Evelyn, carelessly — for, as 
our readers will have already divined, he was 
the melancholy soliloquist — "I may as well 
>ead the cardinal's epistle at once; — but I am 
no tool for his purpose. Whatever may be 
the wrongs and the discontent of my old com- 



panions, it is not to serve the interested views 
of France, fain to disturb Charles's govern* 
ment, that their energies should be called intd 
dangerous action. A time may come when 
the spirit of resistance it is now useless to ex- 
cite may rise hopeful and enlightened in de- 
fence of those civil and religious rights, whose 
value will be more deeply imprinted in men's 
minds every hour. But not now — their pre- 
sent defenders have lived too soon." 

He opened the cardinal's epistle, which 
contained little beyond indefinite offers of ser 
vice and expressions of consideration; while 
towards the end a wish was thrown out to see 
him. But this letter contained another, with 
the brief remark, " My niece, Madame de Sois- 
sons, now in England, has met with some 
friends of yours, and of whose communications 
she has taken charge, as the enclosed will ex- 
plain, which she requested might be forwarded 
at once — a wish I have had much pleasure in 
immediately obeying." 

Evelyn took the letter, but curiosity for a 
moment was lost in a yet more powerful feel- 
ing. Madame de Soissons was by him chiefly 
remembered as Marie Mancini, his friend and 
almost confidante in Italy. Her image could 
not come alone, and Evelyn forgot the scroll 
while thinking what had been the fate of her 
more lovely but less fortunate companion. 
How had his brother's death affected her ! — 
did she know of it? Alas! into what depths 
of misery might she now be plunged ! On his 
arrival in Paris, whither he had come straight 
from Ireland when Henry Cromwell allowed 
the king to be proclaimed, he had used every 
possible means to find herabode ; but no traces 
could he discover, beyond the fact that she had 
certainly left the capital ; but whither she had 
gone, all his attempts to learn were in vain. 
At lengthen hopes of escaping from reflections 
so fraught with bitterness, he opened the letter, 
which ran thus : 

" Dear Mr. Evelyn, — For as I mean te 
claim the privilege of an old friend, I shall 
not abate one atom of our former kindly feel- 
ing, — I give you full permission to be as much 
surprised as you please at my thus addressing 
you, provided to surprise you add patience, 
and read my letter with the patience which I 
can assure you it deserves. I write in the 
earnest wish to promote your happiness — a 
little for your own sake, but still more for that 
of another. That other is my nearest and 
dearest friend, whom you knew as Francesca 
Carrara." 

At the sight of that name, which had been 
so long absent from all save the depths of his 
own memory, the page dropped from his hand 
— he rose from his seat, and began to pace the 
room hurriedly ; and when he again resumed 
the perusal, the added paleness of his brow, 
the blood upon his bitten lip, belied the forced 
composure with which he tooktUD the paper 
It continued as follows : 

" She is ignorant of my writing — I would 
not tell her — -for your faith has been severely 






FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



383 



tried, and may have changed. Should another, 
therefore, have consoled you for her supposed 
falsehood, it is hut merciful to spare her sus- 
pense, at least. I shall have done her the 
justice of explanation, and saved her the 
wretchedness of knowing that it has been 
made too late. You have both been strangely 
deceived, and by the treachery of one who was 
bound by every tie of honour and affection to 
your service." 

But it is needless for us to repeat this por- 
tion of the comtesse's letter; our readers are 
already acquainted with the cruel deception 
which Francis' likeness to his brother enabled 
him to practise — how completely it failed, 
even while undiscovered — and the confession 
to which death so soon put its seal. Her 
change of fortune was also narrated ; and the 
epistle concluded with these words : 

" But, under all circumstances, Francesca's 
attachment to yourself has been her ruling 
feeling. Prosperous, courted, as she is at 
this moment, her heart is yours — dearly and 
truly as when your earlier vows were pledged 
amid the pine forests by the old palazzo. If 
fettered by other ties, send me one line — if 
not, come to England. I am aware that you 
are an exile, but it is not in Charles's nature 
to be very inexorable ; a few prayers, and, if 
need be, tears, and I am sure we shall obtain 
■your pardon. 

" Accept the best wishes of 
"Your sincere friend, 

" Marie de Soissons." 

Evelyn leant his head on his arm, confused 
and dizzy with happiness. Francesca, his 
only and longloved, unchanged, and with a 
heart but the more dearly his own for its many 



trials 



jthinks all the suffering - of a mis* 



Table life were overpaid by that moment of 
exquisite enjoyment. Again and again he 
read Madame de Soissons' letter — he required 
repeated assurance of his happiness — he 
paced the room now in that fever of the spi- 
rits so delicious in its unrest; and this was 
the cavalier who, half an hour since, had seen 
nothing but evil upon earth — who was hope- 
less and discontented, and looked upon the fu- 
ture as a desert, and life as a burden. 



CHAPTER LXXXVIII. 

"I tell you, you shall wed him !" 

" Lady Francesca Stukely, may I re- 
quest your presence in my library ?" said 
Lord Avonleigh, with the air of a philosopher 
or a Spanish minister of state, or whatever 
else may seem most important and imposing. 

Francesca followed, reluctant enough in 
her secret ; for though she would not have ad- 
mitted it even to herself, she did shrink from 
the infliction of the inane solemnities with 
which her father garnished his discourse — to 



say nothing of the ungracious reflections 
which so often glanced at herself. 

" Matters of import require time," said he, 
waving his hand, and taking an attitude in his 
chair, very far from insensible to his long- 
lingering, personal graces ; " I therefore beg 
you will be seated." Francesca obeyed, a lit- 
tle marvelling on what matters of import shfl 
could be deemed worthy of consultation. 
"To continue a noble name is one of the first 
duties incumbent on its possessors — and most 
unfortunate it is when an ancient line ends in 
a female." Francesca knew not very well 
what answer to make to this. Lord Avon- 
leigh, however, spared her the trouble, by ob- 
serving, in what he meant to be a consolatory 
tone : " I know what you were going to say 
— that it is not your fault that you are a wo- 
man." 

" Only my misfortune." 

" And a very great misfortune it is under 
the present circumstances. However, the 
true philosophy is that which makes the best 
of every thing. I have, therefore, arranged 
the following plan. The house of Avonleigh 
is too ancient to be merged in any title, how T - 
ever exalted. I have therefore settled that, 
when you marry, your eldest son will inherit 
his father's honours, but your second will re- 
present my name and lineage." 

" Suppose I do not marry?" 

" I never suppose impossibilities." 

" And if I should not have two sons?" 

"And pray, why should you not 1 ? His 
majesty has already most graciously spoken 
tome of your marriage; and I myself have 
observed the admiration with which the Duke 
of Buckingham has been pleased to distin- 
guish you. But one point remained to be set 
tied — and that his grace has accorded — name- 
ly, that the title of Avonleigh should descend 
to the second son." 

Francesca could almost have laughed at the 
facility with which Lord Avonleigh had laid 
out the future according to his own will and 
pleasure ; but her own position was too seri- 
ous for mirth — now or never must she tell her 
father that he could not reckon on this dispo- 
sition of her hand and heart — or rather hand 
only, for the heart seemed the last thing in 
the world that entered into his calculations. A 
myriad of beginnings to her intended discourse 
darted into her mind ; but, as is usual in such 
cases, she chose the one the very worst suited 
to her purpose. " I never intend to marry," 
said she, in a faltering voice. 

" Very proper to say so," replied her father, 
with an air of gracious encouragement. " Mar- 
riage should always take young ladies by sur- 
prise. It would be contrary to the dignity of 
my daughter to accept the Duke of Bucking- 
ham on supposition. I am well content, you 
should refuse him beforehand." 

" My father," said Francesca, rising from 
her seat, " I pray you listen to me for a few 
moments, and do bear in kindly remembrance 
how different my life has been to the general 
run of feminine experience." 



384 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



"I could not help your being 1 left to run 
wild half over the world ; so don't reproach 
me with it," exclaimed Lord Avonleigh, half 
pettish, half sullen. 

" I reproach no one ; but I would fain en- 
treat you to remember, that many years — 
youth's most eager and sensititive years — 
passed ere I knew there was a human being 
to whom I was accountable for my actions." 

" And now you have only to obey my com- 
mands." 

"I will obey in what I can ; but affection 
is neither in your power nor even in my own." 

" Affection ! and, pray, what have you to do 
with affection]" 

" Very little indeed," replied his daughter, 
the tears she could not repress glistening 1 on 
her long 1 dark lashes; " and yet I have known 
it, sir, long before I was aware of a father's 
claims upon my obedience. My heart was 
given, and my hand promised, to one who, 
though noble and rich himself, yet delighted 
to share his prosperity with the poor Italian 
orphan. Circumstances which it would only 
weary you to detail, prevented the fulfilment 
of that contract ; but I hold it dear and bind- 
ing as I did in that brief hour of happiness 
when my faith was pledged, never to be re- 
called." 

"And pray," asked Lord Avonleigh, almost 
inarticulate with anger, " what foreign adven- 
turer has entrapped the romantic fancies of a 
foolish girl ] What sunburnt count, with 
some unpronounceable name, and a palace in 
ruins, looks forward to>the tangible delights 
of English gold wrung from the gullibility of 
his easily-to-be-talked-over father-in-law'! His 
name, girl ?" 

" Kis name is as ancient as your own, and 
has more than once been thought worthy of 
an alliance with the house of Avonleigh." 

Her father's brow grew darker than she 
could have believed that fair, smooth brow 
could have darkened — his lip was white with 
anger. " Speak!" muttered he, in a tone of 
subdued rage, subdued but for the moment. 
" Your lover's name !" 

" Robert Evelyn," said Francesca, in a 
scarcely audible whisper, for all her resolution 
sunk with the effort of pronouncing his name. 

"I thought as much : but it matters not; 
for never shall Robert Evelyn wed daughter 
of mine, unless he take her penniless and dis- 
carded. Why your cavalier is a rebel — an 
exile, whose property is confiscated, and for 
whose neck the gibbet stands prepared !" 

"And for whose sake I will bear an un- 
cnanged name and an unaltered heart to my 
grave." 

Lord Avonleigh walked to and fro ; but an- 
ger was a wearying exertion, and rage soon 
subsided into pettishness. 

" Respect for our illustrious guests must 
induce us to waive these family quarrels for 
the present ; but, mark me, Francesca, accept 
the Duke of Buckingham when he offers his 
hand, or, the moment that our visiters leave, I 
will lock you up in the south tower on bread 
and water, to learn obedience when it is too 



late to practise it." So saying, he quitted the 
apartment, having recourse to that grand re- 
source of the wounded feeling or the aggriev- 
ed temper, namely, slamming the door after 
him. 



CHAPTER LXXXIX. 

" We are the unwilling sport 
Of circumstance and passion." 

Shelley. 

The next few days passed pleasantly 
enough to the majority of the visiters in Avon- 
leigh Castle. Madame de Soissons amused 
her own leisure by amusing that of the king. 
Hortense and Mielleraye indulged in those 
gentle speeches which say so little, yet look 
so much, and whose charm is so soon ex- 
hausted, and never renewed. The Chevalier 
de Joinville made a third in every tete-d-tete, 
and was de frop in none ; for he always talked 
to them of themselves, or entertained them at 
the precise moment when there was, though 
unconfessed, some slight approach to ennui. 
The Duke of Buckingham was devoted to 
Francesca, somewhat marvelling at the slow 
progress which he made, but rather animated 
by the indifference of the lady than otherwise. 
Lord Avonleigh was happy in the duties of a 
host ; to hear him talk, Atlas was but an al- 
legory of himself — the weight of two separate 
worlds, loyalty and hospitality, rested on 
him; besides, he had the enjoyment of occa 
sional sneers at the folly of women, together 
with their obstinacy ; and also at the error of 
romantic attachments. 

All these hints Hortense and her lover con- 
sidered as levelled at themselves ; to which, 
however, they were perfectly indifferent, only 
retaliating by ridiculing his habits, manners. 
&c, and finding in this said ridicule a perpe- 
tual source of conversation, whenever sweet- 
ness required sauce ptqucmte. I believe they 
were rather grateful to him, — a standing sub- 
ject of laughter is invaluable, especially to 
the young, who like what they laugh at. As 
they advance in life, laughter, in common 
with all things else, grows bitter — it expresses 
scorn rather than mirth. 

Poor Francesca might seem the offering to 
fortune made for the rest of the party. Every 
word of her father's cut her to the heart. 
The very fact of her childhood and her youth 
having passed without being the object of that 
near and deep affection, made her exaggerate 
its happiness, as we ever exaggerate the un- 
known. And now that she found herself, and 
by no fault of her own, an object of indiffer- 
ence, nay, of dislike, where she had so long 
gathered up her hopes, cruel indeed was the 
disappointment. In every point of view her 
situation was most irksome ; from morning to 
night there was a perpetual demand upon her 
attention, and the slightest relaxation was 
sure to be visited by Lord Avonleigh's petu- 
lent reproaches. Tne Duke of Buckingham's 
was an additional annoyance ; withour evei 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



385 



•aying enough to warrant a decided refusal, 
he was always at her side, trying every pos- 
sible variety of flattery and amusement ; but 
his being her lover destroyed all that might 
have been agreeable as an acquaintance. 
Francesca absolutely hated him. How often, 
when her thoughts were far away, did he 
break in upon them, and force them back to 
the weary realities before her ! Entirely filled 
with the image of another, her heart, indeed, 
had the deaf ear of the adder, which heedeth 
not the voice of the charmer, charm he never 
so wisely. The duke was too shrewd not to 
perceive that he lost, instead of gaining 
ground. A rival was, of course, the only so- 
lution ; but who was that rival 1 Certainly 
not one in their own circle. He watched 
every word addressed to another — he exa- 
mined every look, but all were alike cold and 
careless ; and he soon arrived at the conclu- 
sion, that none in the castle interfered with 
his interest— he therefore had the field to him- 
self; ks absens ont toujours tort was repeated, 
and on that maxim he proceeded. He saw 
that Lord Avonleigh had little indulgence, 
and less love, for his daughter ; and that on 
her he vented that temper which fear or inte- 
rest repressed in other instances : her home 
was unhappy. And how many women have 
believed that any change must be for the bet- 
ter, and only discovered their mistake when 
too late to remedy it ! — a time, by-the-by, at 
which mistakes are usually found out. 

" Hope deferred maketh the heart sick ;" 
and how long had Francesca suffered under 
this heart-sickness! Again she felt a return 
of that utter despondency which had fallen 
upon her after Guido's death ; but then she 
could indulge in it unmolested, and that was 
something of relief: now she was forced into 
exertion, that sort of exertion of all the most 
tiresome, because the least interesting — a 
constant attention to people to whom she was 
indifferent, and to trifles which she could not 
even fancy to be of consequence. O this 
weariness of the forced spirits ! and yet is 
there one human being but has known it ! 
The brightened eye, which is fain to turn 
aside and weep ; the lively answer, which 
says all but what is most present to its 
thoughts ; the fatigue of fjody which follows 
this toil of the mind; the heartlessness, the 
hopelessness of such a task recurring day 
after day — never assert that hell comes only 
nfter death, while such a hell as this exists, 
and is known, alas, to common experience ! 
How eagerly did she seek for an hour of soli- 
tude, though that solitude was one filled by 
haunting fears and vain regrets ! 

One evening, with what a sensation of re- 
lief did she contrive to escape from her guests ! 
Madame de Soissons had a headache, and had 
retired to her chamber. Charles, for lack of 
other amusement, proposed cards, and formed 
his party of Lord Avonleigh, the Duke of 
Buckingham, and the Chevalier de Joinville. 
Francesca only felt too grateful to the table 
which attracted attention from herself. The 
beautiful evening soon drew her from her 

Vol. I 49 



apartment, and she wandered forth to a little 
lonely nook in the pleasaxmce, which was hez 
favourite haunt. The terrace, which a few 
warm days had induced the gardener to line 
with some noble orange plants and early 
roses was soon passed through. Francesca 
paused with tearful eyes over the round, fruit- 
like buds and broad shining leaves, which 
brought another country to her mind, and de- 
scended to a shady walk, where, a few weeks 
since, the pale snowdrops had spread like 
waves of that white fall whose name they 
bear. On either side was a straight row of 
yews, " Deuil de Pete, et parure de Driver;" 
and this ended in a little wilderness, where 
the lithe and scented shrubs were placed in 
careless yet graceful profusion. As yet, it 
was rather the promise of spring than spring 
itself. A faint green indicated the coming 
foliage ; though, save on the early hawthorn, 
scarce one full-formed leaf had expanded. 
But the air was sweet with thousands of vio- 
lets, for the turf was filled with them ; and 
even their large and shadowy leaves could 
not hide the azure multitudes that seemed to 
have caught the shadow of noon's bluest sky. 
In the midst was a small clear pool, which 
gave back the first sunshine of the morning, 
and reflected the rising of the earliest star. 
It was now silvered over by tke tremulous 
line of light which came direct from the young 
moon, as if it were a love-message, illumin 
ing the dark but clear waters, like the one 
touch of poetry to be found in every hum?*" 
heart. A few daffodils grew on the furti»««- 
side, their pale beauty falling white upon «*«- 
shadow, the slender stalk bending over its 
own reflection in vain desire. A few more 
sunny days, a few more moonlight evenings, 
and it will repeat its own sweet deceit, and 
strive in vain to reach its beloved image. 
Nearer and nearer it droops — every hour seems 
to hasten their union. It comes, but it is 
bought by death ; the leaves fall on the trea- 
cherous mirror; and, lo! the likeness which 
they have worshipped has perished with 
themselves — fit emblem of that passion for 
the ideal which haunts the tender and the 
imaginative mind through life, ever desired, 
and never realized. And who is there that, 
at some time or other, has not devoted the 
hope and the dream of life to a shadow 1 

Close beside the tranquil pool, for the 
moonbeams melted harmoniously into its quiet 
depths, was an old tree. Two stems had 
once sprang from the same root; one had 
fallen, and the other leant mournfully over 
the stream, as if sadly waiting the time which 
would mingle its own dust w 7 ith that of its 
beloved companion, and weary of the green 
honours of the coming spring, in which it de- 
lighted no more. The old trunk was over 
grown with moss, and there Francesca took 
her seat, flinging down violets on the water, 
and fancying their fragrant breath, as they 
gradually sank, reproached her for her prodi- 
gality. 

" Yes, let them perish, even as all sweet 
emotions perish ! — wasted jy ourselves, or 
2K 



386 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



crushed by others. Methinks I grow cruel, 
and am fain to destroy even these poor flow- 
ers !" exclaimed Francesca, as she threw her 
last violet on the pool. At that instant a 
rustling was heard among the trees — a quick 
step on the turf — the boughs parted — and 
Robert Evelyn stood before her. 



CHAPTER XC. 

" I mean that willing sense of the insufficingness of the 
self for itself which predisposes a generous nature to see, 
in the total being of another, the^supplement and com- 
pletion of its owii." — Coleridge. 

Ah me ! how poor, after all, is the boasted 
power of the writer! — his subject-words de- 
sert him at " his utmost need :" but rather be ' 
the fault on language itself; for how much is 
there of passionate feeling that could never 
yet be written or told ! What form of speech 
may express the happiness of the one half- 
hour passed beside that lonel)' - pool, which 
never before imaged a love-meeting so perfect 
in its affection ] — the delicious silence broken 
by unconscious exclamations ; the asking 
looks that question without a sound ; the for- 
getfulness of past and future, as if life were 
centred in this one present and dearest dream. 
Let it pass unimaged, unless by memory. 
But happiness is like that fairy flower whose 
home and birthplace are the air, the most un- 
stable of elements, tossed by every wind, de- 
stroyed by every shower — the frailest, and yet 
most exposed, of created things. Too soon 
Francesca was forced to awaken to the preca- 
rious situation of her lover ; — an outlaw, he 
had yet ventured to the place of all others 
where he was in the greatest danger, where 
he was so well known, and which also con- 
tained his worst enemies. 

"Dearest Evel}n!" exclaimed she, roused 
by hearing the castle clock, heard so distinct- 
ly in the calm evening, " how rash to come 
here ! Why did not you write V 

" Write, Francesca, when I could come !" 
was his reply. 

"Alas!" whispered the anxious girl, " it 
is a dearly purchased pleasure that perils your 
safety for a moment. Just now, I think I can 
rely upon all being engaged ; but, God of 
heaven! I dare not think on what a chance 
may effect! I shall not have one moment's 
peace till we meet again, and yet tremble to 
think of the risk of that meeting. But, O, 
the king seems so kind — so good-natured, he 
can never refuse your pardon !" 

"I shall have a powerful enemy in the 
Duke of Buckingham," — his companion start- 
ed and reddened ; but she had mistaken the 
cause, for Evelyn continued — "Our estate 
has bt>2n confiscated, and for his grace's use ; 
it is too fair spoil to be readily relinquished." 

" Let the estate go, if you were but safe ; 
irat how can you hope to remain in this neigh- 
bourhood undiscovered 1 ?" 

" There are true hearts among our trusty 
foresters • T sleep as securely in the shelter of 



its lonely glades as ever king aid in his guard 
ed palace. W^ere it but for my father's sake, 
there are many here who would forfeit life 
and land to guard me from harm. Believe 
me, dearest. I am in no danger." 

" But you encounter all risks in seeking 
me — selfish that I am to feel so happy!" 

" I can well forgive such selfishness ; but, 
tell me, when shall I next see you ]" 

"Alas, alarv! — how can I see you, and yet 
not trifle with your precious life] I have no 
means of communicating with you. Alice, 
my attendant, is kind and true, but too timid 
and too simple for trust." 

" I can easily find messengers that may be 
relied upon. I will send to )^ou to-morrow, 
for I must see you again. My beloved Fran- 
cesca, our destiny is now in our own hands. 
I can no longer offer the fair halls and the 
broad lands of the once honoured house of 
Evelyn ; my portion is an obscure home in a 
foreign country ; but if love tried by years, 
by utter hopelessness, by what seemed change 
in yourself, and which yet but became more 
deep and more intense — if such love can be 
security for your future, that future, Frances- 
ca, you will intrust to my care." 

She said nothing, no colour rose into her 
pale, soft cheek ; but she looked up in his 
face, with her whole soul in her eyes, and ex- 
tended her hands to him; — Evelyn caught 
them in his, and then clasped her tenderly to 
his heart. " To-morrow !" was the last word 
of each ; and he sprang again into the thicket. 
Was ever music at once so sweet and so saa 
as the echo of his receding steps] 

Francesca stood listening long after they 
were past. Slowly she returned towards the 
castle, but how changed since last she trod 
that path! Her step was light, and a con- 
scious smile played round her beautiful mouth, 
while the gladness of other days returned and 
lighted up her large black eyes. How que- 
rulous, how unfounded did her discontent now 
seem ! The bright records of the last hour 
effaced all the darker traces left by long and 
weary days. It was a long-forgotten feeling 
the eager hope to which she resigned herself. 
With the active fancy of her sex and her 
country, she called up their future life vividly 
before her. They would live in Italy, and 
those summer skies, whose stars they had 
so often, with all the poetry of early passion, 
called to witness the gentle vows which love 
so delights to make — those very skies would 
brighten around their home, where affection 
would more than realize its promise and its 
dream. 

Francesca could feel no regret at leaving 
England. How much sorrow, how much 
anxiety, had she known upon its soil ! Ne 
ver had her southern frame become accus 
tomed to its chilling vapours and its driving 
winds. How often had she turned to the glo- 
rious elements, the green and fragrant earth, 
the sunny atmosphere, of her delicious land' 
"I leave nothing,*' thought she, " but Gui- 
do's grave." Lord Avonleigh she felt had 
no claim. With what selfish indifference 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



387 



would he have sacrified her in the first in- 
stance ! His late acknowledgment had been 
wrung from him in a moment of hasty fear, 
when a heavy and terrible misfortune had 
startled him with a superstitious dread of a 
sudden judgment, which is the religion of a 
weak mind. Since then, with what coldness, 
what unkindness had she been treated ! — the 
one selected victim of his petulance, because 
so dependent upon him. And now, with what 
hard cruelty had he decided upon her mar- 
riage! — her affections not only unconsulted, 
but derided ; his own ambition the sole con- 
sideration to which her happiness was to be 
sacrificed, and sacrificed as a thing of naught 
— not to be weighed for a moment against his 
own marquisate and the future honours of his 
line. " A few kind looks," thought she, " a 
few encouraging words, a little, a very little 
love, and 1 should have been so grateful ! and 
grateful I should still be, for I am at least 
spared the struggles of a divided duty." 

Francesca returned to the gay circle in the 
castle, somewhat more silent than her wont, 
and with eye more downcast— her soul sought 
to brood over its own sweet thoughts ; but 
there was a flush of beautiful delight upon 
her face, and her mouth relaxed with an un- 
conscious smile. 

"The dews of the evening have been a 
very bath of beauty !" whispered the Duke of 
Buckingham. 

Francesca blushed, and the duke thought it 
was at his own compliment. 

" I am making some progress," was his 
agreeable reflection. " I observe that she 
does not blush at flattery in general ; she 
therefore blushes because / flatter. Confu- 
sion is love's first symptom." 

He was mistaken, as people usually are 
when self-love is in the question. Good hea- 
ven ! when we observe what egregious non- 
sense other people talk, what woful follies 
other people commit, sure we must be tempt- 
ed to turn upon ourselves and ask — " What 
do 1 do that, is equally silly]" We may feel 
quite sure that we form no exception to the 
general rule ; we make our mistakes like the 
rest, and take our turn in the round of univer- 
sal foolishness. Human egotism is very 
much exaggerated. No one in reality occu- 
pies less of our thoughts than we do our- 
selves. We seriously consider the qualities 
of others, we dilate on their folly, question 
curiously on the motives of their actions, and 
investigate all the recesses of their minds into 
which we can penetrate. W T e never do so by 
ourselves. Who ever sits down to think over 
himself] Self is the only individual we take 
for granted. Were the character of any one 
of our friends to be sketched with tolerable 
accuracy, we would recognise the likeness at 
once ; but let our own, drawn to the very life, 
be brought before us, we should not know it, 
and even when told, we should in all proba- 
bility deny the acquaintance. 

The Comtesse de Soissons read the bright 
i .lour that fluctuated on Francesca's cheek 



more accurately. The moment they were 
alone, she exclaimed — 

" You have seen Mr. Evelyn ]" 

"To-night!" replied her companion, in a 
faltering voice, as if afraid to trust the very air 
with her treasured secret. 

" You look very pretty on the strength of 
it. I only wish a lover improved my com- 
plexion as it does yours. But I don't take 
these matters much to heart now. And so, in 
the true spirit of a knight-errant, our hero has 
run into all sorts of dangers and difficulties, as 
if on purpose to show his lady what a very 
imprudent choice she has made ! Well, I in- 
tend enacting la fee lumineuse or bienfaisante 
who is (o extricate you. Just dramatize the 
situatioi -take Charles by surprise ; and my 
diamonds against your destiny, that our fairy 
tale ends with a benevolent monarch, a mar- 
riage, and a — ' they lived very happy for the 
rest of their lives.' " 



CHAPTER XCI. 

l: That day, the first of a reunion, 
Which was to teem with lip communion." 

Wordsworth. 

Evelyn was soon in the depths of the forest 
after his parting with his mistress. If her 
image did not entirely occupy his mind, it 
at least reigned paramount over every other 
conjured up by the scene. And herein lies the 
difference between the love of man and that of 
woman. In his active and hurried career, it 
is impossible that love should hold the lonely 
and undivided empire it does over an existence 
of which it is at once the occupation and the 
resource. It is in solitude that the imagina- 
tion exercises its gigantic power ; and where 
are a woman's feelings nurtured but in soli- 
tude ] The one passes so few hours alone, 
the other passes so many. Wliat impassioned 
thoughts, how much of that poetry which first 
creates and then colours the future, haunt the 
lonely mornings and the long evenings, when 
the tapestry grows almost mechanically be- 
neath the hand, but when the mind is wholly 
given up to the heart ! A young girl has rare- 
ly any thing to call forth that romance inhe- 
rent in every nature but the idea of her lover; 
and what a world of deep and beautifu. feeling 
is lavished there ! Every revery in which 
she indulges is a poem, filled with the fanci- 
ful, the true, and yet the unreal. 

But, however deeply and entirely a man 
may love, he can only yield to its influence 
the hurried moment, the occasional thought. 
Every day brings its toil and its struggle ; and 
to meet these demands his mind must give 
its utmost energies. He cannot pass weeks, 
months — ay, and years — the eye fixed upon 
its daily task, but the fancies wandering far, 
far away. His soul must be in its labour : ah 
the active paths in life are his own, and he 
must bring to their mastery, hope, thought; 



358 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



patience, and strength; he may turn some- 
times to the flowers on the wayside, but the 
great business of life must be forever before 
him. The heart which a woman could utterly 
fill were unworthy to be her shrine. His rule 
over her is despotic and unmodified; but her 
power over him must be shared with a thou- 
sand other influences. 

Francesca herself would more than have 
pardoned — she would have sympathized with 
--the memories of pain and regret that flung 
a deeper shadow on his path than even the 
ancient branches that swung mournfully 
above. 

He was oppressed by a nameless terror in 
his soul — he seemed conscious of the actual 
presence of that inexorable destiny whose iron 
rule is over this world ; in whose tyranny 
there is no pity, and from whose decree there 
is no escape. Toys that we are in that cruel 
and gigantic hand, we think, plan, resolve, 
and execute, — when, lo ! some slight circum- 
stance defeats our utmost wisdom ; or else the 
issue of our effort has been the very reverse of 
our hope. And yet we boast " the soul to do, 
the will to dare," while every hour that passes 
by mocks us with our infirmity, and every 
event laughs our purposes to scorn. 

He was now pursuing the very paths that 
had been haunted by his youthful dreams : 
how had their generous hopes been disappoint- 
ed — how had their best efforts failed ! What 
a lesson of human inconsistency was graved 
on the last few years ! England had been laid 
gssoI&Sfi is by a foreign war — the best blood 
in the country poured forth like water — noble 
feelings w r asted, evil ones called from their 
hiding places by impunity — battles fought on 
the harvest field — lives spared by the sword 
demanded by the scaffold, — and for what 1 ? 
The tumult was over, and all things returned 
to their old place; and the abuse remained 
without remedy, and the wrong without re- 
dress. Ah! if the doctrine of amelioration be 
true, what a mighty debt does the future owe 
to the past ! And alas for those who have 
gone before ! Methinks the struggle has been 
but ill repaid. 

Evelyn pursued his way through the forest, 
often pausing to note its familiar beauty. The 
sky was of that faint blue which, together with 
the thin white clouds flitting over it, indicate 
a change about to take place in the atmosphere, 
as if the present calm were too spiritual to last. 
The germ, not the leaf, was on the bough : but 
the boughs alone cast a deep shadow around, 
save when some fair glade was filled with 
moonlight, and the ground shone silvery and 
tremulous ; for the beam on the long grass 
had an effect like water. 

More than once, through an opening in the' 
outskirt, he caught sight of a shadowy outline 
on the air, and knew the turrets of his old 
ancestral halls. "How many of my fathers," 
thought he, " have dwelt there in glad securi- 
ty, while I, the last of their name, wander 
proscribed on a soil once their own ! Ah, 
Francesca ! we could have been very happy 
t»: have dwelt beloved within those walls, with 



no wider circle of usefulness than our own 
tenantry, and our hopes bounded by our daily 
horizon." 

His path now led into the deeper recesses 
of the w r ood — silent and solitary depths of 
shade, known but by few. His passing part- 
ed the near branches, and startled the deer 
from their slumber amid the wild flower. He 
could see the timid creatures darting away, 
the moonlight glittering on their horns, till 
they vanished amid the darker shade which 
rested on the far-off and hidden dells. 

His course now lay along a little brook, 
which rippled on its way, singing like a child 
out of the gladness of its own heart; and he 
listened, for his ear was caught by the sweet 
low music which the pebbles made amid those 
tiny waves. Suddenly there came the faint 
echo of some unusual sound, — it grew more 
distinct as he drew nearer, and at last he could 
distinguish the union of many voices chanting 
a grave and solemn air, wiiose melody came 
strange and sweet on the midnight wind. He 
could soon hear the words — they were those 
of the twenty-third psalm ; and the beautiful 
expression of entire confidence in the Almighty 
eye that was to watch over their safety, and 
in the Almighty hand that was to guide, came 
like a rebuke to the questioning discontent of 
his previous mood. What were the few pass- 
ing bubbles of this life in the boundless eter- 
nity whose balance is hidden far from human 
eye 1 

Evelyn paused on the top of a hanging bank, 
which enabled him to command the scene be- 
low. Some twenty or thirty men and women 
were gathered in the ill-omened dell, which 
took its name from Rufus' Stone. Most of 
the faces were familiar to him, and all wore 
the same exalted and earnest expression, as 
every eye was upraised to the moonlit heaven, 
and every lip joined in the sacred song. In 
the midst stood one who leant exhausted 
against a tree — listening intent, but lacking 
power to swell the solemn strain. He was so 
wan, so altered, that Evelyn at first could 
scarcely recognise Major Johnstone. 

It was obvious that this was one of those 
meetings held by the stricter sect of the Puri- 
tans, who, debarred from the free exercise of 
their religious observances, were fain to con- 
gregate in the lone forest and the silent night, 
and render up that worship whose danger was 
the best proof of its sincerity. There was 
not a stir nor a sound save that harmonious 
chant, which rose as if ascending, a worthy 
offering, to the heaven above. The forest was 
like a mighty cathedral: the arches of the 
dark boughs were motionless like marble, 
while the pale moonlight kindled the glorious 
roof — a temple consecrated by the Eternal to 
his worship ! 

The young exile felt his spirit grow calm, 
and the beatings of his heart more still, as he 
listened to a hymn so often heard in boyhood, 
and never without reverence, 

The notes died away in the distance ; a 
light breeze sprang up and ruffled 4 ,he leaves, 
?s if the natural unrest of that vast wilderness 






FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



389 



had only been hushed by the influence of that 
calm and holy song. The voice of prayer 
now arose, and the group knelt, with folded 
hands and bowed faces, on the earth. Evelyn 
could hear the supplications for help in "their 
present trouble, while some implored a bless- 
ing on what seemed a great and painful en- 
terprise. 

Evelyn was now convinced that he saw a 
band of those determined emigrants whom he 
had before heard were about to quit that coun- 
try whose rulers, with shortsighted policy, 
would have persecuted them to the death, or 
else forced them into hypocrisy, — as if the 
sincere and the conscientious were not the 
very sinews of their country, or as if any 
form or ceremony could justify the interfe- 
rence of man between man and his God! 

The government of Charles soon departed 
from its early moderation. The Puritans 
were obnoxious in every point of view — both 
as regarded the past, with which revenge, 
both public and private, had a long and bitter 
reckoning, and on account of the pure severity 
of their manners, in such contrast to the li- 
cense gaining ground every hour, and which, 
if it did not pay the homage of hypocrisy, at 
least yielded the acknowledgment of invete- 
rate dislike. Moreover, their uncompromising 
adherence to what they believed to be matter 
of conscience, was a perpetual reproach on 
the time-serving expediency of a court, which 
looked not beyond immediate indulgence and 
present convenience. 

Fine, imprisonment, and contumely met the 
more rigid at every turn ; and many began to 
lcosen the ties which bound them to their na- 
tive soil, and look to a dwelling beyond the 
ocean, where at least they might worship their 
God in peace. For this they met amid the 
forest boughs, instead of beneath the ivyed 
roof and within the white walls of churches, 
which had become places of insult to their 
belief; and a brief hour was snatched from 
night and sleep to pass in prayer and praise. 

But the present time had a duty beside its 
religious offices. The group now assembled 
in that lonely dell assembled there for the last 
time. Never more would that accustomed at- 
mosphere be filled with the voice of their 
thanksgiving — never more would those wild 
flowers yield to their knees bent in prayer ! — 
other and mightier forests would echo their 
sacred song, and a strange herbage be pressed 
in their hour of adoration. Even now, the 
vessel rocked upon the waters, and in three 
days those pilgrims would be on their way to 
America. The everlasting Shepherd, who 
had guided his chosen people through the 
wilderness, his hand would be over them as 
well, and the broad Atlantic would yield at 
last another Canaan of peace and rest. 

Evelyn saw many whom he knew well, and 
only waited till the service was completed to 
speak to them. But the assembly had hardly 
risen from their last act of silent prayer, when 
Major Johnstone addressed them. At first his 
voice was almost inaudible; tut soon the 
spirit mastered the body ; and his hollow but 



distinct tones gained a supernatural strength. 
His face was colourless, his large and sunken 
eyes gleamed with a strange and lurid light; 
his thin hand upraised shone in the moonlight 
— so emaciated was it, and so wan. The 
damps glistened visibly on his brow, and there 
was not a listener but felt that he was in the 
presence of death. 



CHAPTER XCII. 



" There is a nobler glory, which survives 
Until our being fades."— Shelley. 



The body and the soul are not friends, but 
enemies. The one curbs and confines, the 
other wears and shatters. Perpetual is the 
terrible struggle, till death parts the mortal 
and the immortal ; and life, the riddle, is lost 
in the deeper secrets of eternity. And yet, 
though constant has been the warfare, how 
fearful is the parting — what unutterable vi- 
sions — what awful revealings — what dark 
knowledge, haunt the final hour ! Long vi- 
gils — fastings that wore away the strength of 
day — prayers that banished sleep from night — 
hoarded vengeance, that, like a fire, consumed 
its abode — affections crushed to the very 
earth — a memory whose love was with the 
grave — a faith that had coloured itself with 
mortal passion, — all these had pressed too 
heavily on the springs of life and thought; 
and that stern fanatic and republican had long 
stood upon the verge of insanity and death. 
He had been chosen as leader of the emigrants 
about to cross the wide Atlantic; and his 
energy had been the stimulus and the bond of 
their union. He felt the chill of that earth 
with which he was soon, to mingle creeping 
over him. His hands stiffened as he extended 
them; but his purpose was still strong within 
him. 

" Mourn not," he exclaimed, " that ye are 
about to quit the green fields and the pleasant 
gardens in which your eye delighted — mourn 
not for the homes wherein ye have dwelt from 
infancy. Let the porch be deserted, and let 
the stranger sit by your hearth. Never more 
will ye hear the bells on a Sabbath morning, 
breaking the sacred calm that rests on the 
quiet valleys, and calling ye to pray where 
your fathers have prayed, and awakening all 
old memories of love and reverence, as ye pass 
the graves where the green grass and the wild 
flowers undisturbed as the sleep which they 
make beautiful. All these must ye leave be- 
hind ; all that ye have held sacred, all that is 
most precious, must now be as the things of 
yesterday. Your path is across the stormy 
waters — your home in the primeval forest. 
The wild beast will howl around your resting 
place, and the fierce Indian will track your 
way ; the voice of the torrent and the tempest 
will be familiar as the singing brook and the 
April shower; the fruits of the earth will be 
strange to your taste, and its herbage strange 
to your eye; the redbreast will nevei moie 
2k2 



390 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



stand by your threshold, but the bird of prey 
will darken the sunshine, and the snake cross 
your daily vision. Danger, and toil, and long- 
suffering, are before ye, but faint not on the 
way which it is appointed ye shall go. The 
Lord is with you, and be not cast down, though 
ye suffer for conscience' sake. The mighty 
wilderness will hear the voice of your prayers. 
Ye will build yourselves houses beneath its 
ancient trees; your fields will reward your 
toil, and your cities arise fair and strong; and 
though ye now abandon the graves of your 
fathers, your children will dwell in faith and 
hope around your own. Go ! in the name 
and for the dear sake of that Saviour whose 
name we will not hear outraged, and w T hose 
altar it is yours to keep free from a stain !" 

Suddenly the speaker paused, his whole 
frame agitated by a convulsive motion; his 
face shook with yet more deadly whiteness, 
and his eyes, wild and dilated, fixed on Ro- 
bert Evelyn, who, in the interest of listening, 
had stepped beyond the shade of the boughs, 
while the moonlight fell full on his uncovered 
head. 

The excited imagination of Major Johnstone 
was impressed with but one image — that of 
the young cavalier whom he had sentenced to 
death. He believed that the tomb had sent 
back its prey, to mock his hopes and rise up 
in judgment against him. Strange, he had 
never felt regret — he had held his act but the 
execution of a righteous judgment. Now, 
like still waters chafed by a sudden tempest, 
a flood of remorse rushed at once upon his 
soul. 

" Come ye in warning or in mockery ?" 
muttered he, in a half-choked voice. " Fran- 
cis Evelyn, I adjure ye, speak!" and he sank 
back senseless in the arms of those beside 
him. 

All gathered round ; but when it was per- 
ceived that he was slowly recovering, many 
approached Evelyn with words of welcome 
and of wonder. 

" He mistook you for your brother," said 
an old man, who was rubbing the rigid hands 
he held in his own. " It was a harsh judg- 
ment that sentenced that young and brave 
cavalier to die like a dog. He might have 
oeen spared, had it been but for his father's 
sake." 

It was some time before Johnstone recover- 
ed the full use of his faculties ; his eyes un- 
closed but to stare fixedly upon the bank, which 
however, was now unoccupied. He then re- 
mained for some moments in silence and in- 
ward prayer; when the same old man who 
had spoken before, said, " Here is a young 
friend :,i yours asking for you ; he used to be 
a favourite, — Robert Evelyn." 

" I did not spare his brother for his sake, 
nor vet for the sake of his father — mine old 
and familiar friend !" and again he relapsed 
jnto moody silence. 

He was roused by Evelyn's approach, who 
could have no feeling but pity for the w r orn- 
out and dying being. He asked some ques- 
tions respecting the proposed emigration ; and 



again the haggard countenance before him 
kindled with the heart's strong purpose. 

" It is the will of Heaven !" exclaimed 
Johnstone, in a tone of strong excitement. 
" I know that at this moment I stand on the 
threshold of eternity ! I have looked on that 
which none can see and live. I shall sleep 
in the green earth of England. Robert Eve-* 
lyn, in the name of your God and of your fa- 
ther, I commission you in my stead. Lead 
ye this remnant of true believers across the 
unfathomable ocean ; guide them amid the 
gloomy forests of that other world : may their 
safety be required at your hands, and may 
power and judgment be given unto you! 
You are young, but brave and thoughtful be- 
yond your years. Do ye accept him as your 
leader 1 ?" said he, addressing those around. 
A low but impressive murmur came from 
every lip ; and the speaker, turning to Eve- 
lyn, bade him kneel that he might bless him. 

Evelyn knelt upon the ground, and bowed 
his head. Involuntarily he started at the 
touch of the icy hand which pressed down 
his hair. Major Johnstone strove to speak, 
but the words died in an inarticulate gurgle 
low in his throat ; and Evelyn had only time 
to start from his knee, and. save the dying 
man from falling to the earth. 

They spread a cloak upon the grass, and 
laid him there, while Evelyn supported his 
head. His features grew black and rigid, 
and his eyes seemed to refuse to close — as if 
conscious that, were they once to yield, they 
would be dark forever. 

Suddenly he raised himself, and whispered, 
" I have a letter for you." 

With a strong effort, he took a scroll from 
his bosom; it was that written by Francis 
Evelyn previous to his execution. "Iw r ould 
the heavens were not red with that young 
blood, — it darkens, darkens !" 

The words expired on his lips — his mouth 
fell — his head sank upon Evelyn's shoulder, — 
the others gathered round, and gazed upon the 
dead ! 



CHAPTER XCIII. 

" Happiness ! 

It is the gay to-morrow of the mind, 
Which never comes."— Barr^ Cornwall. 

"Nov/, I am quite sure that our beautiful 
hostess has been making an assignation," so- 
liloquized Charles, who, for want of some- 
thing better to do, had been watching the va- 
rious actions of the group in the principal 
chamber in the castle, where every window 
was open to the soft south wind, and the air 
was vocal with the humming bees, and sweet 
with the breath of the flowers placed in gay 
profusion on the terrace. 

He had noted, with his usual quick glance 
at a pretty face, Francesca's attendant catch 
her mistress's eye before she approached, and 
that, under the pretence of bringing her some 
music, she had given a note. The maid sus- 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



391 



tained hei part with great readiness — not so 
the mistress. 

Francesca's hand trembled as she broke the 
seal, and the colour rose crimson to her tem- 
ples as she glanced at its contents. With 
ill-concealed trepidation, she penned a brief 
and hurried answer; and Charles saw with 
what tremulous anxiety it was given to the 
girl, who showed a true genius for her voca- 
tion, and, by dint of throwing down some 
loose sheets of music, and then picking them 
up, contrived to place herself between the 
lady and the rest of the company. 

Alice left the room; but Francesca still 
busied herself with the strings of her guitar. 
A very novice in deception, she fancied all 
must notice her manoeuvre, and could as little 
restrain the vivid blush as she could still the 
beatings of her heart. 

Charles followed the girl into the galler} r , 
down which she was slowly proceeding, 
holding the little twisted scroll in her hand, 
and looking at it with that expression of fear 
and curiosity which seem to say, " Now, if 
you were not so intricately folded, I would 
open you and see your contents; but I shall 
not be able to replace these folds in proper 
order if I do — still, I have a great mind to 
try." 

Her indecision was of- short duration; for 
Charles, whose approach she had not per- 
ceived, suddenly snatched the note from her 
hand, and, well acquainted with the mysteries 
of its shape, opened it, and read its contents, 
before the girl had recovered her surprise. 

" A pretty messenger you are," said the 
volatile intruder, " to let your mistress's notes 
be caught in this manner ! Why, you are 
not worth your ribands ! I shall certainly 
take this one back to the Lady Francesca, and 
give her some good advice how she sends let- 
ters by you any more." 

The girl had but her sex's usual resource, 
and she availed herself of it — that is, she be- 
gan to cry, or rather whimper, exclaiming, 
"that she should lose her place !" 

"Place! place!" said the king — "if it 
comes to that, you must have the paper back 
again. There is a fatality in the word : 
i place ! place !' is the cry with every one 
who comes near me. For God's sake keep 
your present one — for really I have none va- 
cant at this moment." 

"There — you have unfolded it!" And in 
her despair at the numerous folds, Alice forgot 
to observe the contents. 

" Pshaw ! — there, all's right again — but you 
must pay me for my trouble." So saying, he 
retwisted the note, kissed the bearer, and 
walked off with a careless composure. 

The damsel might admire, but not emulate. 
One good effect, however, was derived from 
the interruption ; she now only became impa- 
tient to get rid of a note which had caused so 
much trouble already, and might occasion 
more ; and in five minutes it was safe in the 
keeping of a boy who waited for it, and who, 
the moment he received it, darted off with a 
rapidity which might have served as an ex- 



ample to Alice when sent on her next mes- 
sage. Like most good examples, it was not 
one by which she was likely to profit. The 
truth is, Alice felt her dignity compromised. 
Her lady evidently had a mystery, and she 
was not intrusted with it. This led to two 
resolutions: first, to discover; secondly, to 
reveal it. 

Some one says, keep your secret your- 
self, for how can you expect others to do that 
which you cannot 1 Still, I am persuaded 
more secrets are revealed by being kept than 
by being told. You enlist a persons honour, 
and, still dearer, their vanity, on your side by 
confidence. We all desire to deserve the 
good opinion which we believe we have in- 
spired ; but distrust awakens all that is little 
and mean within us. Why should we be 
better than we are held to be 1 We are mor- 
tified by not being thought worthy of trust; 
and there is also a feeling of small triumph 
in circumventing those who doubt either our 
inclination or our power of service. We like 
to show that we are not the nonentities for 
which we were taken. 

The contents of the epistle which had ex- 
cited so much curiosity were but a few words ; 
but how much did they imply! They ran 
thus: — "Meet me to-night, between seven 
and eight, by the little pool in the wilder- 
ness. I think we are there secure from dis- 
turbance." There was neither address nor 
signature. 

" The appointment is expected," thought 
Charles, " and the lady's handwriting too well 
known to need her name. Every precaution 
is taken, so that, even if the note were lost, it 
would not be of much consequence. So much 
caution indicates a most promising mystery — 
nous verrons." And the king returned to the 
terrace, where Madame de Soissons was talk- 
ing to the Duke of Buckingham and the Che- 
valier de Joinville. They looked so well 
amused that he decided upon joining them. 

"I am glad," said the comtesse, " of your 
grace's appearance. Will you interpose your 
authority, and insist upon their being con- 
vinced ? It is very provoking to be so much 
in the right, as I am, and for them not to per- 
ceive it." 

" Mine is a limited monarchy," said 
Charles, smiling; "but I will exert my ut- 
most influence on your side of the question, 
when I know what it is." 

" I am maintaining that it is a mistake ever 
to regret the past." 

" Ah, madame ! a week hence, and I shall 
not be able to agree with you. Nay, the 
mere foreknowledge that you will soon only 
have me in your remembrance convinces me 
that regret is man's natural destiny." 

" I will take the compliment for the pre 
sent, and waive it for the future. I am uni- 
versal in my views, and see no reason why I 
should be regretted more than any thing else 
What is the use of regretting the inevitable 1 
— and if not inevitable, it is better to remedy 
than to regret." 

" But not so easy," remarked De Joinville 



392 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" We should never spare our trouble," re- 
turned she ; " the trouble our wishes or plea- 
sures give us is the secret of their enjoyment. 
Ask the duke, if the possession of any heart 
ever equalled the pursuit." 

"Ah," said Buckingham, "that is because 
no heart is worth the trouble which it took to 
win." 

" There I agree with you; but the trouble 
was worth itself." 

"I must protest," exclaimed De Joinville, 
" against your sweeping assertion, that every 
heart is worthless." 

" 0, I will admit of exceptions ; but. the 
very exception proves the rule. Love making 
would be very insipid, but for the little dif- 
ficulties, vanities, and misunderstandings, 
which diversify its progress." 

" A lover's progress," added the duke, " is 
like the races which the ancients were wont 
to run, carrying torches — the competitors 
usually contrived to extinguish their light be- 
fore they reached the goal. So, in love — ay, 
in life — one bright hope dies away after ano- 
ther, and leaves us nothing but to regret that 
it was our own hurry that put them out." 

"Regret again!" exclaimed Madame de 
Soissons. " Instead of lamenting over the 
extinguished torch, we ought to try to kindle 
another." 

" Or rather," replied De Joinville, " do 
without either. We should try to cultivate 
monotony much more than we do. We work 
ourselves up into excitement, when we should 
rather compose ourselves into content. We 
should trace and retrace our steps. No path 
appears so short as that which is well known. 
Ah! change is a great error — the variety of 
existence only reminds us of its weight. 
Who are the happiest individuals of our ac- 
quaintance 1 Those whose existence revolves 
in the smallest possible circle — men whose 
daily horizon is bounded by their dinner — 
women whose hope extends not beyond their 
knitting needles. We should endeavour to 
forget that we are alive ; instead of that, we 
keep renewing the mournful remembrance in 
every possible manner. We aggravate our 
miseries by mocking them with the name of 
pleasures. We insist upon disappointment 
by the pure force of unreasonable expecta- 
tions." 

"Well," interrupted Buckingham, "ho- 
nour to the system which Pythagoras disco- 
vered in a beanfield ! Pray, believe in it 
with all possible haste and fervour. They 
say faith works miracles; and the doctrine of 
transmigration holds out a prospect of future 
felicity to you, as an oyster or a dormouse." 

" Or a stick, or a stone," said Charles. 

" No, no, the oyster for me," replied De 
Joinville. " Let me have the consciousness 
of repose. Happiness is nothing, unless we 
know it." 

" And hence it is nothing," rejoined Buck- 
ingham ; " for who knows that they are 
happy ?" 

" We are much happier than we like to ad- 
ft.lt," said the comtesse ; " but complaint is 



too gratifying to our complacency. We love 
to talk of ourselves, but we are obliged to 
mancEuvre for listeners. Were we to dilate 
on our beauty, our wit, or our wealth, all the 
self-love of our auditors would be up in arms 
against our own ; they would never have pa- 
tience to hear the list of our inherent or ac- 
quired advantages. But let them triumph 
over us, and we insure their patient attention. 
Gratified envy takes the shape of pity, while 
we mourn our misfortunes, our faithless 
friends, and all the bead-roll of grievances 
which authorizes the luxury of lamentation. 
The truth is, we like to talk over our disas- 
ters, because they are ours ; and others like 
to listen, because they are not theirs." 

" You take a bitter view of human nature," 
said Charles. 

" Mais, mon Dieu ! it is the truth," 'replied 
the comtesse. " Let me say the very worst 
of it that I can, I do not say half so much as 
it deserves." 

" As representatives of the human race," 
replied the duke, " we beg to offer our grate- 
ful thanks for your good opinion — unless you 
mean to make an exception in favour of your 
friends." 

"Most assuredly not," was her answer; 
" for it is among my friends that I have ac- 
quired my experience." 



CHAPTER XCIV. 

" One freeman more, America, to thee !"— 'Jyron, 

The meeting in the forest had completely 
changed Evelyn's position. A band of fifty 
individuals, to many of whom he was bound 
by former ties of service, and with whom he 
was linked by the strong bond of mutual be- 
lief and opinion, now looked up to him as 
their leader. He felt the responsibility in 
which he was so suddenly involved, but he 
did not shrink from it. A channel was now 
opened for the efforts which it had hitherto 
seemed so fruitless to make, and for the 
energy which, during months past, had wasted 
itself in dreams of the impossible. The wild 
savannah and the dense forest rose vividly be 
fore his imagination. The one would soon 
grow golden with its summer harvest, and 
the other soon ring with the axe, the first 
sound of coming civilization. There might 
be danger, there would certainly be difficul- 
ties ; but what danger has not human courage 
braved — and what difficulty has not human 
patience surmounted 1 

America was then, as now, the Utopia 
where both the religious and political enthu- 
siast saw visions and dreamed dreams. Lit- 
tle could they anticipate the wonderful and 
practical fulfilment of their wildest expecta- 
tions of liberty and prosperity. Little could 
Evelyn foresee, when he but hoped that those 
deep woods would afford a shelter from per- 
secution, and a home to a little band of perse- 
cuted exiles — how a few (few when we think 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



393 



what they have accomplished,) passing years 
would level multitudes of those giant trees, 
fling open to the sun those secluded glades, 
and in the haunt of the wild pigeon and the 
woodpecker build up stately and vast cities, 
whose destiny is but now beginning. When 
Robert Evelyn pictured to himself the lonely 
canoe destined to bear himself and his small 
and adventurous bands down the silver stream 
of some river unconscious of the white man's 
skill, how little did he deem that the hour 
was on its way when a thousand vessels 
would cleave the rapid tide, bodiless air work- 
ing as their servant, and the banks would 
swarm with multitudes busy in all the vari- 
ous toils of daily subsistence, ministering to 
a commerce whose home is the world. 

Child of the Earth's old age, America is 
the favourite on whom a double portion has 
been lavished. The glorious sky, the fertile 
soil, the harvest ready above, the mine rich 
beneath, and, more than all, a brave, free, and 
intelligent race, who but must feel that the 
world's great destinies are yet unaccomplish- 
ed, when the mind dwells on the glorious 
promise which kindles the far shores of the 
broad Atlantic 1 The most creative imagina- 
tion avails not to picture the noon of that 
mighty hemisphere now in its infancy. Other 
nations have sprung up amid darkness and 
disorder; but America commenced its on- 
ward career when our world was in its prime, 
and has the experience of all civilization for 
its beacon. Commerce, science, and free- 
dom, are its fates ; and the web over which 
they preside is but begun. 

But one dearest interest mingled with the 
future in Evelyn's meditation. Alas ! it was 
a hard choice that he had to offer Francesca. 
How often during that night did he retrim 
the lamp that bunU beside his lowly pallet, 
to read his brother's letter ! " Good God !" 
thought he, "is it possible that one human 
being can so trifle with the happiness of an- 
other, in the more reckless pursuit of excite- 
ment and amusement 1 Had he really loved 
her, I at least must have pardoned him — I, 
who know how very, very dear she is. But 
he had not even the excuse of passion to 
plead for his violation of my confidence, his 
betrayal of my affection — 1 need to recall his 
untimely grave while I forgive him. Alas ! 
how our youth has been wasted in doubt and 
sorrow — and to know how happy it might 
have been ! How much anxiety, too, would 
our previous marriage have removed! The 
wife with whom I had shared my prosperity 
would not have turned aside from that adver- 
sity which I shrink from offering to my bride. 
And yet, methinks, I might judge her heart 
by my^own. No change could alter the deep 
affection treasured there." 

He was right, both in his regret and in his 
reliance. It must be matter of pain to any 
man to know that his love must demand sa- 
crifices — and too well did Evelyn feel that 
for his sake Francesca must renounce home, 
father, friends, station, country— the privi- 
eges of gentle birth, the delicacies of wealth ; 
Vol. I.— 50 



that for his sake she must prepare to mee! 
difficulty, privation, hardship, danger, and 
even death. It was hard for a lover to have 
only such a choice to lay before the beloved 
one. And yet he was right in his entire con- 
fidence. Francesca loved him as those love 
who have loved but once — the freshness and 
truth of early years strengthened by trial and 
by absence. She had essayed the value of 
affection both in its possession and its want ; 
and she felt the strong confidence of an at- 
tachment at once thoughtful and passionate, 
in a future shared by Robert Evelyn. Life 
could have no path so rugged but what she 
were content to track at his side. Evelyn 
preferred speaking to writing; he had asked 
an interview, with something of affection's 
gentle cunning in his thoughts. Surely, 
when painted by him, the future would not 
seem so desolate; and, moreover, he could 
read the impression in her eyes before her 
words found utterance. Their interview that 
night would determine all. 

Evening came at last, though never had 
day seemed so long to Francesca. The con- 
stant consciousness of having something to 
conceal, harrassed her like a spectre. Her 
feverish and excited imagination conjured up 
every possible variety of misfortune, and read 
cause to fear or to suspect in every face 
around. She could not help contrasting her 
fate with that of Hortense Mancini, who, 
having decided on selecting her own choice, 
fairly set her uncle at defiance — an uncle to 
whom she owed at least the obedience of 
gratitude — and jet every circumstance com- 
bined to favour her. The very plan laid to 
unite her with another, only enabled her to 
meet Meilleraye with less restraint. The 
worst she had to apprehend were a harsh 
word, a dark brow, and perhaps delay ; but 
her own constancy was only needful to secure 
the future. " We were born on the same spot — 
we have grown up together — yet how differ- 
ent," exclaimed Francesca, "has our lot in 
life been !" She thought mournfully on 
Guido's early grave ; and its darkness seemed 
to gather over herself. 

Madame de Soissons entered into none of 
her apprehensions, and felt all the pride of 
art in the necessary deception. As the hour 
approached she contrived to collect the whole 
circle round her; but as Buckingham and 
Lord Avonleigh were the only persons likely 
to interfere with Francesca's arrangements, to 
them her attention was chiefly devoted. The 
duke accepted her challenge to the card-table, 
and Lord Avonleigh was detained to give his 
advice — and even about an odd trick it is plea- 
sant to have one's advice asked and taken. 
She paid attention to Lord Avonleigh, with a 
little feeling of triumph all the time to think 
she was duping him; and the duke had a 
similar sensation towards herself — for he was 
quite persuaded that he had at length succeeded 
in conciliating Francesca's most influential 
friend. 

Considering what a useful thing deception 
is — the first and last lesson taught by wbat is 



394 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



called knowledge of the world — it is woful to 
observe how much of it is wasted. In nine 
cases out of ten, the most ingenious invention 
not only does not answer, but even defeats its 
own purpose. How much attention is thrown 
aw T ay, how often is flattery mistaken, and how 
many of our devices, like ostriches, blind 
their own eyes, and fancy others are blinded 
too! In the present case, danger, as usual, 
lurked in the quarter the least suspected. In 
the morning the king had been wearied with 
another of those loyal and longwinded depu- 
tations which Lord Avonleigh deemed such a 
credit to the country ; and, drawing an arm- 
chair into one of the recesses by a window 
which opened upon the terrace, declared, that, 
were it but for his own credit, he must sleep 
off the effects. " I believe," exclaimed he, 
" stupidity is infectious." 

" I wish your grace pleasant dreams," said 
Madame de Soissons, as she passed by on her 
way to the card-table. 

" If your image haunts them, I cannot go 
to sleep too quickly." 

Marie did not observe how soon the sleep 
to be charmed by her smile was flung aside, 
and that the open casement afforded an easy 
escape to the awakened truant. 

In the mean time Francesca had withdrawn 
under that universal feminine excuse — a 
headache ; and indeed it was no pretext, for 
her temples throbbed with the feverish pain 
brought on by agitation ; and lip and cheek 
were alike pale. It was a relief to find her- 
self in the open air; and with a rapid and 
light step she hurried towards the wilderness; 
when, to her surprise and dismay, as she 
turned a sharp corner in the shaded path, 
which led towards it, Charles stood immedi- 
ately before her. It was equally impossible 
to retreat or to advance without speaking to 
him. 

" I see," said he, with a smile, " that you, 
like myself, are trying the effect of this sweet 
evening for the headache. I have already 
found it very efficacious, and so, I think have 
you," — again smiling, as he noticed the deep 
blush which his sudden appearance had pro- 
duced. " Do, pray, take compassion on me," 
continued he, "and allow me to accompany 
you on your walk. The evening is very 
lovely, and the quiet of this place delightful ; 
but 1 always need a companion to enjoy the 
charms of solitude." 

What could Francesca do, but say in an 
almost inarticulate voice, that "she was very 
happy ?" 

The king enjoyed her confusion, and took 
nis place at her side ; and, if any thing could 
add to Francesca's consternation, it was, that 
he took the exact path that led to the little 
pool, beside which she was to meet Evelyn. 
Madame de Soissons would have had a thou- 
sand resources in this emergency — Francesca 
could imagine but one, and that one so diffi- 
uult, it seemed almost impossible. 

"I trust," said Charles, "you will not 
think that I undervalue my present felicity, 
when I remark upon the cruelty of fortune. 



What an opportm ity of calling ' yonder moo* 
to aid his vows' is lost forever to Buckino- 
ham !" 

This was said maliciously : for the speaker 
well knew nothing embarrasses a woman 
more than talking of one lover while she is 
thinking of another. 

"There is something," continued he, "in 
this soft and gentle air, that makes one feel 
quite charitable. I am almost inclined to 
fetch George here, and go forever after by the 
name of the martyr to friendship." 

" I beg," replied Francesca, " that you will 
do no such thing." 

" O ! you are satisfied with myself, are 
you 1 — very flattering. What shall I do to 
show my gratitude — make love to you ]" 

"It were a pity that two things that I 
hold so precious — love and your grace's time 
— should be so utterly wasted as they would 
be on me." 

"I can assure you, I should not think either 
wasted on your adorable self." 

"But I should," answered Francesca, 
calml}^. 

" You are not a judge," said Charles some- 
what piqued. A little confusion would have 
flattered him ; but self-possession is the most 
provoking thing in the world. 

" I am, as far as concerns myself." 
" You are quite wrong to speak so decidedly. 
A pretty woman should never have an opinion 
of her own. Indecision is so very charm- 
ing." 

" I am afraid it is a charm quite wanting in 
myself. I both make up my mind and keep 
to it." 

" Pray, have you made up your mind as to 
what sort of a lover you would like ]" 
"I have." 

" You have rather taken me by surprise. I 
expected you to say that you never thought of 
such things — that you never expected to have 
a lover at all." 

" I should not then have spoken the 
truth." 

" I begin to suspect that you have some 
lover or other in your head." 

"In my heart, please your grace." 
" You are very candid," exclaimed Charles. 
" I mean to be still more so," replied Fran- 
cesca, in a low, earnest voice, " if you will 
take the next path, and permit me to accom- 
pany you part of the way on your return to 
the castle." 

" In short, you want to get rid of me, as 
you are going to meetsome one more favoured. 
And, pray, who is the cavalier ?" 

" I must rely on your honour as a gentle- 
man, that the confidence you have drawn from 
me will be sacred. I fear me the name will 
find but little favour in your eyes. I am 
about to meet one whose life is risked in the 
meeting, — an outlaw — Robert Evelyn." 

The king started in displeasure and sur- 
prise. "And how did you become acquainted 
with that young fanatic and rebel ?" 

" In earlier and happier days. We met 
four years ago in Italy !" 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



395 



"And why did you not marry then V 1 

" He had not his father's consent ; and I 
could not leave an aged parent, then depend- 
ent on my care." 

" And have you not met since 1" 

" Never till within the last two days. God 
Knows, our attachment has, from the first, 
been surrounded by distress and by difficul- 
ties !" 

"And yet you have loved on 1 But no mar- 
vel that he now seeks Lord Avonleigh's 
heiress !" 

" Lord Avonleigh's heiress will be none to 
him. The hour that sees me his wife sees me 
portionless, and exiled like himself." 

"But do you consider the folly of renounc- 
ing all your present advantages ] As Dutchess 
of Buckingham, think what a brilliant destiny 
offers itself to your acceptance !" 

"I am as indifferent to the duke's rank 
and wealth as I am to himself. More I can- 
not say." 

"And have you no fear of the dreary reali- 
ties of seclusion and exile, when the present 
romance of an excited fancy shall pass 
away V 

" Were I actuated but by a mere fancy, 1 
might tremble to act upon its hasty impulse. 
But there is a love that is stronger than death, 
and deeper than life; for whose sake the 
sacrifice is light — ay, even unfelt. It is a 
love which, born of the pure and fresh feel- 
ings of youth, grows with your growth and 
strengthens with your strength — a love which 
would give sweetness to a palace and glory 
to a cottage — a love prepared to suffer, to en- 
dure, and yet suffice unto its own happiness — 
tried by time, by doubt, even by despair, and 
yet living on — the heart's dearest hope, and 
life's dearest tie. Such a love do I feel for 
Robert Evelyn." Her beautiful eyes filled 
with light, and her cheek grew pale with 
intense emotion. 

Charles gazed on her for a moment — so 
spiritual, so touching was the expression of 
her perfect features. He took her hand kind- 
ly, and said, " Mr. Evelyn is happy. I know 
not what are his views in coming to England 
at this moment. You, fair lady, shall be the 
guarantee of his peaceable intentions. Since 
I find that his exile includes yours, and as I 
cannot in conscience allow a face so fair to go 
out of England, bring Mr. Evelyn to my pre- 
sence, equally penitent and loyal, and you 
remember the old proverb — 

'A king's face 
Should show grace.' " 

Francesca sank on her knee, and pressed 
her lips to the hand which still held her own. 

The good-natured monarch raised her, say- 
ing, "I will detain you no longer. However, 
it is all right that the gentleman should be 
the one to wait." So saying, he turned 
towards the castle; and Francesca, taking the 
opposite path, was soon out of sight. 

"I believe, after all," said Charles within 
himself, "love is a more serious matter than 

e allow it to be at Whitehall. I did not ex- 
pect to be so much interested as I have been. 



Poor child ! she is too pretty to go into exile. 
But I can more easily pardon the lover than 
restore his estate. His grace of Buckingham 
keeps a tight hold on the manors that come 
under his grasp. However, love and poverty 
are companions of old. Nous v err ons" And 
trusting, as he usually did, to chance, the 
king returned to his arm-chair, and soon fell 
asleep. 



CHAPTER XCV. 

" Love is not love 
Which alters where it alteration finds." 

Shakspeare's Sonnets. 

It was a beautiful but stormy-looking sky 
that canopied that lonely pool and the lovers, 
whose shadows were scarcely visible on the 
dark and undisturbed water below. On the 
far side was reflected a single red and mete- 
oric cloud, which had treasured one last crim- 
son ray from the sunset, or pehaps nursed 
within it the fiery leaven. It was a strange 
contrast to the black and heavy masses which 
were gathering every moment overhead. The 
moon had swollen into a full and golden 
round ; but the clouds swept athwart her, and 
her fitful gleam came but at intervals. Alow 
wind seemed gaining strength amid the 
branches ; but it was uncertain, and some- 
times not even a leaf was stirred. But there 
was light enough to show the tranquil beauty 
of Francesca's pale and sweet face. She 
stood at Evelyn's side in that quiet and in- 
tense happiness which is so rare a feeling in 
the lot of humanity. 

He had told her all, — the arduous enter- 
prise in which he had embarked ; he had 
softened nothing of the dangers which would 
surround their future and forest home. But she 
felt that, shared with him, life had no lot that 
would not bring its blessing; and he, as he 
gazed upon those clear dark eyes which rested 
upon him so confidingly, that if the most 
entire, the most devoted love could repay the 
woman that trusted to his protection, that love 
was his own. Both knew, in their inmost 
soul, that each was the other's happiness. 
The heart confided in the destiny itself had 
created. 

" I feel too happy," at length exclaimed 
Francesca, in a voice soft as the moonlight 
silence which it broke ; " and yet 'tis strange 
how the image of death is uppermost in my 
thought, as if I desired that the grave should be 
a security against further change ! At this 
moment I could be content to die." 

"Ah, dearest!" replied he, "your spirits 
are exhausted, — perhaps unconsciously op- 
pressed with the idea of that future whose 
pain and whose peril I have rather heightened 
than palliated." 

"Not so," returned the young Italian, fix- 
ing her large black eyes upon him with a wild 
and melancholy expression. "I think not of 
the future — my whole existence is, as it were, 
absorbed in the present. There is something 



396 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



within me which says, 4 Yield to the delicious 
epose which now stills every beating pulse: 
life has known no such soothing tranquillity 
before — it will netyer know it more.' Ah, 
Elevyn! you cannot conceive how wretched 
my life has been — how desolate, and how 
miserable ! I am not accustomed to be glad, 
and to be loved. I cannot help the dread, 
which haunts me like a perpetual shadow, 
that fate will exact some terrible penalty for 
this moment's feeling." 

" Nay, my beloved Francesca, this is the 
vainest folly that ever made an omen of its 
own weakness." 

"Omen !" repeated she, in a low, broken 
voice, that feared the sound of its own words ; 
" omen ! — you have said aright. The shadow 
flung from the soul is an omen ; and mine 
at this very time holds some mysterious 
communion with its fate. There are some 
whose web in life has a dark yarn even from 
the first — dark and brief — a gloomy river, 
with a short and troubled course. And such is 
mine. I look back on that which has been, 
and dread that which may be. How much 
of care, how much of sorrow has been mine' 
I am so little accustomed to happiness that I 
tremble in its presence." 

" I would rather, my dearest ! believe that 
the future owed the past a debt. Many, many 
years are before us — years of tender watch- 
fulness, of mutual hope, of devoted love. I 
would that the old tales were true, which held, 
that life had its annals in those stars which are 
now looking down upon us, and that I had an 
enchanter's skill, and could bid them reveal 
from their shiny depths the truth and worship 
of a heart that henceforth encircles you with 
itself. The strength of my love communi- 
cates itself. With you and for you every thing 
seems possible." 

She did not speak, but stood gazing in 
silence on the water at their feet, — one bright 
moonbeam was trembling upon it. Slowly a 
mass of dense black clouds came sailing upon 
the air ; a sudden wind shook the branches — 
the dark vapour parted, but a portion swal- 
lowed up the line of radiance that had 
vibrated among the waves, and the whole 
pool lay in darkness. 

" That is my fate !" whispered Francesca. 
" Struggles, shadows, a transient beauty, and 
then the night comes — the long last night of 
death!" 

Evelyn saw that her nerves had been too 
nighty excited ; and to divert her from these 
imaginative fantasies, he turned to the more 
actual exertions required by their situation, 
and resumed the plan of their arrangements, 
which their late conversation had interrupted. 

" This very night, my beloved Francesca, 
you must be mine forever. I have seen St. 
Aubyn to-day, and told him how entirely my 
every hope in life rested on the present inter- 
view. At ten o'clock he will wait for us in the 
shurch. The hour will secure us from intru- 
sion, and I can rely on St. Aubyn. Can you, 
rtare you meet me ?" 



" Yes," said she, in a low but steady 
voice. 

" The castle once left, the forest path is 
lonely but safe. I would meet you here, but 
I have a sacred duty to perform, — " 

" And," interrupted Francesca, " there is so 
much risk in coming here ! For my sake, 
you must be cautious." 

" But, dearest, the forest is dark and soli- 
tary. Are not you afraid 1" 

" Afraid of our quiet w T oods with those of 
America before us ! You cannot think how 
brave I mean to be. Besides, I know the path 
to the church so well." 

" To-night, then, we meet at the altar, and 
to-morrow evening we sail. Pause, my own 
love, if your heart falter — even on the thres- 
hold of the church." 

She spoke not; but the strong affection of 
those large and tender eyes needed no aid from 
words. The lovers parted, and neither looked 
back — they must have said farewell again if 
they had. 



CHAPTER XCVI. 



" Farewell farewell! if ever prayer 
For other's weal avail'd on high, 
Mine will not all be lost on air, 
But waft thy name beyond the sky." 

Byrcn. 

Francesca* made no attempt to leave the 
solitude of her own chamber that evening. It 
were indeed a vain show to play the hostess, 
whose reign of courtesy was drawing so rapid- 
ly to a close. She needed to compose her 
thoughts — to still her excited nerves ; but she 
strove, without avail, to shake off the profound 
depression which hung over her. She. sat lost 
in a gloomy revery, from which she was roused 
by observing that the sand had run from the 
hourglass, which she had turned mechanical- 
ly when she first took her seat. Hastily she 
rose, and drew the table towards her. She 
had resolved on writing to her father, but it 
was an irksome task.; still it needed to be 
done. "This," thought she, "is the second 
letter which I have addressed to him. With 
what different feelings did I write the first! 
Alas, the folly of hopes — the certain disap- 
pointment which awaits on all earthly expec- 
tation !" 

For a few minutes she could not see to write 
for her blinding tears ; but the emotion was 
subdued, and the hurried scroll once began 
was soon written ; for when she came to give 
expression to her feelings, the sense of injust- 
ice steadied her hand, and dried up her tears. 
The letter contained the following words : 

" Before these lines meet your eye I shall 
bear another name, and own another duty than 
yours. I do not implore for pardon ; the 
child who forgets a parent's love in a new 
and less sacred affection may well kneel i 



FRANCESCA CARRARA, 



397 



the very dust for forgiveness ; but such for- 
getful ness is not mine. You do not — you 
never did love me; you will not miss me, and 
anger in your mind will be utterly unsoften- 
ed by regret. I cannot help this. I complain 
only of my adverse fortune. Had I grown up 
beside your hearth, a thousand endearing re- 
collections would have bound me to your care. 
Dnt I was forced upon you. I came connected 
with a thousand unwelcome associations ; and 
the unfortunate death of my brother turned 
every thought of me into pain. The kind word, 
and the kinder look, have been to me unknown. 
I go ; but I leave no void behind. 1 feel that 
I owe to Robert Evelyn a dearer debt than to 
youi^elf. As he would have shared his pros- 
perity with me, so will I share his adversity 
with him. I believed myself to be a poor and 
friendless orphan when I pledged that faith 
which I will not retract as your rich and titled 
daughter. There w T ere no truth in the world 
if I could depart from mine. The wide ocean 
will soon roll between us — let it wash away 
all unkind thoughts. I shall think of you, 
pray for you; and if in after years one gentle 
feeling, one mournful remembrance, should 
arise, I implore you to dwell upon them : they 
will be dear in that after world where alone 
we may hope to meet again. God bless you, 
my father ! — you cannot dream how at this 
moment my heart yearns towards you. When 
the first anger is over, you will believe in the 
sorrow which dictates these last words of fare- 
well. Again, God bless you ! 

" Francesca." 

She folded the scroll, and her tears fell fast 
upon it, and her hand trembled so that the 
name of Lord Avonleigh was almost illegible. 
She then placed it in the casket where it was 
destined to remain for the present, and pre- 
pared to leave her chamber. She looked at 
her mourning dress, and for an instant felt 
tempted to change it. " What folly !" ex- 
claimed she; "what matters the outward 
sign 1 The custom is but a chance ; — no co- 
lour was predestined by nature to be the type 
of mourning." 

She retrimmed the lamp, which was to be 
her companion, and, drawing her cloak round 
her, prepared to set forth. The outer door of 
her chamber was fastened ; but from her ora- 
tory was a winding staircase which commu- 
nicated with the chapel, and she had in her 
possession the key of the small side-door 
which opened into the garden. Through that 
she meant to pass. It was in vain that she 
called all her resolution to her aid on entering 
the chapel. The cold damp air sent a chill 
through her whole frame. The dark vaults 
below had given to the heavy atmosphere the 
frozen breath of the sepulchre. The sculp- 
tured figures glared strangely upon her — she 
almost fancied that the rigid features frowned 
on this intrusion into their still domain. Her 
/amp could not penetrate the darkness around, 
and one by one those pale statues came within 
'ts little circle of light, and each wore a more 

Vol. I. 



ghastly hue, and a more lowering brow, than 
its predecessor. The wan countenance of Al- 
bert, as she last saw him — the colours of life 
gone from his cheek, and the red tide well- 
ing slowly from his forehead — rose upon the 
gloom. She put her hand before her eyes, but 
in vain — the faces wore but stronger semblance 
to humanity. Her imagination only repeated 
the phantom shapes, and with more awful 
likeness. At last she reached the door, un- 
locked it, and sprang into the open garden. 

Terror dwells amid the works of man, not 
amid the works of nature. We tremble beside 
the tomb — we shrink beneath the icy vapour 
of the charnel-house — the foot walks unsteadi- 
ly over the stones placed above the dead ; but 
the green grass and the dewy flowers create 
no fear. Francesca felt mournful, not timid, 
as she w r atched the uncertain moonlight break 
from the huge black clouds which sailed across 
the heavens. With slow and reluctant step 
she forced herself to return into the chapel ; 
for in her hurry she had brought her lamp 
with her, whose assistance she no longer 
needed. She entered, and with a tremulous 
hand placed it behind one of the monuments, 
so that its light would not be visible from the 
windows, while it would be in readiness for 
her when she came back. There was a skull 
carved on the stone, and on that the flame 
glared as the draught from the open door 
swept by. The death's head seemed to start 
from the marble with an awful reality ; — was 
its meaning, half mockery, half menace, ad- 
dressed to her] She rushed away, and, pale 
and gasping, again reached the garden. She 
paused for an instant, and leant against the 
trunk of an old hawthorn, which, placed in a 
southern aspect, had already a few sweet blos- 
soms on the sunny side ; their fragrance re- 
vived her, and ashamed of the childish fear to 
which she had yielded, when time was so 
precious, she hurried along the path which 
led to the forest. Still and dark were the 
glades which she had to pass, and a low 
moaning wind complained amid the branches : 
it was the great voice of Nature breathing in 
inarticulate murmurs that sorrow which is the 
universal soul of all existing things. And yet 
the air was soft and warm, and filled with that 
aromatic sweetness which belongs to the early 
spring. 

Francesca let her cloak fall from her head, 
to enjoy the pleasure of breathing the fragrance 
unimpeded ; as the cool breeze came so re- 
freshingly to her fevered temples. How beau- 
tiful she looked as the moonlight fell around 
around her: its pale and subduing light suit- 
ing so well with those sculptured features, 
and glittering in the depths of those large and 
radiant eyes ! And yet there was a deep and 
sad expression on that brow, too thoughtful 
for one so young; and the s;nile on that lip 
was sweet, but never glad. Every look bore 
testimony to the inward and profound melan 
choly born of that long suffering which dares 
not trust itself with joy, and originating, too, 
in a temperament sad and sensitive by nature 
2L 



398 



MISS LANDON S WORKS. 



We look on such, even in their happiest mo- 
ments, and fear for them. Destiny has its 
favourites ; but such are not of the number. 

Francesca did not meet a creature in the fo- 
rest; the wind was the only sound, and her 
own thoughts her sole companions : one was 
uppermost in her mind. The path she now 
followed to meet the living had hitherto been 
only traced when she had sought to commune 
with the dead — it led direct to Guido's grave. 



CHAPTER XCVIT. 

" Lean on me, love ! 
O, such a bridal night befits not such a bride ; 

but if truth 
And tenderness can pay thee back for comfort, 
Thou shalt ne'er regret the time." 

The Bridal Night. 

Francesca's heart beat quick when she 
quitted the forest. She saw the square gray 
turret of the church, with the clear full moon 
just above it. Another moment, and she 
would be at Evelyn's side. Still, as the little 
wicket swung behind her, she paused, all 
other thoughts lost in the impression produced 
by the solemn beauty of the scene. Large 
clouds were coming up rapidly upon the wind, 
gloomy ministers of fate, charged with the 
rain, the storm, and the thunder; from one 
of these the moon had but just emerged, and 
her gentle light touched the silvery edges, 
but entered not the dense mass which rested 
on the air, black and immovable. Light va- 
pours floated round in a thousand fantastic 
shapes, soft and snowy, and yielding easy 
passage to every luminous ray. The long 
waving grass below was tremulous with the 
dew. The ivy, clinging round that side of 
the old church, shone with its broad green 
leaves, which caught a double radiance from 
the moon and from the small diamond panes 
of the Gothic windows which the long droop- 
ing branches enwreathed. There was an un- 
certain and sad loveliness on the atmosphere, 
which harmonized with humanity. 

There is something in the shadowless sky 
and the unbroken moonshine which mocks us 
with repose. We have no part in it ; our 
own unrest has no sympathy with the blue 
and spiritual horizon, whose hope is not with 
this life. The calm and quiet light is not of 
our busy and careful world; it belongs to 
sleep, to silence, and to dreams; and, alas! 
we gaze on it with the beating heart and the 
fevered pulse, while the thousand vain delu- 
sions of past and future cast their various 
shadows before our eyes. Who stands 
watching in the sleepless midnight but one 
from whose pillow repose is banished by one 
all present thought? Ambition, hate, love, 
alike have their vigils ; and what have they 
in common with the cloudless sky, where the 
moon wanders, placid as the spirit of the good 
when resigned to die, and confident and filled 
with another and holier sphere] But the 
troubled element, the fitful flash, the murky 
tapours, the sullen heralds of the tempest, — 



these have our own likeness cast upon them,— 
these are nearer to the earth. We read in the 
aerial struggle the prophecy of our own fate ; 
and as the night-black canopy spreads over 
the horizon, so darkly does destiny close 
around ourselves. 

Francesca's eyes dwelt, involuntarily on the 
graves beside. "Sad witnesses to human 
happiness!" thought she, and quickened her 
steps. She needed the relief of Evelyn's 
presence to banish the melancholy forebodings 
that came thronging fast to her mind. She 
started, and suddenly drew back within the 
shadow thrown out by the church wall. She 
heard a voice, and in the obscurity saw a 
group of figures ! What could their errand 
be at that early hour 1 Surely that sound 
was familiar to her ear ! Once before she had 
heard the ropes creak as they lowered the 
coffin into the deep pit ; once before she had 
heard the rattle of the gravel falling on the 
lid, as if it struck on the very heart; once be- 
fore she had heard those words, sanctifying 
the sod over which they were uttered. Whose 
funeral rites could they be that needed such 
mysterious and secret solemnization 1 The 
agony of ages passed within her soul — one 
dreadful thought flashed upon her. She 
sprang forward ; her light step caught the ear 
of one of the mourners; he turned round, and 
the next moment, agitated and breathless, she 
was supported by Robert Evelyn. 

The funeral service was concluded, and a 
few words, as he led her to the church, suf- 
ficed to explain the scene, which it was not 
meant she should have witnessed. Evelyn 
had felt it incumbent upon him to see the last 
duties paid to Major Johnstone, and only after 
nightfall could he and others of the party as- 
semble for such purposes unmolested. Slight 
obstacles, one after another, had delayed the 
burial, and he had been waiting for some 
time, at once hoping and dreading Francesca's 
arrival. She made no remark ; but as they 
passed one mound, where the wildflowers 
grew in more lavish sweetness than on the 
others, she said, "That is Guido's grave ; — 
nothing seems present here but death." Eve- 
lyn clasped her to his heart silently, and the 
action expressed with mute but tender elo- 
quence, " There, at least, life and love beat 
for you, my own Francesca !" 

On entering the church, she was met by the 
affectionate and cordial greeting of Lucy St. 
Aubyn. The unexpected kindness was too 
much for her; it was the last drop that over- 
flowed the fountain of tears that had been ga- 
thering; and Lucy, who had been accustomed 
to see her so quiet, so self-possessed, felt her 
sympathy heightened by surprise, as she bent 
over and soothed her companion's burst of 
passionate weeping. Perhaps it excited even 
a tenderer pity ; for those in the habit of giv- 
ing way to their own feelings look upon self- 
possession rather as the sign of indifference 
than of control. Her appearance was soon 
accounted for. The moment that she heard 
from St. Aubyn the occasion that required his 
office, she resolved on accompanying him. 



FRANC ESC A CARRARA. 



399 



She felt, with the quick sympathy one woman 
has to the feelings of another, that her pre- 
sence would give Francesca both support and 
confidence, for she was sincerely attached to 
her. Besides, there is a strong current of ro- 
mance in every feminine nature, that delights 
in the hazardous and the mysterious, espe- 
cially in love affairs. Lucy, too, had a suffi- 
ciently tender recollection of Francis Evelyn 
to take an interest in his brother, who was 
also quite handsome enough to inspire that 
interest for himself. She was aware of the 
risk her husband ran in performing the cere- 
mony — many a clergyman had been suspended 
for a lighter matter; but a woman, and a 
young woman especially, always takes the 
generous side of a question. 

There was no time, however, to be lost ; 
and Evelyn led his bride to the railing before 
the altar, where St. Aubyn stood ready to 
commence the ceremony. He whispered to 
Francesca, as she knelt. " The ring I have 
for you was once my mother's — I can give 
you no dearer pledge." 

" Ah !" exclaimed she, in a choked and 
agitated voice, " it belongs, then, to the dead !" 

The service proceeded ; and the voice 
which had so little while since spoken the 
solemn farewell to a departed soul, now pro- 
nounced its blessing over the hopes and hap- 
piness of the living. 

As Francesca knelt at the altar, there was 
a melancholy earnestness in her large black 
eyes, a spiritual expression on her pale fea- 
tures, that Lucy often recalled. She herself 
wept for the recollection came often and bit- 
ter, that, this was the last time they should 
ever meet; and the difficulties and dangers 
her companion was about to encounter rose 
with every possible exaggeration to her mind. 
Francesca seemed as if her feelings admitted, 
not the weakness of tears ; yet it was sad to 
leave almost the only friend she had ever 
known, and the grave of one so beloved as her 
brother. By that grave she had passed this 
very night, and, in the agitation and hurry, 
without one prayer or thought ; yet, even 
while kneeling at Evelyn's side,, it rose upon 
her mind as if she had slighted some dear 
friend. 

Young was the bridegroom, and beautiful 
the bride, and never did blessings hallow love 
more entire and more devoted ; and yet it was 
a melancholy ceremonial. The cold light of 
the moon touched every face with unnatural 
paleness ; and the silence was unbroken and 
portentiously profound. No bells, musical 
in their gladness, swelled upon the hushed 
air — no kindly gratulations ' came cheerful 
from joyful lips; and when Evelyn took 
Francesca's hand in his — now his own — his 
bride before the face of Heaven — he started 
at the marble coldness of the touch. Surely 
the shadow of eternity and the chill of the 
surrounding graves were upon her at that mo- 
ment ! She roused herself to say a few 
words of affectionate farewell to Lucy, 
he dream of my whole life," whispered 



she, "is now fulfilled. In poverty, in exile, 
in death, I am his forever." 

Lucy embraced her in silence, and her hus- 
band's voice faltered as he bade God bless 
them. 

The youthful couple were left alone in the 
churchyard. " I have one last and dearest 
parting to make," said Francesca, and she 
knelt down beside the lowly grave of Guido. 

" Weep not, dearest, for the dead," mur- 
mured Evelyn, in the low and gentle tones of 
love. " He was very dear; but the circle of 
a deeper affection is around you now, and the 
care of a still more tender fondness." 

She rose, and put her hands into his. 
" When death," said she, in a voice that 
sounded like strange sweet music in the si- 
lence, "calls upon me to deliver up my soul, 
I cannot yield it more utterly than I now do 
to you." 

A sudden noise of hurrying steps came 
upon the air— the red glare of torches dis- 
turbed the silvery quiet of the moonbeam — . 
dark faces lowered upon them — and two men, 
by a rapid movement, secured each an arm of 
Evelyn, as a harsh voice exclaimed, " Stand, 
on your life ! — your are my prisoner !" 



CHAPTER XCVIII. 

" Have we not loved as none have ever loved 1 
Shall we not part as none have ever parted ?" 

Maturin. 

Between the future and the soul there is 
some mysterious sympathy — imperfect and 
broken in our present state of existence. 
With fitful gleams of light, such foreknow- 
ledge had rested on Francesca, when, conscious 
of coming ill, she knelt, pale and cold, before 
the altar. But the actual found her more re- 
solved than the fantas)'. In the surprise she 
had sunk again to her knee on Guido's grave. 
A woman's first impulse is always supplica- 
tion. She felt, however, that it was in vain ; 
and the blood of her high race, at the approach 
of danger, mantled in every vein to meet it. 
A cavalier stepped forward, offering her his 
hand to rise, and the moonlight fell full on the 
face of the Duke of Buckingham. His habi- 
tual sarcasm found its way. " Had I been 
aware," said he, with an obvious mixture of 
forced gayety and real chagrin, " that I was 
disturbing a lady, I fear that my gallantry 
would have interfered with my loyalty." 

Francesca's only answer was the rejection 
of his proffered aid ; and she sprang to her 
feet alone. Passing the duke as if she did 
not even see him, she approached Evelyn, on 
whose wrists the shackles already placed, 
precluded any attempt at escape, and, putting 
her hand through his arm, stood quietly by his 
side. 

" Leave him !" exclaimed Lord Avonleigh, 
who now started forward with breathless an- 
ger. "Foolish and obstinate girl ! how dare 



400 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



you hold communion with an outlaw and a 
traitor]" 

" I am his wife !" said Francesca — while 
her calm dark eyes met those of her father 
unshrinkingly, as if to confirm her words — 
"I am his wife !" 

This brief phrase fell like a thunderbolt on 
all around. Buckingham looked livid with 
rage ; — here ended his hopes of uniting the 
estates of Avonleigh and Evelyn. A barrier, 
impassable as the tomb, was now between 
him and Francesca ; his rival might perish — 
but there he was, a stumblingblock in his 
path forever. And, with that mixture of good 
and evil blended in all natures, but in most 
striking contrast in his own, he remained for 
an interval touched only by the devotion and 
courage which, in the beautiful Italian, took 
yet a higher tone, when shame and death 
might have bade a weaker temper shrink from 
the avowal. But there she stood, her cheek 
flushed, even in the moonlight, with generous 
earnestness, her brow wearing a sad but strong- 
resolve, and her delicate hand just touching 
his arm, as if to mark by how dear a claim she 
drew to his side. It was but momentary ; 
and revenge — revenge born of pique and ava- 
rice — became the duke's paramount sensation. 

As to Lord Avonleigh, the common 
phrase of ; ' he was in a rage" precisely ex- 
presses his emotion. What he intended to 
do was not very clear even to himself, but it 
was to be something very dreadful. He 
snatched Francesca's arm from her lover's", 
and his hasty order of "Away with him !" 
was instantly obeyed ; and Evelyn was con- 
veyed at once to a lonely apartment in the 
castle, where he was left to pass the night in 
sleep and thought, as best he might — the first 
glance around the chamber showing the utter 
hopelessness of escape. 

" I am sorry, madam," said Lord Avon- 
leigh, " to propose a step so disagreeable as 
a return to the home which you have deemed 
unworthy the honour of your presence; but I 
suppose you do not wish to remain in the 
churchyard ?" Francesca followed where he 
led, without uttering a word. " I have been 
somewhat remiss in courtesy," said he, sud- 
denly, "doubtless Mr. Evelyn has bidden 
guests to his bridal festivities '? It is hard 
that there should be neither bridegroom nor 
bride to receive them. Perhaps you would 
wish to make his apologies 1 There is no 
lack of deer-stalkers in these glades to assem- 
ble a goodly company in honour of an outlaw's 
wedding." 

Still she walked by his side, unanswering. 
Now, he had expected her to weep, and was 
quite angry that she did not. He had pre- 
pared divers little speeches about women and 
crocodiles' tears, and it was very provoking 
to have them wasted. However, he continued. 
Talking is to some the relief that crying is to 
others ; and taunts- and reproaches brought 
them midway into the forest. Had the re- 
proaches been more biting, or the taunts more 
keen, Buckingham might have been amused 
by them ; but, sucn as they were, they proved 



exceedingly tiresome ; and weariness took tha 
form of pity for Francesca. " He will cer* 
tainly talk the poor girl to death," thought he : 
and he looked sympathizingly on her pale ana 
melancholy countenance. " Lady Francesca,' 
he said at length, with that kind yet simple 
manner he knew well how to assume, " do 
let me assist you — and from me you shall at 
least have the benefit of silence." 

How unutterably do the wretched feel the 
least expression of kindness ! He saw, as 
he gave his arm, that her eyes were filled 
with tears. She was thankful, both for the 
support and for the silence; but how long, 
how very long, did it seem before they reach- 
ed the castle ! 

As they approached, Francesca turned to 
her father. The moon was just sinking be- 
hind the little chapel, and the complete dark- 
ness of the casement showed a dim ray from 
the lamp within. "For pity's sake," said 
she, "spare me to-night the curious gaze of 
the household — I cannot bear it. May I re- 
turn through the chapel, and so regain my 
chamber ]" 

" That will be the least painful to all par- 
ties," replied Buckingham ; and leaving her 
to pass in at the door, he remained on the 
threshold, to make due explanation to Lord 
Avonleigh. The kindness here had its rea- 
sons. He knew that female tears and prayers 
were what Charles rarely resisted, and did 
not desire in this instance that he should be 
exposed to them; for, with all the duke's pity 
for Francesca, he never relented towards Eve- 
lyn for one moment. 

Lord Avonleigh, at a hint from his compa- 
nion, followed his daughter into the chapel, 
and said — " If, madam, I permit you, however 
unworthy, to return to your chamber, there I 
expect you to remain. I shall plead indispo- 
sition as the cause of your absence." 

Francesca bent her head in token of ac- 
quiescence, and hastened to the little winding 
staircase. As she ascended, she heard her fa- 
ther lock the door at the foot. "Alas!" 
thought she, " how useless the precaution ! 
All that my heart holds dear is now in the 
castle." 

She had scarcely been in the chamber ten 
minutes, and bad not moved from the seat on 
which she had sunk, exhausted and dizzy, 
when the door opened, and Lord Avonleigh 
appeared. " I just wished to inform you," 
said he coldly, " that even your very hope of 
my pardon depends on your not interfering 
with my plans. I have given orders that no 
one, excepting your own attendant approaches 
your chamber. I advise obedience, for your 
own sake; it is your good that I have ii: 
view." And without waiting for a reply he 
withdrew, and Francesca heard him lock the 
door and take out the key. 

"I am indeed a prisoner," exclaimed she, 
as she sunk back hopeless in her chair, more 
alive to Evelyn's gloomy situation than her 
own. She paced the room in agony ; for, un- 
acquainted with English laws, she even exag- 
gerated his danger. Accustomed to the tragic 






FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



401 



histories of her own country, the midnight 
dagger of the assassin was uppermost in her 
thoughts. Every noise made her start; and 
the wind, as it howled round the battlements, 
seemed in every gust to bring the low groan 
of the murdered. 

Lord Avonleigh certainly meant to punish 
his daughter ; but the penalty was far beyond 
what he had dreamed. He had no designs on 
Robert Evelyn's life. To have him exiled 
again, and the marriage with Francesca can- 
celled and concealed, was the plan that floated 
before him. The envy he had felt towards 
the house of Evelyn was appeased, and some 
remembrance of early friendship and former 
ties arose within him. But he was provoked ; 
the marriage of the banished heir with his 
daughter was like a triumph over himself; he 
could not endure it. 

Lord Avonleigh was an angry rather than a 
vindictive man. Vindictiveness requires more 
energy of character than he possessed. In- 
deed, it may be questioned whether he would 
of himself have taken the violent measures of 
the preceding evening. The truth is, Fran- 
cesca did not know how to manage him; flat- 
tery, it never entered her head to use. More- 
over, he required to be entreated and per- 
suaded. Had she, from the very first, urged 
her attachment to Robert Evelyn, by this time 
he would have become accustomed to it — 
nay, perhaps have exerted himself in its fa- 
vour, for the mere sake of showing his power. 
But, shy and reserved, Francesca shrank from 
dwelling on her feelings to one who appeared 
so careless of them. Father and daughter had 
nothing in common; and the familiarity of 
domestic life,, instead of drawing them more 
closely together, only served to make the dis- 
tance more apparent. 

But, in the present case, Lord Avonleigh 
was a tool in the hands of Buckingham, who, 
having come down prepared to woo and win 
the beautiful heiress, could not brook 'disap- 
pointment. Indifference — andFrancesca's was 
obvious — in a woman to himself, could be ac- 
counted for but by one cause, a preference to 
another. To discover that rival, and revenge 
himself on him when found, were things of 
course. With that attention to trifles which 
constitutes so large a part of the genius for 
intrigue, he had noted slight signs of an alter- 
ed bearing in Francesca during the last two 
days : there must be some reason — either she 
had seen or heard from her lover. He coupled 
this with her absence on plea of indisposition, 
and at once drew the inference that they had 
met. Here chance befriended him. One of 
his attendants had found no little favour in the 
eyes of Alice, who expressed her suspicions 
that her mistress had some secret correspond- 
ence, for two reasons ; first, to satisfy a natu- 
rally communicative temper — all common peo- 
ple are communicative ; and secondly, in hopes 
of gaining such assistance as might ultimately 
gratify her own curiosity, now "most uncom- 
fortably excited. 

A thread will guide through a labyrinth, 
and Buckingham soon discovered that his 

Vol. I.— 51 



rival was one whose pretensions militated 
alike against his interest and love. The fair 
manors of Evelyn were now his own, and so 
they should remain ; and if those of Avonleigh 
could be added to them, they should not be 
lost for want of exertion on his part. The 
lady herself went for something ; he decided- 
ly preferred her to Lord Fairfax's daughter. 
The wealth which might pass as quite a 
minor consideration with the one, would be 
needed as the only excuse for the other. He 
learnt that Major Johnstone's funeral was to 
take place that night, and that Robert Evelyn 
would undoubtedly be there. He accordingly 
applied to Lord Avonleigh, talked about loyal- 
ty and public duty, and demanded that, as a 
magistrate, he should issue a warrant for Eve- 
lyn's apprehension. This was granted with a 
readiness and yet an embarrassment that at 
once excited the duke's suspicions that his 
future father-in-law knew more of Francesca's 
attachment than he liked to confess. Both 
decided on seeing the warrant executed ; and 
the discovery to which it led took both by 
surprise. 

Francesca's avowal of her marriage put hope 
out of the question, but memory remained ; 
and the duke considered revenge as a duty he 
owed to himself. Evelyn had dared to cross 
his path — let him perish ! it was at once a 
good example and a satisfaction — a good ex- 
ample, which means warning to others, and a 
satisfaction to himself. "I have been," mut- 
tered he, "dramatizing the last week: as it 
cannot be a comedy and end with a marriage, 
let it be a tragedy and end with a death. £ 
can be the tyrant — Evelyn the lover ordered 
to execution. Lord Avonleigh has a double 
part to sustain — the cruel father, and the mi- 
nister of my vengeance ; while Francesca can 
go mad in white satin." 

It is a curious fact, but a fact it is, that your 
witty people are the most hard-hearted in the 
world. The truth is, fancy destroys feeling. 
The quick eye to the ridiculous turns every 
tiling to the absurd side ; and the neat sen- 
tence, the lively allusion, and the odd simile, 
invest what they touch with something of 
their own buoyant nature. Humour is of the 
heart, and has its tears ; but wit is of the head, 
and has only smiles — and the majority of those 
are bitter. 

Buckingham's plan was settled as Lord 
Avonleigh led his daughter away. There 
must be no womanish supplications to the 
king. Charles was to leave the castle the 
following day ; Francesca could be confined 
in her chamber till after his departure ; and 
Evelyn, once given over to the common course 
of law, would meet with little mercy, now the 
tide ran so strongly against the Roundheads 
and Puritans. Some slight fear he entertained 
of the Comtesse de Soissons ; but, could he 
contrive to prevent an interview between her 
and Francesca till too late — and it would be 
too late after Charles was once gone — the duke 
knew him well enough to fear no written peti 
tion. All was arranged. Under pretence of 
avoiding any discussion that might affect the 
2l 2 



402 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



oyalty or compromise the dignity of a noble 
house, he managed to insinuate all his own 
suggestions so cunningly, that Lord Avonleigh 
mistook them for his own, and was quite de- 
lighted — perhaps a little amazed — at his own 
ingenuity, and actually ended by hoping that 
the duke would oblige him by following his 
advice. 



CHAPTER XCIX. 



" I crave your grace's pardon." 

Shakspeare. 



How odd it is to think how differently peo- 
ple are employed at the same time, and how 
sad to think how heavily the burden falls on 
most ! The contrast of the lot of the few with 
that of the many rather aggravates the misery : 
— why should they be thus favoured 1 

The evening, so anxious, so wretched to the 
young heiress of the castle, had been passed 
very cheerfully by her guests. The queen 
mother and her suite had arrived at that age 
when cards are a habit, a business, and a re- 
laxation. The one or two young members 
enlivened themselves by betting sums they 
could not afford. Meilleraye and Hortense 
were rather unhappy at the thoughts of return- 
ing to France, where their intercourse would 
be so much more restricted ; and Madame de 
Soissons and the king had drawn two large 
chairs near the hearth, the evenings being suf- 
ficiently cold to make a fire pleasant. She 
was talking, though in a low voice, with much 
w r armth, and Charles was listening with an 
appearance of pleased attention — that is, he 
was kept awake very agreeably. When the 
dialogue began, both had determined to speak 
on the same subject; and what the one want- 
ed to learn, the other wished to tell. 

Madame de Soissons possessed, in its per- 
fection, that rare and graceful gift of narrative, 
which skims so lightly over the surface, and 
yet leave nothing unmarked — the keen vein of 
ridicule mingled with the touch of deeper feel- 
ing, and a sort of personal flattery thrown into 
the whole — something that brings the things 
described home to your individual experience; 
and, finally, which forces one idea prominent- 
ly forward — the attention devoted to yourself, 
in so much pains being taken for your amuse- 
ment. She was relating the history of Fran- 
cesca, and endeavouring to render it as inte- 
resting as possible. She took it up from its 
earliest period, painting her as the lonely child 
in the deserted palazzo, yet careful beyond 
her years for the sake of the strange old astro- 
loger, whose wild and wayward habits cer- 
tainly lost nothing by Marie's description. 

" And yet, your grace, the young lover then 
sued in vain. She can now renounce rank 
and wealth for his sake ; but she could not 
leave that aged and weary man desolate in 
his last years." 

Paris came next, and the romance of Italy 
was left behind. 



Charles was greatly amused by tho decep 
tion of Francis — there was no high feeling in 
himself that recoiled from such imposition ; 
still, he felt rather glad that it was not suc- 
cessful — partly, perhaps, because it would 
have put an end to the story. 

Marie's own voice faltered a little when 
England became the scene — the remembrance 
of Guido rose upon her memory ; it was for- 
tunate, for Francesca's sake, that it did, for 
real feeling always excites sympathy. 

" And now think how strong and how en- 
during has the affection been on each side! 
We laugh at these grandes passions, and it is 
well that we should — they don't come much 
within our social experience ; but still it is 
as well that constancy a toute epreuve should 
sometimes exist, if it were only for the sake 
of Corneille's tragedies, and Madame Scru- 
deri's romances." 

" And also," interrupted her listener, " that 
we may ourselves believe, and be believed. 
Let a miracle have happened only once, and 
we always expect it to happen again in our 
own case. Fidelity is very good as a prece- 
dent — one true lover helps on the vows of a 
thousand false ones." 

" I see," said Marie, "your grace has a 
fellow-feeling for the many." 

" It excites so much envy to be singular, 
that I pursue the beaten path from a pure 
spirit of Christian charity." 

" Do I doubt the excellence of your mo» 
tives ? — I see you are inconstant only from 
humility." 

" I could soon forget to be humble at your 
side; Madame de Soissons' fetters are not te 
be lightly worn." 

"I would thank you," replied she, laugh- 
ing, " but I have made a vow not to speak of 
myself to-night. I intend to talk of nothing 
but Francesca. I am about to leave England ; 
I must implore your grace to allow me to 
carry away one pleasant recollection — one 
whose pleasure will not be painful because 
past," — and here Marie took un petit ton de 
sentiment — " you must, as a parting favour, 
accord me Robert Evelyn's pardon !" 

" I feel most mercifully disposed towards 
the young republican," replied the king; 
your interest throws its own charm around 
the object. But this present case quite re- 
verses the old saying, which asserts that the 
law is one vast cobweb, which the large flies, 
alias the rich, break through, but in which the 
small flies, alias the poor, are entangled. 
This Mr. Evelyn's estates are sadly in his 
way. It will tax even your eloquence to per- 
suade George Villiers to give up the broad 
lands which are now his by right of confisca- 
tion ; and life without land is but a half sort 
of pardon. What shall we do with Bucking- 
ham 1" 

" I was not aw T are," replied la comtesse, 
" that the duke was keeper of your grace's 
conscience." 

" Faith," answered Charles, "it mightbe in 
better hands ; but if my conscience is not in 
his keeping ; Robert Evelyn's estates are." 




FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



403 



" 0, they will bear a considerable fine ; 
und there must surely be in this discontented 
island, other rebels, whose estates may be 
confiscated for the Duke of Buckingham's 
benefit, and who are not so much in love as 
to be interesting." 

"Well, pardoned he shall be," returned 
the king, "even at the penalty of George's 
not saying a witty thing for the next month 
at Whitehall, excepting at my expense." 

" Your grace," replied Marie, with a most 
flattering smile, "can repay him with interest. 
But a thousand thanks for your goodness. 
How happy this will make my poor Fran- 
cesca!" 

They now changed the subject, for Marie's 
quick eye had detected Buckingham's en- 
trance ; and she began to draw a laughing 
picture of the melancholy alteration which 
their departure would occasion in the castle. 

" These poor, dear, dull rooms — how weary 
they surely feel of those eternal portraits ! 
W T hat a comfort our countenances must have 
been ! — wh) r , the very old chairs must rejoice 
in a variety !" 

At this moment Lord Avonleigh approach- 
ed, with a face of solemn distress. " I must 
entreat your patience," said he, " if I lack to- 
night somewhat of the courtesy due to my 
illustrious guests; but I am in great anxiety 
of mind. The Lady Fiancesca has been 
taken dangerously ill — a fever, as my house- 
hold physician declares. Do not look so 
alarmed, Madame ; every possible precaution 
has been taken to prevent infection. I have 
given the strictest orders to interdict any com- 
munication between her attendants and those 
devoted to your service." 

" !" said la comtesse, " I am not the 
least afraid. I shall request permission to 
see her. I can assure you she has been my 
nurse before now." 

"I cannot take upon myself to allow such 
a risk, both for your sake and — pardon my 
parental anxiety — for hers. She is now sleep- 
ing ; and the leech hoped so much from her 
being kept quiet, that I dare not suffer her to 
be disturbed. I shall treat her as a prisoner. 
See, I have in my own possession the key of 
the gallery which communicates with her 
apartments," 

" There cannot be too much care taken in 
such a case," said the Duke of Buckingham, 
gravely, and looking at the king; then, chang- 
ing his manner to one of extreme interest, he 
added, " are you satisfied with only your or- 
dinary advice] Should not you send express 
to London ]" 

" I think so highly of the care I have often 
myself experienced, that I am content to wait 
Jill to-morrow; a quiet night may do much." 

Madame de Soissons urged no more her 
wish to see Francesca, but joined with the 
rest in expressing her reoret. 

The party soon broke up, for it was very 
late, and the intelligence of their hostess's 
illness did any thing but exhilarate the circle. 
We always feel afraid, when any one is taken 
suddenly ill, that our own turn may come 



next ; for the following day and night, at 
least, symptoms are equally fancied and 
watched. 

During the confusion of the card-table set- 
tlement, Madame de Soissons approached De 
Joinville, and said, " Was it not your page 
whom I saw risking his neck for a crow's 
nest in the avenue, the other morning'?" 

"I daresay it was," replied the cavalier; 
" I have known him risk it for a less matter." 

" What could he do in a lady's service ?" 

" ! Louis is devoue au service des dames. 
You might send him to the end of the world 
with a smile." 

" I do not mean to send him quite so far as 
that. But, can he be secret V 

"He is my page," answered De Joinville, 
significantly. 

" My question was rather unnecessary. I 
will ask one more to the point. Will you 
lend him to me a couple of hours hence, and 
let his coming to my chamber be enveloped 
in mystery as profound as M. de Liancour's 
meaning]" 

" He shall be equally undiscovered : Louis 
would pass a sunbeam and cast no shadow. 
Two hours hence he shall be with you." 

" And, as a reward, yoxi shall be present at 
the denouement of my romance. There was 
already a lady, a knight, and a confidante — 
there lacked nothing but a page." 

"Louis is perfect of his kind; but I am 
very curious." 

" You must wait till to-morrow. Good- 
night ! and remember that if discretion be the 
better part of valour, silence is the better part 
of discretion." 



CHAPTER C. 

" There ia a certain coddess, called Confidence, that 
carries much weight in honourable preferments. Fortune 
waits upon her— Cupid is at her back: she sends them 
both of errands." — The Merchant's Wedding. 

"O, run on my errand, thou bonny foot-r>a£re." 

OldB'dlad. 

Louis arrived at the appointed hour, and 
found the comtesse eager for his appearance. 
He was a frank, handsome looking boy, 
whose arch smile and quick eye vouched that 
there were few cases where he might not safely 
be left to his own resources. 

" W T elcome, my young knight-errant !" ex- 
claimed Madame de Soissons. " I am expect- 
ing you to do wonders." 

" Nothing could be wonderful when per- 
formed in your service," replied the boy, 
with that readiness of compliment so charae 
teristic of his time and court. 

The comtesse smiled and continued : "First, 
I must take you into my full confidence. 1 
am persuaded that the Lady Francesca's ill 
ness is but a pretext, — I want both to ascer- 
tain the fact and to communicate with her. 
Now, as her father has locked the door, this 
can only be effected through the window 



404 



MI&S LANDON'S WORKS. 



Do you think you could manage your entrance 
to the Lady Francesca's chamber ?" 
"Ay, were it twice as high. The old ivy is 
as good as a ladder. But, unless I am much 
mistaken, it must be quite easy to get from 
your own window to hers ;" — and, so saying, 
he softly unclosed the further lattice. " Yes," 
exclaimed he, " yonder turret is easily gained, 
— nothing like your old houses !" 
"Mon Dieu!" said Marie, "but the height is 
fearful ! Dare I hazard your life !" 

" I would indeed hazard it," replied Louis ; 
" but here I have not even the satisfaction of 
running a little danger for your sake. Now, 
what am I to say or do !" 

" Give this note to Lady Francesca, and bring 
rne back her answer. But, for the love of 
Heaven, be careful !" 

The page laughed recklessly, and sprang 
upon the window-sill ; in an instant he disap- 
peared. 

Marie stood breathless for a moment, and 
then hurried to the open lattice, and watched 
the boy's progress. The moon had set; but 
as such nights are never quite dark, she could 
see the shadowy outline of the slender figure as 
it passed along.. The architectural ornaments 
— the uneven wall — the tough branches — were 
ample footing for the adventurous boy, who 
scrambled on with a rapidity which made 
Marie's head grow dizzy to look upon. At 
length he reached the angle of the wall, and 
it hid him from her sight. She stood at the 
casement still watching, but could see no more. 
The night-wind was very chill, and she turned 
away : " My catching cold will not prevent 
my young adventurer from breaking his neck, 
neither will it in any way benefit Francesca." 
With this remark she drew her cloak more 
closely around her, and flung herself into an 
arm-chair by the fire, to await the result. 

In the mean time we will proceed to Fran- 
cesca's chamber, where she was seated, sad 
and lonely, harrassed by every painful image 
that fancy could conjure up — dreading the 
morrow, and yet impatient for its arrival. 
Weary as she was, she knew it was in vain 
to seek her pillow : people may sleep on the 
night before execution, but not on that before 
sentence is passed. No torture, though the 
human race are most ingenious in their de- 
vices of hate, can equal the low fever, the 
wearing depression of suspense. But a deep- 
er consciousness than even that of actual evil 
was on the young Italian. She was weighed 
down by a terrible foreboding. She sat by 
the hearth, whose fitful light at times passed 
over her features. Her long black hair, 
which loosened, fell even to her feet, was like 
a shroud, whence her pale face glanced 
forth — abandoned by the hope and the bloom 
of youth. 

A slight noise at one of the windows aroused 
her from her gloomy revery, and, looking up, 
she saw that some one was standing before 
it. The wretched catch at hope, however im- 
probable. Was it possible that Elevyn had 
effected his escape 1 But, good God, the 
danger of such an ascent ! She sprang to the 



casement, unfastened it — and sank back, lor 
she gazed upon a stranger. 

The page, who mistook her paleness for 
fear, exclaimed eagerly, "Do not be alarmed, 
lady : I come from Madame de Soissons, who 
is most anxious to know your pleasure. This 
note will explain all ;" and he drew forth a 
little scroll, and gave it to Francesca, whose 
hand trembled so that at first she could not 
break the seal. Louis observed her agitation, 
and, with a thoughtful kindness beyond his 
years, led her to a seat, drew the lamp 
towards her, and then occupied himself with 
gathering together the brands of the decaying 
fire. 

" I am not quite deserted ?" murmured Fran- 
cesca, as she opened the letter, which con- 
tained these few words : — 

"Ma belle Princesse, are you immured in a 
dungeon, or only locked in your own chamber 'I 
I hope the latter, as then my role de confi* 
dante has no difficulties in the way of its per- 
formance. I hear you are ill of a fever, — I 
do not believe it ; but I do want to know what 
is the matter. What can I do for you] I 
have spoken to Charles, who has the most 
amiable intentions; the sooner, however, they 
are fulfilled, the better. Mr. Evelyn is sure 
of his pardon — of his estate, not quite so cer- 
tain ; however, I suppose you can live upon 
love. My messenger is trustworthy ; you can 
either speak or write. 

" Yours, in all curiosity, and sincerity, 
" Marie." 

Francesca hid her face in her hands, in a 
transport of mute but tearful thankfulness. 
Evelyn in safety and at liberty ! — the very 
hope was perfect happiness. She caught up 
a pen, but the characters she traced were 
scarcely legible : 

" I am, indeed, dearest Marie, a prisoner. 
Lord Avonleigh and the duke surprised Mr. 
Evelyn and myself together; and he, too, is 
confined in the castle. This evening we were 
married, — to-morrow were to have sailed for 
America. I had relied upon seeing you to- 
night, when I should have told you every 
thing. A pardon is all we ask — let Buck- 
ingham keep his ill-gotten estate, life, life is 
our only prayer. And in that far land, where- 
in our future lot will be cast, with what grati- 
tude and what love shall we remember your 
name ! A thousand thanks ! Yours, 

"Francesca." 

" Stay yet one moment," said she, as she 
gave the note to Louis, and, approaching the 
dressing-table, took from a casket a Venetian 
chain, in which the purest gold was moulded 
by the most delicate workmanship. She 
flung it herself round the page's neck, and 
bade him " wear it for her sake." 

"Not so, lady; believe me that the plea* 
sure of serving you is its own best recom 
pense," replied the youth, colouring. 

" Nay," said she, "as a recompense it werj 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



405 



'ndeed unworthy ; but when I am far away, 
it will bring to your memory the gratitude of 
one to whom you have given life, and all that 
makes life dear." 

Louis kissed the hand extended to him, 
and, hastening to the casement, again com- 
menced his perilous way. In a few minutes 
he was in Madame de Soisson's chamber, 
who sprang from her chair to welcome him. 

"Never was wall scaled so bravely — an 
omen of future success, when you shall try 
such an adventure on your own account. But 
now tell me all." 

" This letter will do it better than I can, 
who only know that the lady Francesca is not 
ill." 

Marie opened it eagerly, — " Married ! — 
going to America !" — and she sat down fairly 
breathless with astonishment. " O, they will 
easily be reasoned out of this folly. Well," 
continued she, addressing the page, " do you 
give this note early to-morrow into the hands 
of the king himself. May I trust you to 
gather some violets 1 They will pass for an 
excuse — un petit brin de sentiment very justi- 
fiable on the last day. Make use of my name 
to deliver it. His being asleep is of no con- 
sequence ; wake him, — a lady's message is 
not to be kept waiting. And here is un gage 
d'amitie for yourself." So saying, she gave 
him a velvet purse embroidered with gold, 
and whose contents were more than adequate 
to the promise of its glittering outside. 

" Most happy," said Louis, " to be em- 
ployed in the service of madamc," and left 
the room, not the one least satisfied with the 
result of the night's adventure. 

"This marriage," thought the comtesse, 
"certainly takes me by surprise; but I hold 
that it will save a great deal of trouble. Lord 
Avonleigh now cannot help himself — the thing 
is done. Well, I do enjoy his grace's disap- 
pointment: the turns of the game have left us 
pretty even. I have to thank him for baffling 
my plans about Hortense, while he has to 
thank me for destroying his own. But I am 
very tired, and must bid good-night to myself." 



CHAPTER CI. 

" Besides, the king's name is a tower of strength." 
Shakspeare. 

The breakfast next morning had been or- 
dered at an early hour, on account of the in- 
tended departure of the royal guests ; and, to 
the surprise of some, Charles was one of the 
first to make his appearance. He had received 
the note and the basket of violets. Madame 
de Soissons was next, and her flattery and 
entreaties amply confirmed his resolution. 

"You will permit me, however," said 
Charles, to take my breakfast first." 

" Certainly," replied Marie ; " it will be 
most politic,— you will then be in a better 
humour. Who is it that says a favour should 
never be asked till after dinner 1— and your 



substantial English breakfast will answer 
nearly as well." 

The meal passed in solemn silence. Lord 
Avonleigh felt that he ought not to talk in his 
character of an afflicted father. Buckingham 
was equally obliged to discretion as an anxious 
lover. De Joinville gave up speaking when 
he found nobody listened — their not answering 
he might have excused ; and Madame de 
Soissons was quiet from pure impatience. 

" Really, there is such a dead calm," at 
last exclaimed the duke, " that I begin to be 
apprehensive of a storm : it is quite ominous. 
Who among us are likely to quarrel first]" 
glancing at the corner of the table where Hor- 
tense and Meilleraye were seated, as usual, 
talking in whispers, and as indifferent as they 
well could be to the very existence of the 
rest of the company. 

" Quarrels !" said Charles ; " do not use 
so disagreeable a word. I am thinking of 
nothing but the thanks I owe Lord Avonleigh 
for his hospitality" — Lord Avonleigh bent to 
the very edge of the table — "and the favours 
I am about to ask." 

" It is coming," thought Marie. 

" Now, your lordship," continued Charles, 
" must not send me away a disappointed 
guest ; pray allow Lady Francesca to be 
summoned hither. I am aware," added he, 
interrupting her father's attempt to speak, 
that "the lady's only illness is your displea- 
sure. Sufficient cause, I am sure; but one 
which I hope to remove." 

Lord Avonleigh looked aghast, and, never 
very ready with his own resources, endea- 
voured to catch Buckingham's eye, but in 
vain. The duke's attention was fixed on 
Madame de Soissons ; their eyes met, and 
both laughed. His volatile temper was al- 
ready caught with the absurdity of having 
been so outwitted, and Lord Avonleigh's con- 
sternation was ample recompense. He re- 
solved he should get through it as he could. 

"May we take your silence for consent?" 
asked Charles, after a pause. 

" Your grace has been strangely deceived — 
the Lady Francesca is too ill to leave her 
room." Lord Avonleigh had not tact enough 
to perceive that the truth would now have 
been his best policy. 

" Nay," replied Charles, gravely, " this is 
carrying your anger too far. Allow me to 
mediate between you. I must entreat, nay, 1 
command the Lady Francesca's presence." 

"Your grace's commands are absolute," 
said Lord Avonleigh, as he perceived that 
Buckingham would not come to his assistance, 
and found, as he could not trust to the duke, 
he must trust to chance. " Take the key of 
the south gallery," he said to an attendant, 
" and tell the Lady Francesca that it is the 
king's wish to see her, and that she has my 
permission to leave her apartment." 

Lord Avonleigh had decided on taking re- 
fuge in wounded dignity, when he was again 
addressed by the king. 

"The castle holds another prisoner, to 
whom I intend extending the best prerogative 



406 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



of my crown— mercy. Will you order Robert 
Evelyn to be brought before me V 

Lord Avonleigh bowed in sullen silence, 
and turning to his page, bade him desire that 
the prisoner might forthwith be conducted to 
the royal presence. 

"Avonleigh is more puzzled than I am," 
whispered Buckingham, who had drawn to 
Madame de Soissons' side. " I can assure 
you that my anger is merged in admira- 
tion." 

" Suppose," said Marie, " that we make 
peace 1 and, as a reward, I will tell you the 
whole history." 

The duke answered, "agreed." 
When the prisoner was brought into the 
room, Charles looked for a moment admiring- 
ly on the graceful figure and noble bearing of 
the youth who entered, and then said, " Give 
him his sword — Mr. Evelyn, you are free : I 
pardon you for the sake of others, and will 
consider their intercession sufficient pledge 
for your loyalty." 

Evelyn, bewildered by the sudden change, 
sunk on his knee, and silently kissed the 
king's extended hand ; he strove to speak his 
thanks, the word died upon his lips ; but at- 
tention was drawn from his emotion by the 
entrance of Francesca. She was dressed in 
her black novice's robe, whose large loose 
folds suited so well the simple dignity of her 
air. Her hair was just parted on her fore- 
head, and gathered up in a single knot behind. 
She was pale as marble ; but her large eyes 
had an unnatural and feverish brightness ; and 
when she came into the room, and perceived 
Evelyn, a crimson flush for a moment passed 
over her countenance, but left it even paler than 
before. She hesitated, and he was that in- 
stant at her side. He took her hand, and led 
her, scarce conscious, across the room. 
" Kneel, my bride, my beloved !" said he, in 
a whisper, " and thank our sovereign for a 
life which is indeed precious for your sake." 
Francesca sank at the king's feet ; but be- 
fore she could speak, he raised her from the 
ground, and said, " Why, this is strange bri- 
dal attire, my beautiful nun !" 

" My sad and solemn garb is a custom of 
my country," replied Francesca. " What can 
be so fitting as a religious dress for a time of 
tribulation, sorrow, and farewell 1" 

" No talk of farewell now," exclaimed Ma- 
dame de Soissons, cordially embracing her 
friend. " I am sure your father will con- 
sent." 

"I have really been so little consulted," 
answered Lord Avonleigh, " that any opinion 
of mine is as superfluous to ask as to offer." 

" Nay," said the king, " we have done with 
authority now ; we shall only beg that you 
will add your pardon to our own." 

" My father !" exclaimed Francesca, " I 
implore you, part from me not with an un- 
kindly feeling. I entreat you to recollect that 
Robert Evelyn loved me as the lonely and 
neglected orphan ; that our affection has been 
tried in every way ; and that for my sake, 
be las risked liberty and life. My father, 



had he perished on the scaffold, the sama 
grave would have held us both !" 

" Come, Lord Avonleigh," said Charles, 
"the house of Evelyn is as noble as your 
own, and a portion of the estate shall be re- 
stored." 

" Thank you," said Buckingham, in a lotf 
tone, to Madame de Soissons. 

"Pray," answered she, " do not let a little 
miserable earth interfere with our newly form- 
ed friendship." 

"I thank your grace," said Evelyn; "but 
I ask no boon beyond the life, whose grati- 
tude can end but with itself. Let my father's 
house pass from me, even as I am about tc 
pass from my father's land. When yondei 
dearest maiden stood with me before the altar, 
she knew that she wedded one whose future 
lot was cast in another place — that I was an 
exile and a wanderer. The plan which I 
formed thoughtfully, I adhere to steadily. 1 
am still bound to my brave companions ; far 
across the ocean we will seek an altar and a 
home. For the faith which we profess we 
are ready to encounter every danger. We go 
in the name of God, and we believe he will 
guide us in safety through the wilderness. 
To-night we sail !" 

" He is mad !" exclaimed Lord Avonleigh. 
" At all events, you, Francesca, will not go 
with him ?" 

She answered by placing her hand in Eve- 
lyn's, and standing in silence at his side. 



CHAPTER CII. 

" C'est qu'on n'a pas pour tout partage 
De soupirer et de rdver ; 
Que sur l'ocean sans rivage 
II faut poursuivre son voyage, 
Dut-on ne jamais arriver."— St. Beuve. 

It was but a few hours after the preceding 
scene that a party were seen issuing from the 
gates of Avonleigh castle. Two horses stood 
saddled, ready ; but before Evelyn assisted 
his bride to mount, she turned to embrace 
Madame de Soissons, who had accompanied 
her to the portal. " God bless you !" ex- 
claimed she, in a faltering voice. " Think 
of me sometimes, and heaven above knows 
that my heart will beat with the remembrance 
of your kindness till it lies cold in death." 
Francesca then sprung on her horse,' and in a 
few minutes they had crossed the path, and 
were hidden by the forest; once again they 
appeared on a winding turn of the road ; again 
the boughs closed round them, and shut therm 
out from those who watched them — forever. 

It was long before Madame de Soissons 
ceased to gaze upon the road. At length, 
dashing the last tears from her cheek, she 
turned with a forced smile to De Joinville, 
who was standing beside, and said, "Well, 
there are some things in the world I do not 
understand ? and I neither comprehend Eve- 
lyn's going to America, nor Francesca's ac 
companying him;" — and with this speecli 



FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



407 



we take our farewell of the comtesse, who 
went back to Paris, and passed an active life 
of court intrigue, which was generally suc- 
cessful : — the chief incident of her afterlife 
was a brief exile for an impertinent speech to 
Madame de Valliere. 

The Chevalier De Joinville lived to an ad- 
vanced age, and was considered a very amus- 
ing old gentleman; he was sometimes advised 
to write his memoirs, but, as he justly ob- 
served, he had a character to lose. 

Lord Avonleigh married again, and, with 
that singular good fortune which never de- 
serted him, except in the instance of his son, 
who was perhaps the one great sacrifice to 
fate, was very fortunate in his choice, for his 
lady was pretty, obedient, and an excellent 
nurse. He took to good eating and the gout; 
and even Albert was as much forgotten as 
Francesca and her mother. 

Charles Aubyn and Lucy vegetated in quiet 
content. The young and enthusiastic preacher 
taming down into an accommodating con- 
formist, one who felt that the interests of his 
own living and of the church in general were 
indissolubly connected. He dined constantly 
at the castle, and was always considered a 
very worthy and respectable individual. Lucy 
herself made a valuable discovery, namely, 
that she had delicate health — only those who 
have this perpetual interest in themselves can 
understand its enjoyment — and what with 
complaint, symptoms, remedies, and ground- 
ivy tea, it was quite wonderful how time 
passed unobserved away. It is on such as 
these that life lavishes its favours ; these are 
they of the light heart, and yet lighter mind, 
for whose sake the earth, to whose base clay 
they are so near allied, puts forth her best ; 
these are they who have the corn and wine of 
existence. What know they of the sensitive 
temper which makes its own misery ] — of the 
deep feeling that cannot change ! — of the hope 
that looks too high, whose bright wings melt 
in the glorious flight, and is dashed to pieces 
in its rude collision with the common and the 
actual \ What know they of that feverish 
impatience of the littleness of society, which 
takes refuge amid the dreams of a haunted 
solitude, from w r hich it only ventures forth to 
have those dreams destroyed ? What know 
they of these 1 ? — Nothing, nothing; and in 
their ignorance are they happy ! 

A graver page than this, that of history, re- 
cords the further career which awaited some 
who have been recalled in this brief chronicle, 
of their earlier time. Power and indulgence 
harden, corrupt, and assimilate their posses- 
sors ; and as they drew near and more near 
to the close, the characters of Louis and of 
Charles took stronger shades of resemblance. 
The indolent good-nature of the one lapsed 
into the most reckless selfishness; and 
throughout our English annals there is no 
portion more disgraceful than the latter years 
of Charles's reign ; and assuredly the same 
censure may be passed on^,hose of Louis — 
periods of personal and of national degrada- 
tion. 



But we have now done with all those who 
have taken part in these pages, save of the 
two whose fortunes and characters they have 
endeavoured principally to illustrate; and they 
have yet a long wild voyage to perform. 

A feeling of gladness and freedom long un- 
known animated them as they rode through 
the forest; the future was before them — that 
future of which they now spake together. 
Together ! — the perfect happiness of that one 
word ! An hour's quick riding — for time was 
precious — brought them to Southampton. A 
boat was in waiting at the quay, and in a few 
minutes they were on board the vessel des- 
tined to convey them to America. The breeze 
was favourable, and the white sails were soon 
spread — a mighty sea-bird ruffling its snowy 
plumage in the sunset. The town of South- 
ampton, with its old castle, and older trees, 
shone red in the gleam of the parting day; 
and the west was heaped with huge crimson 
masses, contending with a vast black shadow 
that rested on their verge. Beyond lay the 
fair green island, so tranquil in the cool calm 
atmosphere, only flickered by a few of the 
lightest clouds. "England, dear England, 
farewell forever !" exclaimed Evelyn, as he 
leant on the side of the ship, and gazed on the 
lovely undulations of that native land whither 
he was to return no more. 



CHAPTER CIII. 

" Of winds and waves the strangely mingled sounds 
Ride heavily, the night-wind's hollow sweep, 
Mocking the sounds of human lamentation." 

Bertram. 

" The be all, and the end all here."— Shaicspeare 

Two hours had passed, the fierce crimson 
of the west had burnt itself away, and the 
huge black clouds had gathered in darker ar- 
ray, broken by gleams of meteoric light. The 
moon had risen, but with a dim haze around 
her troubled circle, and her face was only 
seen at intervals, so rapidly did the hurrying 
vapours sweep by. The fresh sea-breeze had 
sank to rest, yet the billows heaved ; and 
every now and then a warm gust, unnatural 
and brief, stirred the sails and at each return 
with increased strength. Most of its inmates 
were sleeping in that ship, wornout with the 
toils of the day, and still more with the sor 
row of parting, dreaming of that roof which 
would never shelter their hours of rest again. 
But some of the seamen watched the lower- 
ing heaven with unquiet eyes ; and their cap- 
tain knew that for him there was no sleep 
that night. There was silence on the deck, 
and gravity on the faces usually careless as 
that of a child ; but each one was now mutely 
preparing for the coming hour of peril. 

Two only in that vessel had neither sought 
the rest of the passengers nor shared the 
anxiety of the seamen. Evelyn had never 
moved from the ship's side, but leant there 
one arm encircling Francesca, while he drew 



403 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



her attention to many a familiar object, and 
many a recollection of his youth. His heart 
had gone back to the past, but it had drawn 
hers along with it. At length, not even his 
watchful eye could discern the shadowy line 
that rested on the far horizon — a cloud passed 
over the moon — he had looked his last on 
England. Not till that moment did he know 
what it was to part from a country that had 
been, that was, so precious in his sight. He 
stood silent, and hid his face ; while Fran- 
cesca marked her sympathy by silence as 
deep as his own. Suddenly he turned towards 
her, and exclaimed — 

" Francesca, do you ever think of Italy]" 

" Yes," said she tenderly, " as the place 
where we first met." 

" Pardon me, dearest," whispered he, draw- 
ing her closer to his heart, " that one 
thought can wander from my present and 
perfect happiness ; but I leave the best hopes 
of a life behind me in quitting England. 
Henceforth my father's house will be deso- 
late. Two nights ago, I visited those noble 
halls for the last time. I heard that the court 
minion into whose hands they have passed 
had given orders that they should be pulled 
down. Heaven knows where those stately 
portraits will be displayed on which I have 
so often gazed, some legend of knightly faith 
attached to each ! — to what base uses will 
those time-honoured arches, those windows of 
coloured light, those panels of carved oak, be 
applied 1 ? Francesca, this must seem strange 
weakness to you ; but there is not a stone in 
these old walls, about to be levelled with the 
ground, which has not some association of 
gone-by hope and lingering memory that wind 
round the heart, despite of every effort to for- 
get them." 

"And why forget?" replied Francesca. 
" We shall love to talk of England in the far 
country to which we are hastening." 

The conversation was here interrupted by a 
burst of thunder above their heads, and a huge 
wave dashing over the deck, while the vessel 
reeled beneath the shock. 

" Better take the lady below," said a sailor. 

Francesca cast an imploring look upon 
Evelyn. " Let me stay by your side — I am 
not afraid !" 

Evelyn hesitated, when the captain again 
urged her descent, — " You can only be in the 
way, lady." 

She contested the point no longer, but al- 
lowed herself to be conducted to the cabin. 
It was a scene of strange confusion. The 
shock which sent the ship rolling amid the 
waters had roused the passengers from their 
short rest, and they crowded together with 
pale faces of anxiety and terror. The storm, 
which had long been gathering, swept at last 
over sea and sky. More than night rested on 
the waters, — darkness made yet more deep by 
the fiery blaze which ever and anon kindled 
the horizon. And when that died away, the 
black cloud and blacker wave were mocked 
by a phosphoric sparkle, like the meteors 
which in some damp churchyard gleam from 



the grave. The seamen, with every eye fixed, 
and every hand strained, were the fortunate ; 
but wo for the wretches cooped in the" cabin 
below, surrounded by an unaccustomed dan- 
ger, — and fear is most terrible when strange. 
They were home-bred people, who never 
dreamt but of dying quietly in their beds, — 
who had lived amid green fields, and in small 
and pleasant villages, — and who, after they 
had thought of death, had softened the image 
of old age by prayer breathed from lips be- 
loved in the last extremity, and tears that 
soothed the pillow on which they fell. But 
now death came suddenly, dreadful, and 
strange. The wind howled around their pri- 
sonhouse, the waves clamoured aloud for 
their prey, and every peal of thunder seemed 
the signal of destruction. Some tried to pray, 
but their thoughts were so confused, the old 
familiar words had passed from their mind ; 
some wept hysterical and unnatural tears, that 
fell for themselves, and others sat on the floor 
stupid with terror. One, an old man, so old 
that his shadow rested even on his grave, 
raved aloud, and reproached the Lord, who 
had thus deserted his people in their time of 
need. Near him was another who held an 
almost empty flask, and was humming a joy- 
ous song, which, from his now serious and 
staid character, must have been forgotten for 
many a year ; and between the two lay a child 
fast asleep, the little rosy cheek pillowed upon 
the arm, half lost in the curls of fair hair. 
The shocks, which laid the ship almost under 
the sea, grew less frequent ; the thunder, 
heard at long intervals, now threatened in the 
atmosphere afar off; when Francesca rose 
from her knee, and resolved to seek the deck 
again. The oppression of the cabin was sti- 
fling, and Evelyn had left her; she could not 
bear his absence, and she followed him. The 
pale, chill glimmering of earliest morning was 
faint in the east, from which the clouds were 
slowly breaking; thera was just light enough 
to enable her to find her way. At once her 
eye fell upon Evelyn, speaking to the captain, 
who stood with folded arms, and a resolute 
but desperate air, while he answered with ob- 
vious reluctance ; — she caught the last few- 
words, — " I know the channel well ; and 
where yonder gleam of red light rests upon 
the water are rocks, and on those rocks we 
strike before another quarter of an hour is 
over !" — and the seaman walked away, as if 
unwilling to be further questioned. Evelyn 
felt a light touch upon his arm — it was Fran 
cesca. Again, in silence, they approached 
the side of°the ship, and Evelyn averted his 
face ; he could not bear to look on the beauti- 
ful and the devoted — the bride whom he had 
won, but to lose. He shuddered as he pored 
on the dark and heaving waves, so soon to 
close over them. 

"God of heaven!" exclaimed he aloud; 
" and it is for my sake that she is here !" 

" Yes, Evelyn !" said Francesca, in a voice 
of touching sweetness, but calm — not one ac- 
cent changed. " Yes : and here I am happy. 
Whatever be the world of which yonder dark 






FRANCESCA CARRARA. 



409 



sea is the portal, we shall seek it together. It 
has been upon me from my earliest childhood 
— a longing for another sphere. I knew that 
this earth was not my home — that here hopes 
and affections were to be blighted and to die. 
Heaven has restored us to each other; it wills 
that our future be eternal. A deep and sweet 
repose is in my heart at this moment, and I 
wait, as at an altar, that fate which is not of 
this life." 

lie gazed on her large bright eyes, raised 
for one moment to the sky, whose light was 
within them. They were uplifted but for that 
moment, and then turned upon him ; from his 
face they moved no more. Suddenly they 
were flung with violence against the side 
where they leant. The vessel shivered like 
a living thing, and planks and joints flew 
asunder with a sound which echoed far across 
the waters. One wild shriek, the cry of many 
voices, arose to heaven ; but in vain ! Again 
the panting waves lifted the shattered vessel 
on high ; again it was dashed on the hidden 
rock ; — this time it rose no more, and the last 

Vol. L— 52 



of life's agony was lost beneath the unfa- 
thomable sea ! 

Let the waves sweep over them ! Better 
the dark, silent, and fated waves of ocean, 
than the troubled waves of life. There are 
some whose sojourn on this earth is brief as 
it is bitter. For such the world keeps the 
wasted affection, the hope destroyed, the 
energy that preys upon itself, the kindly feel- 
ing unrequited, and the love that asks for hap- 
piness, and finds despair or death. The lots 
in this existence are unequal. Some pass 
along a path predestined to weariness and 
tears. Such a destiny have I here recorded ; 
and ere its truth be denied, I pray those who 
may turn these pages, to think of those they 
have known, and their memory will witness 
for me. The kindest, the loveliest, the best, 
whom they can remember — has not life for 
them poured forth from its darkest cup 1 — have 
not they known the broken heart and the early 
grave 1 Such natures belong not to our soil — 
they are of another sphere ; and it is mercy 
when Heaven recalls its own. 
2M 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



PREFACE. 



This volume is of a different order from 
vhose of mine which the public have hitherto 
received with such indulgence. I trust that it 
will win an equally kind reception. My few 
words of preface must be rather addressed to 
those who direct my present class of readers, 
than to the readers themselves. My object 
has been rather to interest than to amuse ; to 
excite the imagination through the softening 
medium of the feeling. Sympathy is the surest 
destruction of selfishness. Children, like the 
grown person, grow the better for participa- 
tion in the sufferings where their own only 
share is pity. They are also the better for the 
generous impulse which leads them to rejoice 
in the hope and happiness of others, though 
themselves have nothing in common with the 
objects of their emotion. Such is the aim of 
my principal narratives. In the first, I endea- 
vour to soften the heart by a kindly regret for 
unmerited sorrow. The very youngest ought 
to know how much there is to endure in exist- 
ence ; it will teach them thankfulness in their 
own more fortunate lot, and meekness in bear- 



ing their own lighter burthens, in the othei 
tales I have rather sought to show how exer- 
tion, under difficult circumstances, is rewarded 
by success. Young and old, rich and poor, 
have their troubles ; and all experience will 
bear me out in the assertion, that patience, 
fortitude, and affection, are ever strong in ob- 
taining the mastery over them. Early lessons 
of cheerful endurance cannot be better taught 
than by example. 

Wordsworth truly says " that, with the 
young, poetry is a passion." My aim, in the 
poems scattered through these pages, has been 
to make one taste cultivate another, and to ren- 
der the flowers scattered around our daily path, 
and the loveliness of nature yet dearer, be- 
cause associated with the early affections and 
with snatches of song. To connect the ex- 
ternal object with the internal emotion is the 
sweetest privilege of poetry. 

I can now only entreat a continuance of that 
favour which has so long 1 exited my hope, and 
still more, my gratitude 

L. E. L. 



412 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



THE TWIN SISTERS. 



" I am afraid the noise of the children dis- 
turbs you," said Mr. Dalton to his wife, as 
the loud laugh and ringing steps upon the 
gravel walk told the approach of the two play- 
mates. 

" It is so cheerful," said the invalid, while 
her eyes brightened, as she turned her head in 
the direction whence the sounds came. The 
little feet became inaudible on the turf which 
they were now treading, but the clear laughter 
was still more distinct, and, in another mo- 
ment, the branches of the dog-rose were dash- 
ed aside, a shower of the crimson leaves fell 
around, and the two children stood panting 
and breathless at their mother's side. 

" What hands !" exclaimed Mr. Dalton ; but 
the invalid only smiled at the soil which their 
eager grasp had left on her white dressing- 
gown. 

" We were at work in our garden," said the 
eldest girl, colouring at the implied rebuke, 
" when we heard that mamma was come out, 
and so we ran here — " 

"That she might not have a moment's 
peace," said their father; but his voice was 
softer than his words, and, emboldened by his 
smile, the youngest added : — 

" We will be so quiet, now." And both 
sat down on the grass at their mother's feet. 
Mrs. Dalton was far too indulgent to permit 
such a penance as doing nothing is to the na- 
tive activity of childhood, and a thousand 
slight commissions were devised, which, with 
little fatigue to herself, gave full occupation 
to their restless spirits. Now they were des- 
patched to the further side of the opposite 
meadow to fetch some of the violets which 
grew on the southern bank in such profusion; 
and then it was a task of equal interest to 
seek if, in the more sheltered portion, the 
lilies of the valley yet gave promise of blos- 
som. Any traveller riding up the hill, whose 
winding road in part overlooked the above 
scene, would have surely lingered, and then 
gone on his way rejoicing that he had wit- 
nessed such happiness. 

The softened light of that most beautiful 
half hour which precedes the sunset, was upon 
the air, and the huge forms of the old trees 
flung forward their gigantic shadows. A 
few of the central clouds had already begun to 
redden, and the windows of the distant village 
hone like gleams of fire through the elms of 



the boundary hedge. The pleasure ground 
sloped to the edge of the parklike meadow, 
and was the admiration of the neighbourhood 
for the variety and richness of its flowers ; and 
June is the month for an English spring. 
Dalton Park was one of those oldfashioned 
houses, all corners and angles, associate with 
the past, and possessing an interest which be- 
longs to no newly built habitation. Not that 
Dalton Park aspired to the dignity of histori- 
cal recollections ; its connexion was with do- 
mestic feelings, with the thought that the old 
walls had long been warmed by the cheerful 
presence of humanity, and that the ancient roof 
had long sheltered hopes and fears, joys and 
sorrows, like unto your own. 

The western aspect, which looked down 
upon the meadow, was almost covered with 
fragrant creepers. The jessamine had as yet 
scarcely begun to unfold its long and slender 
leaves, but the honeysuckle was in all its 
bravery ; covered with thousands of those 
fairy trumpets from whose sweet breath the 
laden bees were slowly wending homewards. 
The small porch, for the principal .entrance 
was on the other side, was hidden by the 
small Ayrshire rose, whose delicate crimson 
flowers, ascending year after year, were in 
rapid progress towards the roof. The lawn 
shone with the coloured foliage of the gay 
season: the beds were crowded with the 
" painted populace " of spring, and thickets of 
scented shrubs filled the air with odours. 
Those two beautiful children suited well with 
such a picture — they were in perpetual mo- 
tion, and their long chestnut curls were but 
the more glossy for the wind that tossed the 
silken lengths, and the sunshine that turned 
the rich brown into gold. Their bright black 
eyes grew yet brighter with eagerness, as, 
laughing, they said, "How tall they were 
grown !" and each pursued the other's sha- 
dow, while the exercise deepened the already 
vivid red on each warm and glowing cheek. 

But happiness is not for this world — a con 
viction that cannot be too soon acquired : it 
will destroy a thousand vain expectations, 
dissipate the most perplexing of our illusions 
— the early knowledge that life is but a trial, 
whose triumph is hereafter, and this earth a 
place appointed for that sorrow and patient 
endurance which is gradually fitting us for ? 
better and a happier state. With this belief 
2 m 2 413 



414 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



ever present before us, we should be more 
ready to enjoy the many moments of content 
and rest vouchsafed on our earthly pilgrimage; 
and more ready to submit to that suffering 
which but turns the heart to its home which 
is in heaven. Even like the glorious sunset 
which, of all hours in the day, seems the most 
to mingle the influences of the world above 
with that below — when the golden light in- 
vests all familiar objects with a glory not 
their own ; and yet the long shadows fall, the 
deepest heralds of the coming night : so do the 
lights and shadows of human existence mingle 
together. 

Mrs. Dalton's pale cheek flushed, and her 
eye wore somewiiat of its former brightness, 
as she watched those two graceful and happy 
creatures bound over the grass, on an infinity 
of schemes which almost always ended in 
bringing them to her side. But no one who 
looked on that face with other than the undis- 
cerning eye of childhood but must have read 
on that wan, though youthful, brow, the slow, 
but certain, approach of death. Mrs. Dal ton 
had been born in India, and, like those more 
delicate exotics which pine and perish in a 
northern clime, she was fading, but as gra- 
dually as the flower that languishes for its 
native earth. 

Mrs. Dalton had been united to her husband 
at a very early age ; and had loved him per- 
haps the more that she had no one else to love. 
Her own parents had died when she was too 
young to remember them — she was scarcely 
two years of age. From motives of conve- 
nience, she was for a time placed at school in 
Calcutta, and thence consigned, like a bale of 
goods, to the care of a lady at Kensington, 
who took a select number of young ladies. 
She was about sixteen when transferred again 
o the house of her guardian ; and in the course 
of a few months married to Mr. Dalton. Her 
guardian was not sorry to see resigned into 
other hands the responsibility attendant on the 
charge of a beautiful girl, whose wealth added 
to the anxiety. 

Mr. Dalton was the very reverse of his wife. 
Strong, alike in mind and body, his temper 
was unyielding, not to say stern. He was a 
man who made no allowances. Whatever 
ought to be done, that he expected should be 
done — and at once. He liked regularity, and 
expected prompt obedience, and that every 
one else should be as active as himself. Timid, 
languid, and indolent — shrinking from exertion 
to which she felt unequal, Mrs. Dalton's ori- 
ental temperament was only to be roused by 
an appeal to her feelings or her generosity. 
Actuated by either of these motives, the gentle 
mind and slight frame seemed animated with 
a vigour that might have been held incompati- 
ble with her soft, sweet nature. Mr. Dalton 
would fain have carried this spirit farther; he 
perpetually lamented that "Indiana would 
listen to every impostor who had a few sor- 
rowful words at command, and that it was 
enough to ruin those children the way in which 
she spoilt them." Still it was impossible to 
be angry with a creature so lovely, and so 



frail, and moreover so utterly devoted to him. 
It had been long, however, since a sound of 
reproach had been heard from Mr. Dalton's 
lips. His was no temper to hope against 
hope, and from the first, he had seen that his 
wife's malady was fatal. She was now dying 
of consumption, and every thing else was for- 
gotten in the deep love that sought, at least, 
to soothe the passage to the grave. 

At this moment a loud exclamation from one 
of the children made Mrs. Dalton start, and 
her husband look round, half in fear, and half 
in anger. It was but the triumphant ejacula- 
tion that announced the capture of a large but- 
terfly, whose brilliant colours seemed caught 
from the summer skies which brightened its 
brief existence. Ellen was seen the first, 
holding her lightly clasped hand, lest the glit- 
tering dust should be brushed from its delicate 
wings. 

" You have frightened your mamma out of 
her senses," said their father. 

"Nay, nay," exclaimed Mrs. Dalton, with, 
one of her own gentle smiles ; " I knew at 
once that it was a cry of pleasure. But, Ellen, 
you have not killed the poor insect]" 

"No," said the child, "but you could not 
go to see it, and it was so pretty we could not 
help bringing it to you to see." 

" I shall see it best as it is flying away." 

The hint was instantly taken, and, the little 
hand opening, the prisoner flew off as fast as 
its gossamer pinions could bear it. 

" Would you like, Ellen, to have some 
giant snatch you up, and carry you off, for 
the sake of showing how your hair curled— 
should you not be very much frightened ?" 

Ellen stood silent, looking pleadingly into 
her mother's face ; but Julia, who had drawn 
close to her sister, said, 

"But there are no giants, mamma, to carry 
us away to look at us." 

" No, love, but there are many ways in 
which all may be as needlessly tormented as 
that poor butterfly; and, by thinking how 
little we should ourselves like it, we shall 
surely grow more careful how we pain others. 
And now go, and see if there are any buds on 
the white rose tree, and, if there are, bring 
me one." 

"I wish you would not talk, Indiana, it 
exhausts you," said Mr. Dalton : " besides 
what did it matter about a nonsensical butter- 
fly 1 you will make those children as soft- 
hearted as yourself." 

" My dearest Albert," exclaimed Mrs. Dal- 
ton, " I believe half the cruelty in afterlife 
proceeds from the indifference with which 
children are accustomed to torment the few 
things within their little sphere of influence. 
We are all of us too selfish and too careless 
of what others may feel, and, from the very 
first, I wish Ellen and Julia to think of what 
may be suffered from their own heedlessness. 
Let them, above all things, be kind-hearted." 

" Provided it does not," remarked her hus- 
band, " degenerate into weakness." 

Mrs. Dalton smiled her assent, and the re- 
turn of the children, with the white rose, put 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



415 



a stop to further conversation. The shadows 
gradually lengthened, and the gigantic out- 
line of the elms became confused one with 
another. Fain would Mrs. Dalton have lin- 
gered in the open air, all was so calm, so 
lovely, every breath she drew brought a dif- 
fering odour, as first one shrub, and then 
another, gave their hoarded sweetness to the 
evening wind. But Mr. Dalton grew impa- 
tient for her return to the house ; and she 
could not say to him, "What does it mattter 
to me 1 the chill air is of little moment now ; 
I feel that my hours are numbered, and that 
no human care can avail to prolong their 
amount." Still she rose at his first word, 
and was at once carried to the dressing-room. 

As soon as she was recovered from the fa- 
tigue of moving, she begged to be placed near 
the window. The warmer hues of the sun- 
set had faded into one deep, rich purple. 
Only on the furthest verge of the horizon 
floated a few white clouds, on which the crim- 
son lingered to the last ; all below was tran- 
quil, as in that stillness which precedes sleep. 
Not a leaf stirred on the tree, and the evening 
song of the birds had ceased. The colours 
of the variegated shrubbery were growing 
more and more indistinct, and the grass 
of the meadow had already caught the 
shadow r of night. Now and then a low 
whirring sound was heard upon the air, and, 
borne on its dim and spectre-like wings, the 
old owl swept heavily from one elm tree to 
another. The night-scented plants now came 
out in all their fragrance, and the musk rose, 
outside the window, filled the room with its 
odour. At every moment the sky was grow- 
ing clearer and darker, and the silvery star of 
evening shone with that pure and spiritual 
light which seems so peculiarly a message 
from above. Mrs. Dalton's eyes were fixed on 
that star, she drank in its tremulous ray as if 
it were numberless fancies which connected 
themselves with that star; but she felt that 
they were unreal, and hesitated to speak of 
such folly. She wished to bid her husband 
think of her as he watched that calm and dis- 
tant planet; and then she almost rebuked 
herself for the vain romance of her wish. 
" He will think of me," she whispered " with 
strong and enduring affection — it is only the 
heart of a woman that links itself with these 
fanciful associations," 

But, even while she gazed, the light be- 
came tremulous and indistinct; and her head 
sunk back on the pillow r s of her arm-chair. 
She was immediately carried to bed, and for 
nearly four hours, lay in a state of insensi- 
bility. She recovered sufficiently to take 
some nourishment from the old Indian nurse 
w T ho had attended her from her birth, and who 
now watched her death-bed as devotedly as she 
had done her cradle. In about a quarter of 
an hour, she fell into a deep sleep, while the 
faithful creature, hanging over her, almost 
counted every breath which her mistress 
drew. Thus passed the night away, and the 
nurse was about, to resign "her place, which 
she always did most reluctantly, when a 



change, passing over the face of the beloved 
sleeper, induced her to remain. Mrs. Dalton 
roused up suddenly, more than refreshed, 
quite animated, by her slumber. The rose 
burnt upon her cheek, and her large clear eyes 
filled with unusual light. The thin, ema- 
ciated hand alone denoted the long-suffering 
invalid. 

"Ask Mr. Dalton to come here," said she. 
Eda was surprised, for generally her mis- 
tress's chief anxiety was that he should be 
disturbed as little as possible. The wish, 
however, was at once obeyed, and, in a few 
minutes, Mr. Dalton was in the room. 

" Eda, fetch the children, but do not hurry 
them," said the sufferer, striving to raise her- 
self on the pillow. She was unequal to the 
exertion, and sank back on her husband's ex- 
tended arm. 

" Yes, here," whispered she, resting her 
head on his shoulder. "I wished to speak to 
you, Albert," said she, " but, now I see you, 
I have nothing to say. Yes, thank you for all 
your kindness to a weak suffering creature, who 
must often have sorely tried your patience." 
A closer pressure to his heart was all Mr. 
Dalton's answer, his lips quivered, but in 
silence ; and, for an instant, he turned his 
face aside. The children, though their little 
feet were stealing along, were now heard. 

" Indiana, they must not disturb you," ex- 
claimed Mr. Dalton. 

"I must, I must see them," cried she, more 
eagerly than he had ever known her answer 
him before. 

They came in, and stole gently to the bed- 
side. 

" Fling back the curtains," said Mrs. Dal- 
ton ; " I am weary of this pale and sickly 
lamplight." 

Her wish was immediately obeyed, and 
the bright daybreak of a June morning at 
once filled the sick-chamber. For a few mo- 
ments the long silken eyelashes lay heavily 
on the burning cheek — the first effort to bear 
the day was too much. She soon, however, 
gazed around her again, and her eyes rested, 
how fondly ! on the faces of her children. 
It was a strange contrast that room — all seemed 
so fresh and so glad. The rosy hues of the 
morning gladdened every object on which they 
fell ; the crimson-touched bunches of the 
honeysuckle sent in their perfume at the open 
window, while the trees beyond glittered in the 
sunshine, more glittering from the early dew 
yet sparkling on the branches. The cheerful 
singing of the birds made every bough mu- 
sical, and one, it was the lark, chanting its 
morning hymn, seemed to pour down its song 
from the very gates of heaven. It was 

" Singing like an angel in the clouds." 

The two children suited such a morning, 
the golden sunbeams turned their light brown 
hair to gold, and their colour was as fresh as the 
flowers in the garden below: how different from 
the feverish flush on the cheek of their mother ! 
The joyous beauty of inanimate nature but 
made the contrast sadder and deeper with saf 



41G 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS, 



fering humanity. For once, the loveliness of 
external nature was unheeded by Mrs. Dalton 
■—that loveliness on which she had never be- 
fore gazed without a thrill of delight and 
gratitude. But now, as her gaze wandered 
from her husband to her children, she thought 
but of the brief time accorded to the deep 
emotions of earthly love ; she felt that, in- 
deed, death had its bitterness which the hope 
of an hereafter might soothe, but not subdue. 
Tenderly she passed her hand over the bright 
heads that scarcely reached to her pillow ; 
she longed to say somewhat to their father 
about theiru But to bespeak his tenderness 
for those so soon to be orphans was almost to 
doubt it, and she only asked him to lift them 
up, that she might kiss them. 

" They must not stay," said Mr. Dalton, 
seeing how faint she became. 

The old Indian nurse led them to the door, 
whither their mother's eye followed them ; it 
then turned towards their father's face, whence 
it never moved again. The flush gradually 
faded into utter paleness, and the head, which 
rested on Mr. Dalton's arm, was white and 
scarcely more animate than that of a marble 
statue. His sight had lost somewhat of its 
usual clear distinctness, or his eyes were 
filled with tears : suddenly he dashed them 
away, and leant eagerly over his wife, 

" Eda," exclaimed he, in an agitated whis- 
per, " she is fainting." 

" No," said the aged nurse, " it is all 
over." 

Both stood for a moment motionless, breath- 
less, when Mr. Dalton rushed from the room ; 
he could not bear even that faithful old crea- 
ture to witness an emotion which he felt he 
could not master. 

It was a hard task to teach those poor 
children that their mother was dead. Death 
is so incomprehensible to a child. They 
would not believe that their mother would not 
return. " Mamma can't do without us," said 
Ellen. "I am sure she will come back for 
us." 

" She will never come back," replied Eda. 
" Then why did she not take us with her?" 
exclaimed Julia. 

"You will go to her in time, if you are 
good children," was the old nurse's answer. 
" Let us go at once," cried they in a breath. 
It was in vain to make them understand the 
impossibility; and that night, for the first 
time in their lives, the twins cried themselves 
to sleep. 

"I know where mamma is," whispered 
Julia to her sister ; " though they keep the 
house so dark that we may not find her. I 
heard them say that their mistress was in the 
south room." 

"Let us go there;" exclaimed Ellen. 
" When nurse goes down to dinner — we can 
walk so quietly." 

The time soon came, and the twins stole 
out together; Ellen, who was the most timid 
of the two, hesitated a little as they opened 
the door of the darkened apartment, but Julia 
whispeving, " Mamma won't be angry," en- 



couraged her, and they entered the room to- 
gether. 

- " Where is mamma '?" asked Ellen, look- 
ing first eagerly at the bed, and then more 
anxiously towards the chairs. 

" I heard them say that she was here," ex- 
claimed Julia, whose eyes were fast filling 
with tears : at that moment the coffin riveted 
the attention of both. Each approached it, 
and each at the same moment recognised 
their mother. " Why does she sleep in that 
strange box]" asked Ellen, in a frightened 
whisper. 

" We must take care not to wake her," an- 
swered Julia, in a still lower tone. Both re- 
mained watching her, still and silent, for a 
considerable time. 

" I wish she would wake," at last said 
Julia, and, stooping down, kissed the cold 
white hand extended over the shroud. Ellen 
did the same thing, and both started back at 
the icy chill. It would seem as if the sight 
and touch of death brought its own mysteri- 
ous consciousness. The two children stood, 
pale and awe-struck, gazing on the well 
known, yet unfamiliar face, that, cold and 
ghastly, now answered not to their looks 
again. They passed their little arms around 
each other, and clinging together, with a sweet 
sense of companionship, neither spoke nor 
moved for a considerable time ; at last Ellen, 
still holding her sister's hand, knelt down, 
and whispered, " Let us say our prayers." 
And the two orphans repeated, beside their 
mother's coffin, the infantine petitions they 
had learnt beside that mother's knee. 

They were thus employed when Eda en- 
tered the chamber. Her step disturbed them, 
and they ran towards her, and throwing them- 
selves into her arms, began to w T eep bitterly. 
It was remarkable that, from that time, the 
twins never inquired when " mamma would 
come back," but they listened, with an atten- 
tion beyond their years, when the aged Indian 
woman spoke of her own earnest and simple 
hope, whose home was beyond the grave. 
To her care they were principally left. Mr. 
Dalton was often out, he found the solitude 
of his house insupportable. He had been ac- 
customed to have his lightest movement 
watched by eyes whose affection triumphed 
over even the trial of suffering, and the lan- 
gour of disease. Indiana, even w T hen too 
weak to speak, had always a smile to give in 
answer ; and, to a man of his temper, silent 
assent was a pleasant method of continuing 
the conversation. 

There are always an ample sufficiency of 
compassionate neighbours ready to console 
one who, by common consent, is styled " the 
disconsolate widower." He dined out, he 
spent whole days out, and, beyond a brief 
summons to his breakfast table, a summons 
always obeyed with a species of awe, saw 
but little of the children. He wondered af 
their silence, and then felt almost disposed to 
be angry, for he often heard their voices when 
he came upon them unexpectedly in the gar- 
den, or entered an apartment where they hap- 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



417 



pened to be. But both the twins were of 
timid tempers — Julia less than Ellen — but 
even she could only be courageous when com- 
pared with her sister. Their father's natural 
gravity and silence overawed them — to cling 
to each other, to answer the meekest little 
"yes," or "no," possible. A few kind 
words would soon have induced them to talk, 
but their father did not understand the art of 
naaking them do so. 

Mr. Dalton had no near female relative, but 
there are always ready friends, able and will- 
ing to settle every thing in the world for 
everybody. These considered the somewhat 
neglected state of the children as a case, of 
all others, calling for neighbourly interposi- 
tion. Some recommended a school to Mr. 



To the children such a visit was a great treat ; 
they looked forward to what seemed to them 
Mrs. Whyte's inexhaustible stores of cakes 
and preserves : moreover any change was an 
amusement to those who rarely stirred beyoni 
the boundaries of their own park. Five 
o'clock saw them seated round the walnut- 
tree table, shining like a looking-glass. To 
Ellen and Julia it was a constant source of 
amusement seeing themselves reflected in the 
polished surface, while the said polish was a 
perpetual triumph to Mrs. Whyte, who boast- 
ed that her new mistress might go over the 
furniture with her white cambric handker- 
chief, and find it unsoiled when she had done. 
The room was small, but lofty ; and the chill 
of a November evening excluded by scarlet 



Dalton, others a governess, but, still more, a stuff curtains : it had been panelled with oak, 

which, however, had been painted white, a 
proceeding which added to the cheerfulness 



wife. The owner of Dalton Park was, how- 
ever, not a man to be advised, at least, if peo 



pie desired that their advice should be taken. 
An impatient shrug of the shoulder, and a 
still deeper silence, was the utmost reply that 
the ingenious insinuation, or even the more 
direct attack, ever produced. Every time 
Mr. Dalton went from home, it was univer- 
sally decided that he was gone to be married ; 
still, though there is an. old proverb stating 
that what everybody says must be true, } T et 
there is no rule without an exception. Though 
everybody said Mr. Dalton was gone to be 
married, still he persisted in coming home 
single ; but at last, the report was fairly used 
out. His neighbours grew tired of predict- 
ing what never came true. His marriage, 
which happened at last, took them all by sur- 
prise. No one had had the pleasure of* fore- 
seeing any thing about it. 

" Yesterday, at St. George's, Hanover 
Square, Eliza Meredith, daughter of the late 
John Meredith, Esq., to Albert Dalton, Esq., 
of Dalton Park," was the first intimation his 
neighbours received. To think that they 
should only hear his marriage from the news- 
papers ! The same post brought also letters 
to his steward and housekeeper, directing 
certain preparations to be made for the recep- 
tion of himself and his bride, who were to ar- 
rive after a fortnight's tour. All was con- 
sternation in his own house : the servants, 
who, for two years, had been accustomed to 
have pretty well their own way, exceeding- 
ly disapproved of their master's marrying. 
Selfishness is hypocritical by nature, and 
seizes on the first decent excuse as a cloak ; 
so their discontent took the shape of pity for 
the two poor children, who were to be sub- 
jected to all the tyranny of a stepmother. 
The housekeeper was the first to communi- 
cate the intelligence, and she sent an invita- 
tion to the nurse for herself and the twins to 
drink tea. This was a compliment to Eda, 
she was a sort of rival potentate, as absolute 
over her nursery as the other was over her 
own more extensive domain. Contrary to 
the established rule on such occasions there 
was no jealousy between these rival powers; 
indeed the humble and patient nature of the 
Indian rendered dispute all but impossible. 
Vol. I.-53 



rather than to the beauty. It was lined with 
closets, and adorned with bottles, and regular 
rows of white pots marked with every variety 
of jam and jelly. These were, however, all 
left to the imagination, for drawer and door 
were kept carefully locked ; and Mrs. Whyte's 
keys safely lodged in that vast receptacle — 
her pocket. 

The party were assembled by five o'clock 
— the nurse and housekeeper duly occupying 
two oldfashioned arm-chairs on each side the 
fire, while the two children were placed on 
stools at their feet. The two aged servants 
were singular contrasts. Mrs. Whyte was 
the very model of a neat, pretty old woman. 
Her pale brown hair, a little tinged with 
gray, parted as it had parted all her life, in 
tvro equal divisions on the forehead ; the high 
muslin cap was like a pyramid of snow. Mrs. 
Whyte would not have worn a coloured rib- 
and for the world. A muslin handkerchief 
was neatly pinned down in front, and a brown 
silk gown completed her attire. We had 
nearly forgotten a white apron, also a riband, 
from which hung a pincushion, whose gayety 
quite enlivened her whole appearance; it 
boasted all the colours of the rainbow ; but it 
was the work of " the dear children," and 
always worn at such visits. At other times 
it was wrapped in divers folds of silver paper, 
and laid up, literally, in lavender. With 
small delicate features, a complexion which 
retained much of its original fairness — age 
had passed over her smiling countenance as 
lightly as possible;' she seemed in complete 
keeping with comfort and quiet around her — 
she must have been known anywhere for an 
Englishwoman. Eda, on the contrary, ob- 
viously belonged to a far distant country. 
Her high and finely cut features expressed 
more passion and more determination than be- 
longed to the soft and gentle face of the other; 
— and her skin of a dark but clear olive, toge- 
ther with her thick black hair, gave some- 
thing sombre to her appearance. Her dress, 
nevertheless, was in a more gorgeous taste ; 
though the taste with which the colours were 
assimilated prevented it from being gaudy. 
Her turban was of pure white, but her dress 



418 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



was a print of a richly variegated pattern, 
and a crimson shawl, whose folds she well 
knew how to manage, fell around her like 
drapery ; — she also wore a pair of large gold 
ear-rings, an ornament suiiing well with her 
peculiar and stately bearing. The highest 
praise that have been bestowed on the house- 
keeper's appearance was that of a neat, cheer- 
ful, and respectable old woman ; — but the In- 
dian appealed to the imagination, and might 
well have past for some captive queen, grown 
aged in captivity. The dignity of misfortune 
was around her, for Eda had known much 
sorrow, and much suffering. 

Besides these two representatives of ad- 
vanced age, were those who as yet were but 
entering life, in all its freshness and its beau- 
ty. The twins were uncommonly lovely 
children. India gave its lustre and its dark- 
ness to their large black eyes, and England 
its rosy fairness to their complexion ; while a 
profusion of glossy auburn hair hung down in 
thick curls to the waist. They were alike, 
only Julia was taller, and had more colour 
than her sister, and on all occasions was the 
one who rather took the lead, and encouraged 
her shy and timid sister. It was a touching 
thing to witness the entire affection of the 
orphans. They were never apart ; their little 
stools were always drawn close together ; if 
they were running in the garden, the shadow 
of the one was sure to fall on that of the 
other. If the one read, the other was at her side, 
reading from the same page ; and at night 
each fell asleep in the other's arms. Though 
equally generous, and affectionate, both had 
warm tempers, yet a word almost would sub- 
due them into penitence and tears ; still that an- 
ger was never turned on each other ; from 
their birth they had never had a dispute ; 
every thing that they had was in common ; 
and any thing given to Julia was sure to be 
shared with Ellen ; and Ellen, in her turn, 
was as ready to divide with Julia. 

Tea was ready almost as soon as they en- 
tered the room ; but there was obviously a 
weight on Mrs. Whyte's spirits, and the 
cakes and marmalade were distributed with 
more than a usual number of "poor dears," 
and divers mysterious and significant shakes 
of the head. The children being busily em- 
ployed in eating, and both herself and visiter 
drawn a little apart, and armed with cups of 
most fragrant tea, the housekeeper addressed 
the nurse, after a deep drawn sigh, and a pre- 
liminary shake of the head. 

"I suppose you have heard the news]" 
Though for her to have heard it approached 
to an impossibilit) 7 ' — and her having heard it 
would have been a sore disappointment to the 
communicator. 

" News," replied Eda, "what is it !" 

" The worst news that this house has heard 
lor many a day." 

The affectionate Indian turned a startled 
glance on the two children; but no, there 
they were, looking equally well and happy ; 
so, satisfied, she contented herself with an 
inquiring glance at her companion. 



"Ah ! you may well look at those poo* 
dear children," continued Mrs. Whyte, who 
possessed to the highest degree the art of 
working up her hearers into a state of mise- 
rable suspense by what she called preparing 
them for the worst. 

"Is there," exclaimed the nurse, "any ill« 
ness in the neighbourhood ?" 

" 0, no ; I wish that were all." 

"All, that all !" said Eda, to whom the ill- 
ness of the children, to whom she was so 
fondly attached, seemed a calamity of the 
most formidable order. " What can be 
worse 1 my master, has any thing happened 
to him ?" 

" Yes, it is of my master I am speaking ; 
but he is well enough." 

Eda's anxiety was now sufficiently quieted 
to enable her to w 7 ait patiently for Mrs. 
,Whyte's intelligence, who seemed resolved to 
prolong to the utmost the importance which 
untold news gives to its possessor. She 
however told it, at last, abruptly enough — 

" So my master is going to be married." 

" Married !" almost shrieked Eda, " impos- 
sible !" she sank back, her dark countenance 
turning to a livid paleness with the violence 
of her emotion — while her companion remained 
absolutely awed into silence by the change in 
the Indian's agitated features. " Impossible," 
continued she in a low voice, rather as if 
thinking aloud, " it seems but yesterday that 
she was at his side,—- with her soft eyes that 
so watched his own, — and her sweet voice, 
which he never heard utter one harsh word, 
— and indeed who ever did? She sleeps in 
a cold dark vault on which her native sun 
looks not ; had they buried her in its warm 
light, amid the long grass which she loved, 
the flowers would have grown up to hide the 
dark earth below. Why his heart is yet 
warm with the beating of her's. He cannot 
look in the faces of those children and not see 
hers; so beautiful, so young, so_ devoted — 
she cannot be so soon forgotten — it is impos- 
sible." 

Little as she liked the news she told, Mrs. 
Whyte felt her own consequence impeached 
by having her authority doubted. — Diving 
therefore to the very depths of her pockets 
she drew forth aletter : " You know," said she, 
" my master's handwriting." Eda took the 
letter ; she read the few first lines ; she could 
read no more. The room swam around with 
her. The faces grew indistinct, and, stagger- 
ing like one who has received a violent blow, 
she rose from her seat — she stood for a mo- 
ment as if she knew not what she was doing, — 
when the voice of Mrs. Whyte recalled her 
to herself. Making a strong effort to com- 
mand her feelings, she exclaimed, in a low 
broken voice, " Take care of the children," and 
hurried to her own chamber. Partly to divert 
their attention from the absence of their nurse, 
but still more because she found it impossible 
to keep her knowledge to herself — the house- 
keeper began to communicate the important 
fact that they were going to have a mamma. 

" Mamma !" cried the twins in the same 






TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



419 



breath, springing from the table, " Is mamma 
coming back to us ?" The colour glowing in 
their cheeks and the large tears in their eyes 
— with hope and eagerness — they passed 
close to Mrs. Whyte for her answer. 

" No, poor dears, no : you are going to 
have a new mamma — a fine new one."" 

" We won't have a new mamma," exclaim- 
ed Jnlia. " I will have my own mamma." 

" Will is a naughty word foryoung ladies," 
said the housekeeper; "and you must be so 
good now ; for your father, next week, will 
bring you a new mamma." 

"Why has he brought her]" asked Ellen. 
This question somewhat puzzled Mrs. 
Whyte. " Because he has married her," was 
however her answer at last. 

"And will she be called Mrs. Dalton, and 
live here always ?" said Julia. 
" Yes ; — just like your mamma." 
"And will she have mamma's room, and 
mamma's garden ?" 

" Yes ;" said the old woman, her heart 
melting within her at all the recollections 
these words excited. 

"And will she be put in mamma's picture ?" 
and both of the children hid their faces in 
Mrs. Whyte's lap, and began to cry bitterly. 
Before Mrs. Whyte could explain that the 
picture would remain, Eda re-entered, and at 
once the two orphans ran towards her. 

" Pray, pray, ask papa not to bring us home 
a new mamma, and we will be so good with- 
out her." 

The sight of the children, for the moment 
overset all the prudent resolutions which it 
nad cost poor Eda so much to form; her na- 
tural strong sense at once showed her the ne- 
cessity of submission, to tell the children of 
the event cheerfully, and to induce thern to 
look forward to the bride's arrival as some- 
thing which w T as to be a source of hap- 
piness, had been her immediate, and, as she 
thought, firm resolve; but the sudden inquiry 
overset her hardly acquired firmness. The 
sight of her tears made the twins cry half in 
sympathy, and half in fear ; any one who has 
noticed, may have observed that the weeping 
of grown up persons produces a sensation of 
awe on the mind of a child. Accustomed to 
associate the idea of superiority with that of 
their elders, they cannot understand their 
giving way to the same emotions as them- 
selves. It must be something very dreadful 
indeed to have produced it. Eda soon recovered 
from her emotion, or rather soon subdued its 
external signs — and, taking the children on 
her knee, first soothed them with caresses, 
and then endeavoured to place the subject in 
its pleasantest light ; she told them how kind 
their new mamma would be, and that she 
would take them to walk with her, and ask 
their father to forgive them if ever he was an- 
gry. Scott beautifully says 

" The tear down childhood's cheek that flows 
Is like the dewdrop on the rose." 

So it proved to be in the present instance, 
and the children again took their places at the 



table, to Mrs. Whyte's great satisfaction, who 
considered seed-cake and marmalade a sove- 
reign panacea for all the ills to which child- 
hood is heir. Still the conversation of the 
evening made a deep impression on Ellen and 
Julia — they remembered Mrs. Whyte's "poor 
dears," and still more anxiously Eda's weep 
ing. Every morning they stole into the draw- 
ing-room where it hung, and watched to see 
if their mamma's picture was still unaltered. 
Finding it the same, day after day, seemed to 
reconcile them, more than all Eda could urge 
to the duty which they owed to their father, 
and the indulgence which they were to expect 
from his bride. At length the important day 
came on which Mr. and Mrs. Dalton were ex- 
pected to arrive. It was with a heavy heart 
that Eda prepared to dress the children. It 
was the first time that they had laid aside 
their mourning since their mother's death,. 
The affectionate and faithful creature felt al- 
most as much in putting on the white frocks 
as she had done when they first wore their 
black ones. She was almost angry at the 
pleasure which their new dresses gave the 
children, who admiringly surveyed their long 
new white sashes and shoes. Her anger had, 
however, not to last long, for Julia suddenly 
put her new dress aside, and said — 

"We put on our black frocks for our own 
mamma's memory — are we to put on our 
white ones to forget her for our new mamma 1 
I won't wear them." 

It now required all Eda's soothing and rea- 
soning to induce them to put on what they 
had just been admiring. When they were 
drest, Eda saw, from the flushed cheek, and 
a little trembling hand of her beloved charges, 
that they were over-excited. Naturally deli- 
cate and timid, they were sensitive beyond 
their years ; and anxious both for their 
good looks and good behaviour, their nurse 
sent them into the garden, to gather a nose- 
gay to give Mrs. Dalton on her arrival. 

It was a lovely morning in autumn, one of 
those delicious days which unite the warmth 
of spring with the deeper and more melan- 
choly tone of the departing year. The early 
flowers had long since perished. The snow- 
drop, crocus and epatica had led the way for 
the lavish profusion of the violet, the labur- 
num, the lilac, and the numberless roses that 
take so many shapes and all of them beautiful. 
But now the colours of the garden were at 
their richest — the dahlias, those magnificent 
strangers, spread around their oriental magni- 
ficence, white, scarlet, crimson, orange, like 
the livery of a court, when a king assembles 
his nobles in the bravest attire. The gera- 
niums, too, were in full bloom, and as various 
in kind and colour as the rose ; nor was the 
rose herself wanting, the delicate species 
called Chinese. Singular, that what seems, 
but to look at, the most fragile of its kind, 
should yet linger to the last, and smile ever, 
amid the snow. The children felt the influ 
ence of the soft and balmy hour. Their co- 
lour, as they wandered through the garden, 
became even more bright, though less feverish. 



420 



MISS LAINDON'S WORKS. 



The interest of their employment occupied 
them entirely, and exercise and sunshine made 
them cheerful as usual. At last the important 
task was completed, the rosebud arranged 
with the myrtle and the geranium, and the 
heliotrope gave its sweet breath like incense ; 
but some white riband was wanted to tie the 
prettily arranged boquet, and they returned to 
ask Eda for some. The flowers were scarcely 
fastened together when the distant sound of 
a carriage was heard, and the nurse hurried 
with her charge into the hall. She was agi- 
tated herself, and this was rather increased, 
for she could feel the trembling of each little 
hand as she took them in her own. 

They reached the hall the moment before 
Mr. and Mrs. Dalton entered — the two child- 
ren clung to Eda'sgown — and with difficulty 
could she unloose their clasp, and make them 
go forward — for their father's first question 
was, " Where are Julia and Ellen ?" The 
sound of his voice, which was very kind, re- 
assured them, and he himself led them blush- 
ing till the tears stood in their eyes. 

" What beautiful children," exclaimed the 
bride as she stooped down to kiss them — ob- 
viously more careful of the folds of her veil 
than any thing else ; she took the flowers with- 
out looking at them, and taking her husband's 
arm, pursued her way through the hall, with 
a look of scrutiny and observations which 
would better have suited the returning mis- 
tress, careful of what might have happened 
in her absence, than a young bride passing a 
strange threshold for the first time. The two 
children hung back, but Eda, in a whisper, 
bade them follow. She was glad that she did 
so, for Mr. Dalton looked round, and, seeing 
them beside, smiled, and bade them run be- 
fore and show mamma the way to the draw- 
ing-room. The group in the hall were now 
left free to make their comments, which were 
not of the most flattering order. The truth 
was, none of their self-love was enlisted in 
the favour of their new mistress ; she had 
past on without a single kind word and look, 
not one old servant, and most of those at Dal- 
ton Hall had lived there for years, had receiv- 
ed from her the slightest notice. Eda was the 
only one who could not be persuaded to say 
more than that " Mrs. Dalton was certainly 
very handsome :" and so she was ; her figure 
was tall, and finely proportioned, though there 
was a stiffness in her movements which some- 
what detracted from their grace. Her features 
were regular, though of a kind that advancing 
years might render sharp, while her dark eyes, 
very handsome eyes they were, had every 
beauty of shape, colour — all but sweetness. 

The children soon made their appearance in 
the nursery, they said that their father's new 
mamma had a headache. Neither seemed 
inclined to talk about her, and Eda thought it 
most judicious to ask no questions. Soon af- 
ter they came in, she observed that Ellen had 
in her hand the very flowers on whose selec- 
tion so much pains had been bestowed. 

''•Why did you not give your mamma her 
pietty nosegay?" said Eda. 



" O, we did," replied Julia, "but she drop 
ped it in the passage, and when we picked i. 
up and gave it to her again, she said that she 
could not bear the perfume." 

" We did not like it to be lost," added El 
len, " because the geranium was from our own 
mamma's tree." 

" Some people cannot bear odours," said 
the nurse : "do you remember your mamma 
never could walk through the lime avenue in 
spring]" 

" I wish we had not put any heliotrope," 
said Julia, "I dare say it was that." 

Though the morning had been so fine, the 
afternoons were chilly, and the twins, who in- 
herited their mother's sensitiveness to cold, 
drew their stools to the fire, and asked Eda to 
tell them one of the stories of her own coun- 
try. They seemed never to weary of the pic- 
turesques tales of which India is so fertile. 
While they were thus employed, the door 
opened unceremoniously, a rustle of silk was 
heard, and in came Mrs. Dalton. Eda, of 
course, left off speaking, and, rising from her 
seat, courtesyed respectfully and remained si- 
lent and standing ; the two children rose also, 
and stood, like their nurse, in silence. Mrs. 
Dalton had heard the sound of talking as she 
came in, and immediately supposed that they 
had been speaking of herself: the silence on 
her entrance seemed very suspicious. " Pray," 
said she, with a sneer, " do not let me inter- 
rupt your conversation, unless, as is often the 
case, I am too nearly connected with it to hear 
it. Pray, what were you talking about ?" 
said she, turning abruptly to Julia. 

" We were not talking," replied the child, 
answering the question in the most literal 
manner — " Eda was telling us about her fa- 
ther's elephant" — 

" Mrs. Dalton made no direct reply, but ex- 
claimed, " What, a fire already !— I never 
heard of a fire at this time of the year. I 
wonder, nurse, you suffer these children to sit 
burning themselves up in such a manner." 
Eda tried to answer, but her words choked 
her ; and, without waiting for it, Mrs. Dalton 
approached the window, and threw it up, 
though a small drizzling rain was beating 
against it : at this moment the door of the 
nursery opened again, and. a most unusual vi- 
siter, Mr. Dalton, appeared. " Come here, 
children," said he, depositing, at the same 
time, a variety of parcels on the table, "come 
and look at all the playthings your mamma 
has brought you from London ;" catching sight 
of Mrs. Dalton, he added, advancing towards 
her, " will you distribute your treasures your- 
self?" 

" You see," said she, with a smile which 
Eda had not thought her face could assume. 
"I am beginning my acquaintance with your 
house betimes, you can imagine the attraction 
which this room possesses in my eyes." Mr. 
Dalton looked gratified, and proceeded to un- 
fasten the strings of the different packages. 

" Where does this draught come from ?" 
exclaimed he, suddenly; "why, Eda," look- 
ing towards the open window, " this is not like 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



421 



vour usual care." Eda remained silent for a 
minute or two, but, finding- her mistress did 
not speak, said, " Mrs. Dalton opened it; I 
believe she found the room too warm." As 
if she had just recollected it, the lady looked 
round. 

" Ah, I forgot; but you cannot think how 
close it was when I came in. Very unwhole- 
some to keep a room so hot. I see you will all 
require a deal of reform, shall I begin with 
you," addressing- Mr. Dalton ; "but that 
would be saying little for my own taste ; I at 
lean cannot discover your faults." 

" I am afraid you soon will," replied he, 
though in a tone of voice which showed the 
flattery had not been lost. They continued 
unfastening the toys, but though Mrs. Dalton 
was now profuse in her " loves," and " dears," 
it was easy to see that she sought entirely to 
engross her husband's attention. At last, 
turning the conversation from some doll's fur- 
niture to that she now saw for the first 
time, she expressed a wish to see the house, 
"This being the only room to which I could 
find my way by myself." Mr. Dalton imme- 
diately proposed showing her what rooms 
there yet remained daylight enough to see. 

" I was going," continued she, " to petition 
that these dear children might accompany us, 
but really, after this over-heated room, it might 
give them cold." She left the nursery, and 
both Eda and the children felt the relief of her 
absence. The first thing Julia did was to run 
and shut the window; she did it somewhat 
loudly and hastily, nurse saw the spirit of op- 
oosition in her act, and, calling her to her 
«ude, said gently, " Your mamma is not used 
u) the country here. I am sure that she will 
wish us to have a fire, when she knows that 
liiese laro-e and cold rooms would be very 
chilly without. Now show me all the beauti- 
ful playthings which she has brought you." 
The Indian spoke cheerfully, but she did not 
feel as she spoke ; she was too shrewd not to 
perceive the petty and unkind spirit of jealousy 
which animated Mrs. Dalton, and her heart 
sunk within her as she considered the influ- 
ence which her new mistress would in future 
exercise over those who were dearer to her 
than her own life. 

A few days passed on — and never did a few 
days bring about more changes. The furniture 
was moved, the dinner-hours altered, all old 
habits were infringed, and, before a month was 
out, every servant had given warning. Mrs. 
Whyte was the last. "I had hoped," said 
she, " to have lived and died in the old house 
— I am sure I have done my duty by its mas- 
ter — but I am too old to take up with new 
habits, and I only hope my mistress will be 
better satisfied with my successor." It might 
be supposed that she would, for Mrs. Dalton 
declared her intention of being, for the future, 
her own housekeeper. Mrs. Whyte's dis- 
missal was the only one which drew a com- 
ment from Mr. Dalton. Provided no one in- 
terfered with either his library or his stable, 
he did not care how the rest of his establish- 
ment was managed, it being fully understood 
Vol. I. 



j that he was to have as little trouble as was 
| possible ; but when the neat old woman who 
j had been "one of the old familiar faces" from 
his boyhood, claimed the privilege of an old 
servant, who had known him in his cradle, to 
I bid him good-by, and who could not restrain 
I her tears when she came to say " God bless 
j him," all Mr. Dal ton's sympathies were 
, aroused. He bade her adieu most kindly, 
' inquired minutely about her circumstances, 
and even shook hands with her at parting. 
Nor did his kindness rest here ; he immediate- 
ly settled a small annuity on her, which would 
amply supply every comfort during her life. 
Moreover, that very day after dinner, as soon 
as the servants were withdrawn, and Mrs. 
Dalton and himself quietly settled down into 
the arm-chairs on each side the fire, he even 
went so far as to say, " Do you know, my 
dear, I am very sorry that you have found it 
necessary to part with Mrs. Whyte ; poor old 
creature, I have known her ever since I was 
born, and she was so attached to the family." 

"I am sure, my love," replied Mrs. Dalton, 
in her blandest tones, "I am very sorry, I did 
not know that she was so great a favourite 
with you — I would not have parted with her 
or. any account; but, indeed, my dear, you 
have spoilt all your servants — I could do no- 
thing with them — I shall not hav^ half the 
trouble with a new set, who know my ways 
from the first. I am not very particular, but, 
I own, I know when work is well done. I 
used to tell you I piqued myself on my house- 
keeping; I kept mamma's house for her since 
I was sixteen." A pause ensued, and Mr. 
Dalton began to crack his walnut with unu- 
sual industry, and his lady continued, " I can 
assure you, Mrs. Whyte is not the only old 
servant E should rejoice to be rid of." 

"There are not," replied Mr. Dalton, "many 
now left to interfere with your arrangements." 

" Why, there is that tiresome old black 
woman." 

" Eda is not black," said her husband. 

" But she is as obstinate as a mule — she 
minds nothing that I say, she manages those 
children — the way in which they are spoilt is 
enough to ruin them : I never saw any thing 
so rude as they grow, and it is all Eda's fault." 

" I am sorry to hear this ; as they grow 
older I trust they will be more amenable to 
your advice. But," and his brow darkened 
as he spoke, " the spoiling of an old woman 
cannot much matter, counteracted as it is by 
your judicious control." 

"I am sure," continued the lady, "the 
wisest thino- we could do would be to get rid 
of her." 

" We will drop this subject once and for- 
ever," replied her husband. "While I have 
a house, that house will be a home for Eda. 
You do not know the fidelity and devotion ol 
that affectionate creature." 

"My dear love," said his wife, you are 
master in your own house. I would not for 
the world interfere with any of your wishes 
I am very sorry I ever mentioned the subject." 
Here the conversation changed, Mrs. Dalton 
2N 



422 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



revolving in her own mind whether it would 
not be possible to provoke Eda into leaving of 
her own accord. 

Julia and Ellen had that very morning given 
her more than usual cause of displeasure. She 
had early began to lay down a system of rules, 
as much opposed to all their old habits as could 
well be devised. Eda conformed in every 
thing, saving in one or two instances to which 
she knew the strength of the children was un- 
equal, and even then she did not deviate from 
the rule laid down, without the most submis- 
sive remonstrance and explanation. Among 
other rules rigidly insisted upon was they 
were not to run in and out of the drawing- 
rooms ; indeed, they were not to make their 
appearance there, unless they were sent for. 
Eda believed this prohibition was strictly ob- 
served : indeed, she secretly thought that there 
was too little temptation to fear that it would 
be neglected ; but Julia and Ellen made an 
exception, in their own favour, for one single 
room, and into that they contrived to steal 
every morning. It was at some distance from 
their usual sitting-room, so their disobedience 
had yet remained undiscovered. It so hap- 
pened, that Mrs. Dalton, while receiving some 
visiters, happened to mention a rare plant she 
had noticed in the greenhouse. These visiters 
had a valuable collection of their own, and 
that generally gives us an interest in another's. 
They went to the greenhouse, where the gar- 
dener said it had been sent to the house and 
placed in the window of the blue drawing- 
room, as it was called. Thither Mrs. Dalton 
proceeded with her guests, and there she found 
the two children; who, hearing footsteps, en- 
deavoured to make a rapid retreat. The win- 
dow opened down to the ground, and they had 
come through it with all possible precaution ; 
but, in their haste to leave the room unob- 
served, they threw down the stand of flowers 
— Ellen's frock caught on one of the pots, and 
Julia staid to assist her. 

" As usual, those children are always in 
mischief," exclaimed Mrs. Dalton. " What 
were you doing here?" The culprits stood 
silent, when an old lady of the party good- 
naturedly came forward and said, 

" I am sure they are very sorry for what 
they have done. Will you let me intercede 
for them this once'?" 

" Nay," said Mrs. Dalton, " I only regret 
;hat the very plant should be destroyed which 
you took the trouble of coming to see;" but 
her face contradicted her words. The party 
left the room, and the same lady who inter- 
ceded for them now said, "I must get ac- 
quainted with these little strangers," and, 
taking a hand of each, led them forward, si- 
Jent and reluctant. 

"You will find them sadly troublesome," 
ieplied Mrs. Dalton, who however made no 
farther objection. The visit was constrained 
and tedious ; there was a stiffness and cold- 
ness in the manners of the hostess that pre- 
cluded all attempts at familiar conversation. 
Interested in nothing that did not immediately 
concern herself, she had none of that general 



kindliness which is so winning even in trifles. 
Her very politeness was chilling, for there 
was nothing of the heart in it. As to the 
children, it was impossible to extract a word 
from them. Mrs. Dalton muttered something 
about sullenness, but the old lady who had 
before taken their part felt tempted to say, 
" Why, madam, they are frightened put of 
their poor little wits." Lunch having been 
eaten and the greenhouse seen, — nothing now 
remained to supply topics of 'discourse or the 
want of them, and, after a dull quarter of an 
hour, the ladies rose, glad that the penance 
was over. 

What a duty it is to cultivate a pleasant 
manner ! how many a meeting does it make 
cheerful which would otherwise have been 
stupid and formal ! We do not mean by <his 
the mere routine of polite observance, but we 
mean that general cheerfulness which, like 
sunshine, lights up whatever it touches; that 
attention to others which discovers what sub- 
ject is most likely to interest them, and that 
information which, ready for use, is easily 
laid under contribution by the habit of turning 
all resources to immediate employ. In short, 
a really pleasant manner grows out of benevo- 
lence, which can be as much shown in a small 
courtesy as in a great service. It can never 
be possessed by a selfish person, and Mrs. 
Dalton was thoroughly selfish. She had no 
idea that it could be a greater pleasure to give 
up your own comfort, or your own wishes, to 
those of another, than even enjoying their 
fullest gratification yourself. Julia and Ellen 
were gliding, as they thought, unperceived out 
oftheroom, when the harsh voice of Mrs. Dal- 
ton recalled them. 

Slowly, and holding each other fast by the 
hand, they approached the sofa where she 
was seated. 

" Can't you stand upright," exclaimed she 
angrily, " without leaning upon each other in 
that awkward way % And now perhaps you 
will have the goodness to tell me what busi- 
ness you had in the drawing-room. Was this 
the first time?" 

" No," said Julia, in an almost inaudible 
whisper. 

" How dare you run in and out, bringing 
all the dirt from the garden." 

" We take such care," replied Julia, who 
on most occasions acted as spokeswoman, 
"to rub our feet before we come in." 

" But how dare you come in when my or- 
ders are that you should not ?" To this ques- 
tion no answer was returned, the culprits 
stood pale with fear, their heads hung down 
and not daring even to look at each other. 

"I will make you repent this obstinacy. 
I insist upon knowing what you were doing 
there." The loud tone in which this was 
said admitted of no farther delay: trembling 
from head to foot, Julia at last answered : 

" We go there every morning to see if you 
have been put in our mamma's picture." The 
fact was the children, who never rightly un- 
derstood why a stranger should come in the 
place of their still fondly remembered parent, 




TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



423 



expected tint, as every thing else had 
changed, the portrait would change too, and 
watched over it with a mixture of fear and 
love. Every morning they stole quietly into 
the room, and went happy in the conviction 
that the sweet face which was to their affec- 
tionate eyes such a treasure had still a smile 
for them. There w'as something in this an- 
swer that provoked xMrs. Dalton to the utmost, 
and yet she scarcely knew how 7 to make it a 
subject of reproof : catching, however, at one 
expression Julia had used, she retorted, " So I 
am not your mamma, you little ungrateful crea- 
tures. I know who taught you this ; but I 
won't have an old black in my house much 
longer to make everybody as insolent as her- 
self: go along to the nursery, and, to punish 
you for your disobedience, you shall not come 
down stairs after dinner to-day." This was 
no longer a punishment, it was a penance, on 
the contrary, which they were glad to avoid. 
They knew that, from the time they entered, 
till the bell rang for " Eda to fetch the Misses 
Dalton," it would be an incessant repetition 
of reproofs. Nothing discourages a child so 
much as the impossibility of pleasing. At 
first Julia and Ellen held up their heads, and 
altered their position every second minute, 
but it was in vain. They grew careless at 
last, and, not loving Mrs. Dalton, became in- 
different whether they pleased her or not. 

In the mean time their father found all this 
very tiresome ; and, too indolent to examine 
who was in fault, satisfied himself with re- 
pealing, what his wife so often asserted, 
" that all children were plagues when come 
to a certain age. 1 ' He only hoped that ibis 
age would soon be past, and in the mean time 
only suppose that his own had more than or- 
dinary allotment of weariness and stupidity. 
The fact, was that they scarcely dared to speak, 
or raise their eyes, during the brief visit which 
they paid to the dining-room. He was little 
aware of the system of minute tyranny which 
his wife pursued. Not that she was cruel, or 
intended any positive injury; but she was 
harsh, selfish, delighted in a system of pu- 
nishment and restraint, while she considered 
the luckless orphans as intruders on her 
rights, and, as such, to be regarded with an 
unkindly and perpetual jealousy ; she inter- 
fered with all their childish enjoyments ; they 
were forbidden two-thirds of their old accus- 
tomed walks, indeed any, where there was a 
chance of their meeting their father. The 
little pony carriage, in which they used to 
drive, was pronounced an unnecessary ex- 
pense, and, though the children required air, 
they were not equal to much exercise. Their 
dinners, on the pretence of regimen, were re- 
duced to the coarsest material, and they were 
possessed of that delicate appetite very differ- 
ent from the healthy hunger which usually 
belongs to their age. 

But the worst "was the perpetual fear in 
which they lived; they would start and turn 
pale at the opening of a door, lest they should 
see Mrs. Dalton, and some slight fault be fol- 
lowed by punishment far beyond the offence. 



Hours of solitary imprisonment were a usual 
infliction, when they were left to brood over 
the assurance of their own extreme wicked- 
ness. Eda saw with bitter regret that theii 
spirits were quite broken, an.d that they were 
gradually confounding all ideas of right and 
wrong. Reverence to a parent is a child's 
first duty, and a parent's approbation is a 
child's sweetest reward. But how could she 
inculcate duty where it was utterly unde- 
served, and how hold forth that approbation 
which no exertion could gain ] As to herself, 
nothing but the most devoted affection could 
have induced the faithful Indian to have re- 
mained under Mrs. Dalton's roof. Her mis- 
tress never spoke to her but with some paltry 
taunt reflecting on her country or her com- 
plexion. Her fellow-servants, encouraged by 
such example, were insolent and unkind ; 
every comfort due to her age and situation 
was withdrawn, and she had a yet keener 
source of suffering in the condition of those 
who were far dearer to her than herself. But 
for their sakes she would have borne even to 
death — for their sakes she endured contumely 
and privation — for their sakes she curbed a 
temper naturally warm — lest one disrespectful 
word should give her mistress a hold against 
her. She knew that while she remained in 
that house — now so little of a home to any of 
them, the orphans had still one tender friend, 
one to w T atch their sickness, to hear their little 
griefs, and console them as far as pity could 
console. She could talk to them of their own 
mother — she could teach them to pray, and, 
young as they were, their sweetest hopes were 
garnered in that world which is beyond the 
grave. 

Evening after evening, when secure from 
Mrs. Dalton's entrance, as she was then 
generally engaged with her guests below, the 
children w T ould take their seats at Eda's feet, 
and listen while she read aloud, from the 
large old Bible, such portions as were adapted 
to their infant minds. " Suffer ye little child- 
ren to come unto me," were the latest words 
that they heard at night, and the hope which 
lingered the last around their often restless 
pillow. All Mrs. Dalton's efforts to dislodge 
the tiresome old Indian were in vain. Direct 
dismissal she knew that her husband would 
not suffer, and all indirect attempts were coun- 
teracted by what might truly be called Eda's 
patience and long-suffering. But the scene 
of the morning had furnished Mrs. Dalton 
with an excuse for an attempt to carry a plan 
into execution which she had long revolved. 
After dinner, when Mr. Dalton inquired why 
the children did not make their usual appear- 
ance, his lady at once replied " that they were 
in disgrace." 

"Pshaw," replied Mr. Dalton, "no great 
matter, I dare say: come, let them be for- 
given, and I will ring the bell for them." 

" Will you pardon my opposing you' 
wishes for once?" said she. " I do not ofter. 
interfere with the management of the children. 
I feel how delicately I am situated, but ieallj 
I fear I have been wrong. They are sadlj 



424 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



neglected, left entirely as they are under Eda's 
charge ; they are getting too old for the nur- 
sery. " This was a fact which Mr. Dalton 
could not deny, though he had never given it 
a moment's consideration before. 

" Those dear children," continued she in 
the blandest tone possible, " ought to have 
some education ; or do you mean that they 
should run wild about the country, as they 
do now, when they are grown up ?" 

" Certainly," answered the gentleman, 
" they do need instruction." 

"And restraint still more. I cannot tell 
you this morning how shocked I was when 
Mrs. Dalrymple was calling here, (you have 
yourself often observed what elegant girls 
her daughters are,) to have Julia and Ellen 
scampering in at the drawing-room windows, 
covered with dirt, and throwing down the 
flowerstand where was the very plant which 
Mrs. Dalrymple had gone there to see." This 
narration touched Mr. Dalton on the tenderest 
point : he had the greatest horror of noise or 
any thing like romping in a girl. A woman, 
in his idea, could not be too quiet; and this 
riotous conduct in Ellen and Julia was at 
complete variance with all his notion of femi- 
nine delicacy. He instantly became alarmed 
as to what they would be as they grew up, 
and two loud, awkward, vulgar looking girls 
rose to his mind's eye. " You are right, my 
dear," exclaimed he, after a pause, " Eda is a 
faithful and affectionate creature, but certainly 
quite unfit to educate my daughters ; some- 
thing must be done, suppose we have a go- 
verness." 

" Your plan," returned Mrs. Dalton, 
" would be excellent, were the acquisition 
of accomplishment all we had in view: but 
I fear the first object must be to break the 
dear children of many, I must say, the very 
many, bad habits in which they have been in- 
dulged." 

" Send them to school," said her husband. 

" I have thought of that myself, but am not 
altogether satisfied with the plan : are you at 
leisure to hear a little idea of my own?" Mr. 
Dalton knew by experience these "little 
ideas" took up a considerable time in deve- 
loping, and he usually listened in abstraction 
rather than patience, but he was too much in- 
terested in the subject not to be a most atten- 
tive auditor; and, though he could sometimes 
have spared their exercise, he had a high idea 
of his wife's abilities. 

" I take great blame to myself," said Mrs. 
Dalton. 

" I really do not know for what," interrupt- 
ed her husband. 

" You are very kind to say so," replied she ; 
" but I do blame myself very much, I have 
allowed a false delicacy to carry me too far. 
I ought to have interfered more than I have 
done hitherto. I ought not to have allowed 
the dread of any invidious construction to in- 
terfere with what I knew to be right. Eda 
is, as you truly say, a good, faithful creature, 
but ignorant and prejudiced to tl\e last de- 
gree , 1 can forgive her dislike to myself, 



however unjust, but I now regret that I have 
allowed her to influence the children as it ha3 
done; I do not often complain, but I cannot 
tell you how it hurt me this morning when 
the children told me, " Indeed I was not their 
own mamma." But it is foolish to plague 
you with these trifles." 

" What nonsense of Eda," exclaimed Mr 
Dalton, " to put any such fancy in the child 
ren's heads." 

"But," said his wife, "to go on with my 
plan : I propose that Julia should be sent to 
school ; it is best that they should be sepa- 
rated for a time, for they encourage each other 
in all sorts of mischief; and yet I wish Ellen, 
who is far the most delicate of the two, to re- 
main at home." 

" You think then that Julia's health is 
good," asked Mr. Dalton, with marked 
anxiety. 

" Indeed I do ; she is a little strong, daring 1 
thing, and a school will be useful to her in 
every point of view." 

"And Ellen, shall we have a governess 
for her]" 

" By your leave, no, I wish her to be my 
pupil. I shall henceforth devote a portion of 
every morning to her education : I used to be 
considered tolerably accomplished, and, if at 
the end of six months she does not improve 
as I expect, we can then decide on her accom- 
panying her sister to school next half year." 

" I do not see a single objection to what 
you propose, we will drive over to Mrs. Dal- 
rymple's to-morrow ; I know that her daugh- 
ters were all educated at the same school, and 
she can answer all our inquiries." This was 
proceeding rather more rapidly than Mrs. Dal- 
ton intended : she would have liked to have 
chosen the school herself: for Mrs. Dalrym- 
ple's advice to be taken interfered with her 
own love of patronage; moreover she feared 
that in the course of the conversation a dif- 
ferent version of the morning's adventure 
might come out, and a different view be taken 
of the children's conduct to what she had 
given. Still one great point was gained, in 
Mr. Dalton consenting to a school at all : she 
therefore trusted to her own dexterity in guid- 
ing the morrow's discourse; and she knew 
her husband well enough to know that though 
he rarely interfered, yet he equally rarely de- 
parted from a resolution when once formed. 

The next day they drove to Mrs. Dairy tu- 
ple's. A winding road, through a small plan- 
tation of young limes, led them to the house, 
a light modern building rather convenient than 
large. The portico was filled with plants, 
whose graceful arrangement bespoke that fine 
taste and eye for blended colours which shows 
that the task has been a pleasure. I believe 
the love of flowers to be as inherent in the 
disposition as any other inclination. Nothing 
could be more cheerful than the sitting-room 
into which they were shown. Mrs. Dalrym- 
ple was surrounded by her youngest daugh- 
ters and eldest grandchildren, all employed, 
down to the little creature who sat at her feet 
engaged with a box of ivory letters. Con- 



TRAITS AND TRiALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



425 



versaticn was soon begun and easily main- 
tained, for though quiet and rather retiring, 
there was a general ease of manner, as by a 
look or a kind word, Mrs. Dalrymple was al- 
ways ready to encourage the modest question 
or intelligent remark of the young people 
around her. 

Mr. Dalton, intelligent though reserved, ap- 
preciated the graceful and interesting circle, 
and grew the more anxious to consult Mrs. 
Dalrymple. He was too full of the subject 
to take an interest in any other, and, after the 
first general topics were discussed, he said 
that he should take the liberty of an old friend, 
and mention the object of their visit. Mrs. 
Dalrymple had both heard more and seen 
more than would have pleased Mrs. Dalton, 
but she was too judicious to hazard making 
matters worse by fruitless interference. Ex- 
perience had long since taught her that a 
stranger rarely did any good in family affairs, 
but, now that her opinion was asked, and her 
advice likely to be followed, she at once saw 
how much she might benefit the twins, who 
had interested her exceedingly. Any home 
was better than their own, and if she could 
promote their being placed under Mrs. Wil- 
son's charge, she knew they w T ere sure both 
of instruction and kindness : she did not there- 
fore content herself with expressing merely 
her warm approbation of the establishment, 
but she entered at length into her reasons for 
so doing, she gave the most minute details, 
and ended by saying, "I do not so strongly 
recommend Mrs. Wilson's on the usual ad- 
vertising terms because ' the house is in an 
airy situation, or, is attended by the best mas- 
ters,' but because I know Mrs. Wilson's 
worth and kind-heartedness. Her being be- 
loved, as she is, by her former scholars, is the 
highest praise that I can bestow." 

Both Mr. and P.Irs. Dalton went home per- 
fectly satisfied. He quite persuaded that a 
few years would make his daughters as high- 
ly accomplished and as graceful as the Misses 
Dalrymple, while Mrs. Dalton congratulated 
herself on the success of her scheme ; and 
the morning's visit had led to no unpleasant 
suspicions in her husband's mind, as to whe- 
ther her disinterested attachment to the twins 
was quite so genuine as she wished him to 
believe. All was settled during their drive 
home. Mrs. Dalton was going to town the 
end of the week, and Julia was to accompany 
her. "Ellen," said she, " will not like being 
left behind, we must think of something to 
console her." That day after dinner, *Mr. 
Dalton first divided some preserves between 
Julia and Ellen, though his wife observed 
" that an apple would be much more whole- 
some," and while the fruit was eating he said, 
" We have been seeing some such nice little 
girls to-day. One of them is not so tall as 
you, Ellen, and she can play very prettily on 
the piano. Should not you like to play tool" 

" O, yes," exclaimed both the children in 
a breath. 

" You are growing great girls now, and you 

Vol. I.— 54 



must not be idle all day ; you have a great 
deal to learn before you." 

" We like to learn," said Julia, encouraged 
by her father's manner, " we say our lessons 
to Eda every day." 

Mr. Dalton smiled, and added, " But young 
ladies have a great deal more to learn than 
poor Eda can teach them. Would you not 
like to have some young friends, and to know 
how to dance, and to paint pictures'?" 

" Yes," exclaimed Julia, colouring with de- 
light. 

" You are a good girl," replied her father, 
" and deserve to go to school. You shall go 
there next week, and learn to do so many 
pretty things." 

" Will Eda go with us !" asked Ellen. 

" No," replied Mrs. Dalton, " she is to stay 
at home to take care of you." 

" Am I not going to school ?" said the child 
in a faltering voice. 

" No, you are to stay at home," answered 
her father, " with mamma and me : your 
mamma is going to teach you herself to play 
on the piano in the drawing-room." The 
children became silent, at once ; their little 
hearts were too full to speak, the large tears 
swelled in their eyes, but they w T ere afraid to 
shed them. 

" Don't cry," said Mr. Dalton, "you are too 
old to be babies now, go and tell Eda the 
good news of how clever you are soon to be." 

" I thought," observed Mrs. Dalton, as they 
left the room, " that Ellen would not like to 
stay at home." 

" It is very natural," replied her husband, 
" she and her sister have never been parted 
before — perhaps it would be best to let both 
go to school." 

"Nay, nay," she exclaimed, "I will not 
be robbed of my little pupil : you know, my 
dear, you are always out in the morning, and 
Ellen's education will fill up my solitary 
hours: besides, she is not strong enough for 
school." No more was said, and early the 
next morning Mr. Dalton set off to a distant- 
part of the country whence he was to join his 
wife in London. The two children had hur- 
ried to the nursery, and, throwing themselves 
at Eda's feet, and hiding their faces in her 
lap. gave way to the tears they had with such 
difficulty suppressed. It was long before 
their nurse could learn the cause of such pas- 
sionate grief; at last, she distinguished the 
broken words of " going to school." "And 
is that all," exclaimed she, " why you ought 
to be glad — you will learn so many things 
that you ought to know : do you remember 
how your poor mother used to play, and how 
you used to sit beside the piano? I am sure 
you will be such good children, and when you 
come back you will have so many things to 
tell us." 

"Ah, but," replied Julia, in a voice choked 
with sobs, " I am going without Ellen." 

" I am to stay," continued Ellen, in an 
equally inaudible tone, " at home, for our new 
mamma to teach." For once, Eda had not a 
2n2 



426 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



word to say. She clasped the children in her 
arms, and, unable to conceal her emotion, 
wept over them bitterly. She knew the de- 
voted affection of the twins to each other, and 
to part them seemed refinement in cruelty. 
As to Ellen, she trembled to think of the 
teaching in preparation. It was dreadful to 
think how her poor spirit would be checked, 
and her young temper imbittered by the per- 
petual harshness and undue expectations of 
Mrs. Dalton. Julia might do well, she was 
a quick and clever child, while her generous 
and affectionate temper would surely win its 
own way, and make friends for itself. But 
poor Ellen, whatever she did, would be sure 
to be wrong : Mrs. Dalton had no kindness in 
her nature, fault-finding was the very element 
in which she lived, and the child was so timid 
that reproof incapacitated her from exertion. 
Eda, saving when she lost the mistress whom 
she loved as her child, had never felt a keener 
pang — still she felt that her indulgence in 
sorrow rather added to the mischief. The 
sight of her grief increased that of the twins, 
and, what was worse, made them think it 
right to indulge in complaints. 

"I am a foolish old woman," said she at 
last, " to cry, when I ought to be glad." The 
word glad choked her as she said it — and she 
paused for a moment, but Eda had a strength 
of mind and an uprightness of principle that 
would have done honour to any state, or any 
education. She saw that in the present in- 
stance it was at once a kindness and a duty 
to encourage them as much as possible. It 
was a hard task — but at least it should not 
want her affectionate efforts. " Surely, El- 
len," continued she, "my darling does not cry 
because she is to stay and take care of her 
poor old nurse !" The child raised her head, 
and, clasping her arms round her neck, tried 
to speak, but could only kiss her, and sob out 
some inarticulate words. Still, after a little 
time, Eda soothed them into composure suffi- 
cient for attention. To Julia she dwelt on the 
advantages of going to school. " Why you 
will be able to teach your sister when you 
come home ;" while to Ellen she rather talked 
of herself. "I could not bear to lose both of 
you at once — I. know the time must come." 

" No, no," interrupted the children, " when 
we are grown up, you shall always live with 
us." 

" But it is a long time till then," continued 
Eda, ".and many things may happen. Both of 
you may go to school next year, I shall be used 
to be alone by that time ; but I could not have 
parted with you both at once — Ellen must try 
and attend to what her mamma tells her." A 
deep sigh was the child's only answer ; and 
their nurse went on trying to look forward and 
to anticipate their next meeting. They went 
to bed ; but when Eda leant over their pillow, 
the last thing at night, she saw, from the yet 
glittering eyelash, and the feverish cheek, 
that they had cried themselves to sleep — often 
and often, during the following days, did the 
tears start into her own eyes to see how the 
children clung to each other — Ellen seemed 



afraid to lose sight of Julia for one moment; 
and Julia, generally the most active of the 
two, could scarcely be prevailed upon to move, 
if thereby she loosed hold of her sister's hand. 

The evening of the last day came — it was 
in June, and the weather had been unusually 
hot: — to go out during the morning had been 
impossible ; but the children had been anx- 
iously awaiting the cooler afternoon to visit, 
for the last time, all their favourite haunts. 
The long shadows were now resting on the 
park, and those red hues were beginning to 
gather on the clouds which so soon flush into 
crimson and as soon fade. Scarcely had they 
set out, before a message came from Mrs. 
Dalton, who had seen them from the window, 
and had sent for them, She wished, she said, 
to give Julia some advice about her behaviour 
at school. Alas, for the weary hours now 
passed on two small upright chairs, listening 
to a succession of reproofs : " As to Julia, I 
am sure, if I were her, I should be ashamed 
of going to school such a dunce — the youngest 
child in it will laugh at her. I expect that 
you will pass the next half year in the corner, 
with a foolscap on. You will find it very 
different to being spoilt, as you are at home : 
I shall have trouble enough with Ellen. Are 
you dumb, child 1 Though, I believe you 
can find your tongue fast enough when you 
are with servants." At last, quite tired out, 
and taking a sort of courage from despair, Ju- 
lia asked if they might go and finish their 
walk, and bid good-by to Mrs. Whyte 1 The 
old housekeeper lived now in the village. 

" I will have nothing of the kind," cried 
Mrs. Dalton, "you have enough to do with 
servants in the house, without going out in 
search of them ; and as to Julia, going walk- 
ing herself to death, I will not hear of it. 
Terrible as it is, you will have to pass the 
whole evening quietly with me." And the 
whole evening did she keep the two poor 
children seated, without the least employ or 
amusement, till an hour considerably past 
their usual time of going to bed, pale and 
tired enough : when at length she allowed 
them to leave the apartment. Such was Mrs. 
Dalton's character — unkind, selfish and tyran- 
nical : she delighted in the exercise of petty 
authority. How many children, discontented 
with the exercise of needful authority, might 
learn submission and thankfulness from the 
lot of others ; such a temper as that we have 
been describing is very uncommon ; the treat- 
ment of children oftener errs on the side of 
over-indulgence than aught else. How many 
might be taught better to appreciate the bless* 
ings which surround them by considering 
what some, less fortunate than themselves, 
are called upon to endure ! Weary as they 
were, before they retired to rest, the twins 
resolved to rise early the following morning, 
and to take their purposed walk. " I shall 
not be able to go as far as Mrs. Whyte's, but 
Ellen will carry her my good-by and the nee 
die-book which I have worked her. We can 
go and see the poor old pond and the lime- 
walk." Eda, though she resolved not tc 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



427 



10036 the children, tired as they seemed, if 
they should be sleeping in the morning, made 
no opposition to the scheme. 

Too excited for sleep, they rose almost 
with the sun, and hurried to take their fare- 
well walk. Hew many an old tree did they 
linger beside, like a familiar friend ! What 
handfuls of flowers were gathered in a spirit 
of the tenderest remembrance. They had no 
longer gardens of their own. Mrs. Dalton 
had chosen their little plot of ground to have 
seme seeds, about which she was very parti- 
cular, sown. They never came up, which the 
old gardener said was "a judgment upon her." 
r t must he confessed that it. was a judgment 
originating in himself; still there was an end 
to the children's garden, the lady having de- 
cided that Hardening was very unfit employ- 
ment for young ladies, and that they were so 
tanned they would soon not be fit to be seen. 

They had now entered the park, and, as 
they expected, two tame deer came up, and, 
gazing at them with their large eyes, waited 
for their portion of bread. Julia could not 
feed hers for the last time without, crying — 
and Ellen cried for sympathy. " You will 
have to feed mine to-morrow :" and the child 
leant down to kiss the head of her graceful 
favourite. "Well," continued she, "they 
would miss both, they will not. miss only 
one." The bread was soon eaten, and the 
deer bounded away over the dewy grass. Julia 
watched them till the thicket hid them from 
b.er sight, and at that moment the whole herd, 
bounding along — scattered the dew like light 
from the sparkling herbage Over which they 
hurried. The sunshine found a mirror in 
every blade of lucid grass — in every leaf that 
hung from the boughs — one bright drop, glis- 
tening at every slender point. The branches 
seemed filled with birds singing as if in wel- 
come to the glad morning; while the flowers 
I wore the fresh bright colours which 
they unfold to the native wind, with the 
that night has garnered in each folded 
blossom. " I low cheerful every thing looks," 
exclaimed Julia : "just as if I were not going 
away !" Poor child, she and her sister walk- 
ed on hand in hand, casting sorrowful looks 
at the shining leaves, and the sweet flowers, 
which had so long been their companions. To 
their young eyes a shadow rested on all they 
saw, they were now learning the bitter lesson 
how the little world of the human heart gives 
its own likeness to the vast universe of which 
it i< hut an atom. 

But the long shadows of the early morning 
began to shorten, and the children, hurrying 
to an old sundial that stood beside the lake in 
the park, saw that it was time to return home. 
They only stayed to give the remainder of the 
bread to the swans that came sweeping over 
the bright expanse at their approach. " Good- 
by," again exclaimed Julia, in scarcely an 
audible whisper, ami snatching her sister's 
hand, they ran in silence to the^house. Eda, 
and breakfast were waiting for them, but the 
hearts of all were too fulf to eat. The nurse 
was the only one who attempted to speak 



cheerfully, but, at last, even her voice failed. 
They beard the carriage come round to the 
door, and all started up from the untasted 
meal ; a few minutes were given to the bus- 
tle of preparation, when Eda having taken 
care that there should not be a moment's delay 
to irritate Mrs. Dalton, took Julia on her 
knee, and said, in an earnest, and at first, a 
calm voice, "You are going away, my own 
darling child, going, I trust in God, for your 
own good ; you will have to learn many 
things which your poor Eda could not teach 
you. But you will not forget what she has 
taught you, to be a good child, always to 
speak the truth, and when you say your pray- 
ers at night, think if you deserve to pray for 
your sister. God bless you, my dearest, 
God bless you;" and she kissed the weeping 
child, her tears fast mingling with those 
which J ulia was shedding. " Dry your eyes, 
my own darling," for at that momenta servant 
announced " that the carriage was ready." 

Eda led the two children into the hall, 
which Mrs. Dalton had just entered. " What 
a figure, she said, in a harsh tone, "those 
children have made themselves with crying : 
there, good-by, I can't be kept waiting all 
day." She stepped into the carriage. " Keep 
this for my sake," whispered her nurse, as 
she gave Julia a little book. Still the child- 
ren clung together, and Eda was herself 
obliged to part their hands and lift Julia into 
h-r place by Mrs. Dalton's side. They drove 
rapidly off, and perhaps the journey may be 
best summed up by the account which the 
lady's maid gave of it. "That truly her 
mistress was enough to plague the very life 
out of the poor little patient creature, who 
scarce ever opened her lips." 

The day after their arrival in London, Mrs. 
Dalton took Julia to school. Mrs. Wilson 
lived at Richmond, in one of those large old 
houses which look at once airy and substan- 
tial. The garden, towards the lonely and 
sheltered road, was small, but through the 
iron ratlings were visible two neatly kept beds 
of annual flowers, embedded in turf of emerald 
green. The hall, with its large oaken stair- 
case, opened into another garden apparently 
of considerable extent, and on one side was 
the sitting-room into which they were shown. 
It. was filled with the various trifles which 
female ingenuity creates, evincing at least an 
ample share of taste and industry. Now if 
idleness be, as the old copy-books have it, 
" the root of all evil," industry is no less the 
root of all good. 

Mrs. Wilson soon made her appearance, 
she was a ladylike looking person with very 
kind and cheerful manners. Julia was sent 
to see the garden, at -Mrs. Dalton's desire, 
who immediately addressed Mrs. Wilson on 
the subject : " I wished to speak to you about 
your pupil, for I really think it. right to put 
you on your guard ; she is a terrible naughty 
child, artful far beyond her years." 

"xVnd with such a sweet open countenance,' 
exclaimed Mrs. Wilson. 

"Appearances are very deceitful," con 



428 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Lnued her visiter. " I really can hardly re- 
?oncile it to my conscience to leave such a 
torment with a stranger, but she is far beyond 
our management at heme. I own that I have 
been to blame, but you can enter into my 
feelings, it was natural to err on the side of 
over indulgence." She now rose to depart, 
adding, " I will not ask to see Julia, for she 
will be sure to cry to come away with me. 
I therefore leave her in your good care, and 
only hope you will have less trouble with her 
than I have. No doubt school will do won- 
ders for her." 

" How unreasonable people are," thought 
Mrs. Wilson to herself, as she returned from 
the door to w T hich she had conducted her 
visiter. " First, children are allowed to have 
their own way in every thing reasonable or 
unreasonable. They are taught a thousand 
unnecessary wants, encouraged in a thou- 
sand foolish and injurious practices, are, in 
short, utterly spoilt, and unused to restraint 
and employment, or reproof — are sent to me 
indeed, expecting that ' my school will do.won- 
ders for them.' Still that little girl has such 
a sweet countenance, she looked so pale, so 
delicate, and so gentle, that I cannot help be- 
ing interested in her. 

That night at supper Mrs. Wilson's first 
question to the teacher, under whose care 
Julia was more especially placed, was "What 
do you think of our new pupil ?" 

"That she is the most beautiful and quiet 
little creature that I ever saw. But she is sadly 
homesick. We asked her if she had any sis- 
ters, and she could scarcely tell us that she 
had one, whose name w T as Ellen, for sobbing. 
Her only anxiety seems to be to take care of 
a little book — a prayer-book — which she has 
kept in her hand, and now has under her pil- 
low. There is something written at the be- 
ginning, but, as she was careful of it, I asked 
no questions." Poor Julia! this w r as another 
night of the many during which she-had cried 
herself to sleep. Accustomed to the quiet 
and seclusion of the nursery, the number of 
tiew faces frightened her. She was not used to 
companions of her own age, she had no amuse- 
ments in common with theirs, yet they were 
something like Ellen — but alas they were not 
her. 

The next day, Mrs. Wilson sent for the 
stranger to her own room, to judge, herself, 
what her small stock of acquirements might 
be. Julia came, one hand clasping Eda's 
parting gift, and the other bearing the volume 
in which she was to read. Pale, trembling, 
the tears starting from her eyes, she in vain 
endeavoured to answer when Mrs. Wilson ad- 
dressed her. Surprised at what was even 
more terror than timidity, Mrs. Wilson sought 
by every means to encourage her ; she made 
her sit on a stool at her side, and only asked 
her a few simple questions. The fact was 
that Mrs. Dalton had filled the child's head 
with the most exaggerated ideas of what 
would be required of her, and of the severity 
which her deficiencies would evidently pro- 
roke. W T hat with fear and the fatigue of the 



journey, sorrow, want of food — for her little 
heart had been too full to eat, Julia was quite 
exhausted. Mrs. Wilson, though with some 
difficulty, made her take some milk which she 
sent for, and a piece of seed cake, and allowed 
her to remain unnoticed till her little visiter 
had somewhat recovered her spirits. 

"Will you not," said her new friend, "let 
me see the book which you are carrying about 
so carefully ? It is a very pretty prayer- 
book." Julia immediately rose and offered 
the volume, which Mrs. Wilson opened : on 
the first page there appeared some legible, but 
very peculiar, handwriting, more resembling 
Arabic than English characters. The inscrip- 
tion was as follows: "To Julia Dalton, 
from her affectionate nurse, who hopes God 
will bless her, and keep her the same good 
girl, till she comes home again. Eda." 

" Your nurse, I see," observed Mrs. Wilson, 
giving back the book with an encouraging 
smile, " gives you a good character ; so we 
shall expect you to be very good here." 

" I will try," answered Julia, lifting up her 
dark eyes, in which the tears yet lingered. 

"Then I am sure that you will succeed. 
Let me hear how you can read." Julia open- 
ed the volume, at first her voice faltered, but 
her companions reassured her, and she read a 
portion w 7 ith distinctness and a natural grace, 
and answered the few questions put afterwards 
in a manner that showed she quite understood 
what she had been reading. 

"Your mamma must have taken a great 
deal of pains with you," observed her new in- 
structress. "You must now try and take 
pains with yourself. I am sure you love your 
mamma, and would w r ish to please her." 

"I do not love her, and do not wish to 
please her," answered Julia. 

"Fie, fie," exclaimed the governess, "you 
must not say so." 

" Eda," replied the child, meekly, but stea- 
dily, " told me I was always to speak the 
truth." 

"But surely you ought to love your mamma, 
who has taken so much trouble in teaching you 
to read]" 

" I do not love her, for she does not love us, 
and she did not teach me to read." 

" W T ho taught you to read ?" 

" Eda : and she taught us to say our pray- 
ers, and to pray for the new mamma; but she 
has not told us to love her for a long while." 

Mrs. Wilson at once saw that this was a 
case in which silence was the only resource; 
and telling the child that she had read very 
well, sent her to water some of her favourite 
.geraniums. " They are to be under your care, 
Julia, while you are a good girl." 

Julia's great loveliness, for it was impossi- 
ble to look upon her sweet face without plea- 
sure, her gentle temper, and constant readiness 
to oblige, soon made her an universal favourite. 
The youngest in the school, she was the gene- 
ral pet — and yet so good that the care of the 
geraniums was never taken from her one single 
morning; but Mrs. Wilson observed, with re- 
gret, that the child had not spirits belonging 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



429 



lo her age — she was always gentle and trac- 
table ; but the moment she could escape from 
the caresses lavished upon her, she would re- 
treat into the darkest corner, and cry for hours 
together. Still she trusted that constant kind- 
ness would in time work out its effect, and 
that, once accustomed to the place, and inte- 
rested in the pursuits allotted to her, she would 
grow less homesick, and strengthen alike in 
mind and body. 

In the mean time, Mrs. Dalton had com- 
menced the education of Ellen — great prepara- 
tions were made in the first instance : gram- 
mars, catechisms, histories and geographies 
made easy, maps and multiplication tables, 
were mingled with boxes of colours and pieces 
of music. Moreover, a black-board and collar, 
a pair of stocks, another of dumb bells, and a 
small upright chair, showed that the body was 
to be put into as much training as the mind. 
Every morning. Ellen was to go down into 
Mrs. Dalton's room and stay there till three. 
Day after day she used to return to the nurse- 
ry, pale, spiritless, and turning with absolute 
loathing from the dinner which awaited her. 
The evenings were the long and beautiful ones 
in summer, but she could scarcely be prevail- 
ed on to walk. To rest her head on Eda's 
knee, without speaking, was all to which she 
seemed equal. Her kind old nurse trusted that 
Mrs. Dalton's taste for teaching would soon 
wear itself out — so it did : but not so her taste 
for tormenting. She liked to talk of the sacri- 
fice she made of her mornings — of her devo- 
tion to Mr. Dalton's children — and she also 
liked complaining of Ellen's stupidity and ob- 
stinacy. She liked, even better than all, the 
petty authority which she exercised ; and the 
unfortunate child was kept for hours in a 
painful and constrained attitude, poring over 
lessons quite beyond her powers of compre- 
hension, harrassed by perpetual reproof, and 
encouraged by no prospect of praise or suc- 
cess. But all these troubles were light when 
weighed in the balance against the one para- 
mount over all. 

Ellen pined for her sister — she could find 
no pleasure in any of the employments that 
they were wont to pursue together. True, she 
went every morning, that the weather at all 
permitted, to feed their favourite deer, but it 
was a task never fulfilled without tears : she 
took no pleasure in any of their former amuse- 
ments — a beautiful flower only drew from her 
the exclamation of, " I wish Julia were here 
to see it." She put away their playthings till 
Julia came back again : and would interrupt 
Eda when she began to tell an interesting 
story— that it might be kept till Julia could 
hear it too. The affectionate nurse became 
daily more alarmed for her darling's health. 
True, to an indifferent observer, Ellen did not 
look ill :— her eyes were unnaturally bright, 
and the least emotion sent the rich colour into 
her cheek— but Eda knew those hectic symp- 
toms only too well; it was not the first time 
that she had watched their deceiving progress. 
She knew too that the child's nfghts^were 



restless and feverish, that appetite she had 
none, and that, when worn out by the exer- 
tion of the morning, the rest of the day was 
spent in a state almost amounting to stupor 
One morning Ellen, after rising, was seized 
with a sudden faintness ; and, when recover- 
ed, seemed so totally unequal to the labour of 
lessons, that Eda felt herself justified in send- 
ing an excuse to Mrs. Dalton. 

The very idea of being left quiet revived 
her; she drew her little stool to the open win- 
dow, and sat still, without desiring more en« 
joyment than the fresh air and the perfect 
quiet. About an hour had so elapsed, and 
Ellen was beginning to raise her languid 
head, when a step only too well known, was 
heard on the stairs, and the door, rudely 
thrown open, announced the approach of Mrs, 
Dalton. " Just as I thought," said she, in an 
angry tone, " a mere idle excuse, and Ellen is 
the idlest child in the world — she only wanted 
to waste her time in doing nothing; but for 
once, you will find yourself mistaken — you 
will have the goodness, young lady, to come 
down-stairs at once. I will see if I cannot 
find a cure for your headach." Ellen rose 
from her seat with a bewildered air, and, ac- 
customed to implicit obedience, prepared, 
though with trembling steps, to follow, turn- 
ing pale as death. Eda had hitherto stood by 
in silence. Aware of how little good her in- 
terference could effect, she always tried to 
avoid any ineffectual opposition that might 
afterwards be turned against herself; but 
here she could forbear no longer. Addressing 
Mrs. Dalton in the most respectful tone, she 
said, "I do not think, madam, that you are 
quite aware of how ill Miss Ellen is ; she has 
not tasted a morsel to-day." 

"You are always," exclaimed Mrs. Dalton 
angrily, " making these children fancy them- 
selves ill. You coddle them till they fancy 
they are like no one else. Come, Ellen, you 
have already dawdled half the morning away." 
The child walked a few steps feebly — and 
then, staggering towards Eda, sunk again in- 
sensible, and would have fallen, but that her 
nurse, who had seen her change countenance, 
was in time to catch her up in her arms. Mrs. 
Dalton was now thoroughly alarmed — she 
disliked the children from a petty jealousy — 
and she domineered over them from a natural- 
ly despotic temper, made worse from constant 
indulgence; but she did not want the common 
humanity which shudders at the sight of posi- 
tive suffering. She rang the bell hastily for 
assistance, opened the window to its utmost 
extent, for more air, and ran herself to get 
salts and lavender water. 

During the morning, her visits to the nurse- 
ry were so frequent that Eda was forced to 
insist upon the necessity of keeping the pa- 
tient quiet; and Mrs. Dalton acquiesced the 
more readily as she was somewhat recovered 
from her first fright, and had done enough to 
establish the reputation of anxiety and atten« 
tion. But the misfortunes of the day were no^ 
yet at a close : while sitting after dinner witi 



430 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Mr. Dalton, a letter was brought. She opened 
t and found that it came from Mrs. Wilson, 
and the contents were as follows : 

" Dear Madam — It is with great regret that 
I find myself obliged to state that the health 
of my sweet little pupil, Julia Dalton, is such 
that I fear further care or attention on my part is 
unavailing. Her native air will I trust do much 
for her, and her return to the sister for whom 
she pines will, it appears to me, remove the 
greatest obstacle to her recovery. I part from 
the dear child with extreme pain, for a more 
gentle or affectionate little creature I have 
never known. With best compliments, 
"I remain, yours, very truly, 

"M. Wilson." 

Mrs. Dalton could scarcely muster suffi- 
cient self-command to give the letter to her 
husband ; for once, she found herself without 
words. Mr. Dalton read the letter without 
speaking — the moment it was finished he rang 
the bell violently. 

" Order posthorses immediately," said he, 
in a scarcely audible voice to the servant. 

" What do you intend to do ]" exclaimed 
Mrs. Dalton, who had taken to the ordinary 
resource of crying, and was now seated with 
her face buiied in her handkerchief. 

"I mean to go and fetch Julia without an 
hour's delay. I only hope that it will not be 
too late — I wish to God that I had never con- 
sented to part those children." 

" We did it for the best," sobbed Mrs. 
Dalton, " but had you not better let me ac- 
company you ?" 

"It would only be loss of time ; I shall 
travel all night, and shall hope to have Julia 
home before the afternoon to-morrow : you 
will take care of Ellen, and tell her that her 
sister is coming home." There was much in 
this arrangement that Mrs. Dalton both feared 
and disliked, but she saw that opposition was 
fruitless, and so set about making the few pre- 
parations needful with as good a grace as she 
could assume. The carriage soon came round 
to the door, and Mr. Dalton set off, urging the 
postilions to their utmost speed. He arrived 
at Richmond early the following morning, 
sent a messenger to Mrs. Wilson, and was at 
the door, ready again for immediate departure, 
before ten o'clock. Julia was quite ready, 
but, in spite of the flush which the hope of 
seeing her sister had brought to her face, her 
father was shocked at the alteration. At first 
she shrank back timidly, but the kindness of 
his manner brought her instantly to his knee, 
and she whispered an inquiry after Ellen. 
Mr. Dalton was shocked to find, as he lifted 
her into the carriage, that she was light as a 
baby in his arms. 

" But you do not ask how mamma is," said 
her father, chiefly by way of engaging her in 
some discourse. " I did not want to know," 
Baid Julia. He thought this reply deserved 
a reproof, but he had not the heart to give it 
l o the little emaciated being whose head rested 
his arm, wnile he held the small and fe- 



verish hand in his. During the early part ol 
the journey, the excitement of the movement 
and the joy of returning home put Julia in a 
flutter of spirits that made her more than rea- 
dy, eager, to talk. Her father learnt quite 
enough during the conversation to know why 
Julia did not wish to hear how her new mam- 
ma might be. Mr. Dalton listened to the 
sweet, low voice, that so artlessly confided all 
its small store of hopes and regrets, with a 
pang of bitter self-reproach. He blamed him- 
self more than he blamed his w r ife, and soon, 
when Julia, exhausted by the over-excitement, 
became silent, and corftent to look up in his 
face, and clasp his hand, as if desirous of as- 
suring herself that she really was with her fa- 
ther and returning home, then he had ample 
leisure for regret. He scarcely observed the 
road, when Julia started up with a shriek of 
delight, and exclaiming " I see them, I see 
them," pointed out to his attention a clump 
of old oaks, which, growing on an ascent in 
the park, were visible at a considerable dis- 
tance. But even Julia's delight was not suffi- 
cient to counterbalance the fatigue of the jour- 
ney; she raised her head from time to time to 
look out for familiar objects ; she had not 
strength to sit up : a burst of gladness as they 
entered the avenue quite overcame her, and 
when the carriage stopped, she clung with all 
the strength of hysterical agitation to her fa- 
ther, and implored him to take her at once to 
her nurse. 

He took her in his arms, past hastily 
through the hall, and went direct to the nur- 
sery. Ellen was in bed, from which she 
sprang when she saw her sister. " I told you 
I heard the carriage," and the next moment 
the twins were in each other's arms, and the 
affectionate Indian stood over them crying 
like a child. A loud cry from Julia, as her 
her sister sank from her arms on the floor, 
was the first thing that recalled Edato herself. 
She caught the child up, and saw that a small 
stream of blood w r as slowly swelling from her 
lips, while her face was deadly pale. With that 
force which fear often gives, she bore her to 
the window, and flung open the casement. 
Mr. Dalton stood for a moment stupified, but 
catching Eda's eye, he exclaimed, " For the 
love of heaven, a surgeon!" and he rushed at 
once from the room. Once, and only once, 
Ellen again opened her eyes — she looked anx- 
iously round, and muttered some indistinct 
sounds. Her sister, who, from fright and fa- 
tigue, was incapable of moving — had been 
laid on her bed ; by a mutual impulse, they 
again extended their arms towards each other 
— their faces touched, and they sank, as if to 
sleep, but it was a sleep from which they ne- 
ver waked more ! 

Mr. Dalton, who had himself galloped tc 
the neighbouring town, as if life and death 
were indeed upon his speed, now white with 
agitation, entered the chamber, accompanied 
by the medical attendant. One look was suf- 
ficient. The twins lay each in the other's 
arms, Julia's bright auburn hair mingling with 
Ellen's darker curls. The colour had left 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



431 



•joth lip and cheek, and the features, pale and 
sculptured, were like the marble to which 
Chantry imparts an existence, at once so ten- 
der, and yet so sad. The wretched father 
sighed to the attendants to leave the room ; 
all obeyed but one, and she was stupified 
with this last excess of sorrow. Mr. Dalton 
left the room unconscious of her presence. 

A week, a dreary week, had elapsed, and 
it was the morning of the funeral. In the 
ver} r room where the young and unfortunate 
mother had rested in her shroud ere she was 
restored to earth, were two small coffins — the 
iids were closed — human eye had looked its 
last on the mournful remains below. Yet one 
stood gazing upon them as if unable to tear 
herself away : it was the Indian nurse, in 
whose face that week had written death. She 
stood there pale, ghastly, more like a spectre 
than a human being, yet bound to that spot by 
the strong ties of earthly affection. Slowly 
the door opened, and Mr. Dalton entered : he 
started on seeing Eda, who at once came for- 
ward ; and, grasping his arm with a force of 
which her emaciated hand might have seemed 
incapable, exclaimed in a hollow yet fierce tone, 

" The lids are closed ; we shall never look 
on those sweet faces again. Ask of your own 
heart if you deserve to see them. She who 
is now an angel in heaven spent her last 
breath in blessing you. Would she have so 
blessed you, think ye, had she known that, pass 
away but a few fleeting months, and another 
would take her place, at your side, and in 
your house 1 ? — that her children would be 
given over to a stranger, till they sickened for 
the want of those kind words which they ne- 
ver heard but from the mouth of the old In- 
dian woman! Had you gone down to the 
grave first, would she have so forgotten your 
memory ? — would she have so deserted your 
children'?" Mr. Dalton leant against the 
mantel-piece, and Eda saw a convulsion of 
subdued agony pass over the face, which he 
immediately concealed — again she laid her 
hand upon his arm, but this time the touch 
was light, and the voice was subdued and 
broken : " Husband of her whom I loved 
even as a daughter — father of those who were 
even as dear — for their sakes, I would not part 
from you in unkindness. With these little 
coffins, I leave your house ; and, like them, I 
: .eave it never to return." 

JVIU Dalton started at this address, and sub- 
flu >i his emotion by a strong effort, and, taking 



the aged woman's hand, kindly said : "While 
this house owns me for master, it is your 
home; and the home of none who do not treat 
you With kindness and with respect." 

" I could not live here," exclaimed she, 
" the light and the music are put away toge- 
ther ; the few days which may yet be allotted 
unto me upon this weary earth, I shall spend 
with an old servant of your own, Mrs. Whyte: 
her dwelling looks upon the church where" — 
Eda's voice became •inarticulate, and an un- 
broken silence of some minutes ensued. Mr. 
Dalton then said, " At least, I can make your 
old age comfortable; this pocket-book does 
not even contain your due — but" — The Indian 
flung the offered money from her, and drawing 
herself up to her full height, said, with a dig- 
nity which might have belonged to the eastern 
queens of her line : 

" Not for the wages of an hired servant 
have I stayed in your house ; nor will I take 
them. I owe nothing to you but the shelter 
of a roof which was begrudged me ; and the 
bread which was steeped in the tears of bit- 
terness. For the love of those who are no 
more, I have endured taunts, and cold looks, 
and harsh words: — do you think that I will be 
paid for them — do you think you can pay me? 
Let us, I pray of you, for her sake, part in kind- 
ness. Farewell, God bless you." She wrung 
his hand ; and, before he could speak, she had 
left the room. Eda never entered the house 
again. The twins were buried in the family 
vault, and the skill of the sculptor was taxed 
for their monument. The marble gave their 
likeness, as they lay folded in each other's 
arms, in their last pale sleep. Beautiful they 
looked — and sad — yet not a sadness without 
hope. 

In the summer's heat, and in the winter's 
cold, came the aged Indian woman to weep 
and to pray, as she knelt before the mournful 
statues of those who were the children of her 
heart. One day they found her in her usual 
attitude — her eyes fixed on the sculpture, her 
hands clasped, as if in earnest prayer. But 
the eyes were closed, and the hands rigid — 
God had, in his mercy, released her ; and the 
faithful and affectionate Indian had died in the 
very act of praying by those whom she had 
loved so dearly and so well. They were go- 
ing to bury her in the churchyard ; but, at 
Mr. Dalton's command, the family vault was 
opened, and they laid her at the feet of liei 
mistress. 



432 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



THE LITTLE BOY'S BED-TIME. 

Translated from Madame Desborde Valmore. 

Hush ! no more fire, no noise— all round is still. 
See the pale moon hath on th' horizon risen 
While thou wert speaken.— Victor. Hugo. 



Sleep, little Paul, what, crying, hush ! the 
night is very dark ; 

The wolves are near the rampart, the dogs 
begin to bark ; 

The bell has rung for slumber, and the guar- 
dian angel weeps 

When a little child beside the hearth so late 
a playtime keeps. 

" I will not always go to sleep, I like to 

watch the light 
Of the fire upon my sabre, so glittering and 

so bright ; 
And I will keep the wolves at bay, if they 

approach the door ;" 
And again the little naughty one sat undrest 

upon the floor. 

" My God ! forgive the wayward child who 

mocks his mother's word ; 
O Thou ! the long in suffering ! whose wrath 

is slowly stirr'd ; 
Knowledge within the opening soul has but 

a feeble ray, 
Wait till he knows Thy graciousness ! wait 

till a future day. 

" The little birds since set of sun are 

plunged in slumbers deep ; 
The long grass and the lonely trees are fill'd 

with them asleep ; 
The little birds, new from the shell, have left 

the topmost bough, 
And 'neath the midnight's trembling shade 

they all are resting now. 



" Closed is the dove-cot, quiet there the 

cooing pigeons rest, 
The azure waters rock beneath the sleeping 

swan's white breast ; 
Paul, three times has the careful hen counted 

her brood anew ; 
They sleep within her sheltering wings, but, 

Paul, I wait for you. 

" The sinking moon looks down from hea- 
ven her last farewell to take, 

And, pale and angry, asks, ' Who is the child 
I see awake V 

Lo ! there upon her cloudy bed she is already 
laid, 

And sleeps within the circle dark of mid 
night's dusky shade. 

"The little beggar, only he, is wandering in 

the street, 
Poor sufferer ! at such an hour, with cold and 

tired feet. 
He wanders wearily, and hangs his little Ian 

guid head ; 
How glad, how thankful would he be fci 3 

soft warm bed." 

Then little Paul, though watching still 
anxious his shining sword, 

Folded his clothes and laid him down with- 
out another word : 

And soon his mother bent to kiss his eyelids' 
deep repose, 

Tranquil and sweet as angel hands had bade 
those eyelids close. 



THE SAILOR. 



Now, tell me of my brother, 

So far away at sea ; 
Amid the Indian islands, 

Of which you read to me. 

I wish that I were with him, 

Then I should see on high 
The tall and stately cocoa, 

That rises 'mid the sky. 

But only round the summit 
The feathery leaves are seen, 

Like the plumes of some great warrior, 
It spreads its shining green. 

And there the flowers are brighter 
Than any that I know , 



And the birds have purpie plumage, 
And wings of crimson glow. 

There grow cinnamon and spices. 
And, for a mile and more, 

The cool sweet gales of evening 
Bring perfume from the shore. 

Amid those sunny islands 
His good ship has to roam 

Amid so many wonders 
He must forget his home. 

And yet his native valley 

How fair it is to-day ? 
I hear the brook below us 

Go singing on its way. 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



433 



Amid its water lilies 

He launch'd his first small boat — 
He taught me how to build them, 

And how to make them float. 

And there too are the yew trees 
From whence he cut his bow ; 

Mournfully are they sweeping 
The long green grass below. 

It is the lonely churchyard, 
And many tombs are there ; 



On one no weeds are growing, 
But many a flower is fair. 

Though lovely are the countries 
That lie beyond the wave, 

He will not find among them 
Our mother's early grave. 

I fear not for the summer, 
However bright it be : 

My heart says that my brother 
Will seek his home and me. 



THE LADY MARIAN. 



Her silken cloak around her thrown, 
Lined with the soft brown fur, 

So that no wind, howe'er it blew, 
Could blow too rough on her. 

The lady Marian thus went forth, 
To breathe the opening day ; 

Two snow-white ponies drew the chair 
That bore her on her way. 

A little page upheld the reins, 
Who, drest in gold and green, 

Might have seem'd fitting charioteer 
To her the fairy queen. 

The graceful equipage drove on, 
And sought the woodland shade ; 

Where boughs of aspen and of birch 
A pleasant shelter made. 

A murmur musical and sad 
Disturb'd the noontide rest; 

For balanced on each topmost branch 
Hung the wood pigeons' nest. 

But soon amid the parting trees 
There came a gladder song ; 

For, fill'd with music and with light, 
A small brook danced along. 

The small brook had a cheerful song, 
But one more cheerful still, 

The song of childhood in its mirth, 
Came o'er its sunny rill. 

Over the silvery wave which show'd 

The pebbles white below, 
Where cool beneath the running stream 

The water-cresses grow ; 

A little maiden gathering them, 
Bent down with natural grace ; 

The sunshine touch'd her auburn hair, 
The rose was on her face. 

A rose accustom'd to the sun 

Which gave a richer hue 
Than ever pale and languid flower 

Within a hothouse knew. 

Vol. I. — 55 



Blessing the child within her heart, 

Marian pass'd thoughtfully by, 
And long the child watch'd thro' the boughs 

With dark and alter'd eye. 

And when the lady pass'd again, 

The brook its glad song kept; 
But, leaning on its wild flower bank, 

The little maiden wept. 

Marian was still a child in years, 
Though not a child in thought ; 

She paused, and with her low soft voice, 
The cause for sorrow sought. 

It was for envy Edith wept, 

And this she shamed to say ; 
And it was long e'er Marian learnt 

Why tears had found their way. 

At last she rather guess'd than learnt, 

And with a graver tone 
She said, " O, rather thank thy God, 

My lot is not thine own. 

4t How would my weary feet rejoice, 

Like thine to walk and run 
Over the soft and fragrant grass, 

Beneath yon cheerful sun. 

" And yet I trust to God's good will 

My spirit is resign'd ; 
Though sore my sickness, it is borne 

At least with patient mind. 

" Though noble be my father's name, 

And vast my father's wealth; 
He would give all, could he but give 

His only child thy health ! 

" Ah, judge not by the outside show 
Of this world, vain and frail — " 

Still wept the child ; but now she wept 
To watch a cheek so pale. 

The lady Marian's voice grew faint, 
Her hour of strength was o'er ; 

She whisper'd, " Come to-morrow morn, 
And I will tell thee more." 
20 



434 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



Next morning Edith sought the hall ; — 
They show'd her Marian laid 

Upon a couch where many a year 
That gentle child had pray'd. 

And dark and hollow were her eyes, 

Yet tenderly the while 
Play'd o'er her thin white cheek and lip 

A sweet and patient smile. 

The shadow of the grave was nigh, 

But to her face was given 
A holy light from that far home 

Where she was hastening — heaven. 

It was her latest task on earth, 
That work of faith and love ; 

She taught that village child to raise 
Her youthful heart above. 



She gave her sweet and humble thoughts 
That make their own content ; 

And hopes that are the gift of heaven, 
When heavenward the're bent. 

And many wept above the tomb 

That over Marian closed ; 
W T hen in the bosom of her God 

The weary soul reposed. 

None wept with tenderer tears than she 
Who such vain tears had shed ; 

But holy was the weeping given 
To the beloved dead. 

Throughout a long and happy life, 

That peasant maiden kept 
The lesson of that blessed hour 

W T hen by the brook she wept. 



THE PRISONER. 



" Now come and see the linnet that I have 
caught to-day. 

Its wicker cage is fasten'd, it cannot fly away. 

All the morning I've been watching the twigs 
I lim'd last night 

At last he perch'd upon them — he took no fur- 
ther flight. 

I wish he would be quiet, and sit him down 
and sing — 

You cannot see the feathers upon his dark 
brown wing." 

He was her younger brother — she laid aside 

her book — 
His sister with her pale soft cheek, and sweet 

and serious look — 
"Alas," she cried, " poor prisoner, now, 

Henry, set him free, 
His terror and his struggles I cannot bear to 

see." 
But the eager boy stood silent, and with a 

darken'd brow, 
Such pains as he had taken, he could not lose 

them now. 

" Poor bird ! see how he flutters ! and 
many a broken plume 

Lies scatter'd in the struggle, around his nar- 
row room. 

His wings will soon be weary, and he will 
pine and die 

For love of the green forest, and of the clear 
blue sky. 

We read of giants, Henry, in those old books 
of ours, 

Would you like to be a captive within their 
gloomy towers ? 



" You said in our old ash tree a bird had 

built its nest; 
Perhaps this very linnet has there its place ol 

rest. 
Now who will keep his little ones when night 

begins to fall 1 
They have no other shelter, and they will 

perish all. 
There'll be no more sweet singing within that 

lonely grove ; 
Now, Henry, free your prisoner, I pray you, 

for my love. 



tant war, 
He too might be a prisoner in foreign lands 

afar." 
Her dark eyes fill'd with tear-drops, and. she 

could say no more — 
But Henry had already unbarr'd the wicker 

door. 
He threw the window open, and placed the 

cage below, 
And to the ash tree coppice he watch'd the 

linnet go. 

That evening when the sunset flung around 

its rosy light, 
And the air was sweet with summer, and the 

many flowers were bright; 
They took their walk together, and as they 

pass'd along, 
They heard from that old ash tree the linnet's 

pleasant song. 
It was like a sweet thanksgiving ; and Henry, 

thus spoke he, 
"How glad I am, my sister, I set the linnc 

free." 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



435 



THE HISTORY OF 

MABEL DACRE'S FIRST LESSONS. 



" Good-by* my little Mabel ; be a good 
hild, and a comfort to your poor old grand- 
father !" So saying, Mr. Dacre put back the 
thick brown curls, which, to-day, a most un- 
usual circumstance, hung over her face ; and 
kissed her eyes, which were closed, for Mabel 
had resolved not to cry; still the long, dark 
lashes were moist with the tears they re- 
pressed. 

Mabel was lifted, in silence, into the car- 
riage, when instantly jumping out again, she 
ran to her grandfather and almost sobbed, 
though the childish voice was steadied with a 
resolution which would have done honour to 
nineteen, instead of nine. " My dear grand- 
father, I did not say good-by; I will do 
every thing I am told — I will be so very, very 
good !" and our little heroine ran back eager- 
ly, to the carriage. 

Mabel Dacre was an orphan, but utterly un- 
saddened by the memories which make the 
sorrow of an orphan. The darling and de- 
light of her grandfather, she had never known 
a grief which had not been shared — a care 
which had not been soothed. Her whole life 
had been spent in the country, and her cheek 
was as red as the roses that had grown up with 
her, and her step as light as the wind ; and, 
to say the truth, nearly as unchecked. Little, 
affectionate, kind-hearted thing ! having her 
own way was not so bad for her as it usually is 
— still it was bad enough. The warm feel- 
ings, uncontrolled, had degenerated into pas- 
sionate ones; the lively temper, uncurbed, 
was grown wayward and violent ; the mind, 
uncultivated, became idle and vacant; and, at 
the age of nine, Mabel Dacre was head- 
strong, rude, ignorant, and awkward ; in 
short, running as wild as any neglected shrub 
in the garden. Day after day was spent in 
scampering over the grounds, her only com- 
panion a white greyhound as wilful as herself. 
Companions she had few ; far from neigh- 
bours of their own station, they lived at a dis- 
tance ; and the children of the peasantry 
shrank from one whose extreme indulgence 
had, as extreme indulgence always does, ren- 
dered selfish and overbearing. Mabel saw 
she was disliked, and also felt her own defi- 
ciencies; for, only last Christmas, she had 
been taught her first lesson, in mortification. 
Now, bitter, but useful, mortification is the 
Bteppingstone to knowledge, even in a child. 

Mr. Dacre had a daughter, Mrs. Harcourt, 
who together with a fine family, lived at a 
distance ; but last Christmas she and her four 
daughters had volunteered Mr. Dacre a visit. 
Mabel had been impatient for the arrival of 
her cousins, to a degree that had put a stop to 
either sleeping, eating, playing, or, indeed, 
any faculty but talking : she would do this, 
that, and the other (to use a favourite phrase 



of her nurse's,) when her cousins arrived. 
Nay, her generosity had arrived, in imagina- 
tion, even to letting them have her pony — a 
little, rough, wild animal, which had once or 
twice nearly broken her neck, but was, never- 
theless, a prodigious favourite. The day 
arrived — she was awake long before, and up 
as soon as it was light, though she had been 
duly informed it was impossible they could 
arrive before evening. 

Expectation makes a long delay. Her poor 
old grandfather was worried almost out of his 
life, and quite out of his arm-chair. First 
she thought dinner never would be ready, 
which, when it came, she was too impatient 
to eat. Tea was expected and passed in pre- 
cisely the same manner; and, as the evening 
closed in, her impatience was quite unbearable. 
At last, to put a stop to the incessant opening 
and shutting the door, and the still more in- 
cessant questioning, one of the servants gave 
her some chestnuts to roast, and Mabel drew 
her stool to the fire. 

A soft drizzling mist prevented the carriage 
from being heard as it drove up the avenue, 
and the bustle in the hall first announced the 
arrival of the visiters. Mabel threw her stool 
down, and her chestnuts into the fire, and flew 
to welcome them. A most noisy welcome it 
was. Mr. Dacre thought to himself, " five 
children ! Why the old house will be about 
our ears." 

" What is the matter 1 ?" said the clear cold 
voice of Mrs. Harcourt, as Mabel threw her 
arms round her second cousin's neck, and 
dragged her forward with an energetic hospi- 
tality worthy the feudal times. Miss Harriet 
was disengaged from her cousin's embrace, 
and Mabel shrunk back with a feeling of sur- 
prise, if not of fear. 

Mrs. Harcourt proceeded towards the din- 
ing-room, where her father was sitting, unable 
to move with the gout, followed, in the quiet- 
est manner possible, by her daughters. She 
approached Mr. Dacre, regretted that there 
should be such a drawback, as the gout, to 
the happiness of their meeting, observed he 
looked well in the face, and requested per- 
mission to present the young ladies. Each 
severally stepped up to their grandfather, said 
they were glad to see him, and presented 
their cheek to be kissed ; princesses could 
not have done it with more courtesy or more 
coldness. Mrs. Harcourt then asked for her 
niece, and Mabel, for the first time in her life, 
felt reluctant to be noticed ; she was kissed 
by her aunt, afterwards by her cousins ; and 
each young lady then took a chair, where 
they set upright and silent, as if they had 
been images of good behaviour. 

"As the night is so very cold, you may 
come a little nearer the fire," said + heir mother 



436 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



The four moved their chairs forward at 
once, and. then resumed their silence and 
stillness* Mabel* almost unconsciously, 
pushed back her stool which was drawn close 
to the fender. Mrs. Harcourt talked to her 
father, and the young ladies looked at each 
other, and at the stranger, slightingly enough. 
Mabel felt rather than saw, that the looks had 
more of contempt than it wa3 quite agreeable 
to suppose directed to herself. She glanced 
at them from time to time, when she thought 
herself unobserved ; the Misses Harcourt 
seemed beings of another nature ; and natu- 
rally enough, exas' D 'erating their advantages, 
found her self-estimate greatly lowered in the 
contrast. She felt a secret consciousness of 
being ridiculous — a fear singularly prompt to 
enter a childish mind ; and, morever, she was 
disappointed, though she knew not well how. 
With what joy did she hear supper an- 
nounced ! — and hastily assuming a seat, began 
to heap her cousin's plates with every delicacy 
in her reach. Faint " No, thank you's" re- 
warded her trouble, when Mrs. Harcourt said, 
in her chilly, but dictatorial manner, " Do you 
allow Miss Dacre to eat all this pastry'? I 
never allow my daughters to touch any thing 
so unwholesome!" And Mabel saw, with 
dismay, her cousins sup upon a roast apple, a 
piece of bread, and a glass of plain water. 

Nine o'clock struck. "Young ladies, you 
Will bid your grandfather good night." 

"Mabel, love," said Mr. Dacre, "show 
your cousins their room." 

"I thank you," interposed their mother, 
" but the-Misses Harcourt's maid is in attend- 
ance." The young strangers courtesied and 
withdrew. 

It must be owned Mabel had been accus- 
tomed to loiter at her grandfather's knee, nay, 
even to sip out of his oldfashioned cut-glass 
goblet of wine and water, but to-night she 
disappeared as quietly and even more silently 
than her cousins. She left the room with an 
intention of visiting them, but paused from 
sheer timidity as she reached the door. While 
hesitating, she heard Miss Harriet's voice in 
a much louder key than was used down- 
stairs: 

"Well, did you ever see such an uncouth 
creature as our new cousin — dressed such a 
figure! Why she's a complete Hottentot!" 

Mabel withdrew indignantly to her bed, 
and there fairly cried herself to sleep. Not, 
however, till she had reflected a full hour 
touching what " a Hottentot" could possibly 
be. " Give me my darkest frock," said Ma- 
nel to the old servant who dressed her. She 
had already contrasted her appearance with 
that of her guests, and, in her mind's eye, saw 
herself in — alas, for poor Mabel's taste ! a 
frock of brocaded silk, where each large flower 
covered half a breadth ; it had been a gown 
>f her grandmother's, its gay colours had 
marvellously attracted her childish admiration, 
and she had never rested till a best frock had j 
been made from its ample folds. Besides the j 
hues of the rainbow in her garb, she had also j 
decorated herself with divers strings of co- | 



loured beads and bugles, twistea about hei 
neck and arms which eagerness and cold had 
dyed a double red. Moreover, she contem- 
plated her curled head (her hair curled natu- 
rally) with no sort of satisfaction. She re- 
called the strangers dressed in dark green 
merino frocks, up to the throat and down, tc 
the wrist ; the gloves, which were almost 
part of the hands they covered ; the nea-t black 
slipper. Mabel thought to herself, " mine 
were down at heel ;" and then theii heads, 
the youngest had the hair simply parted back ; 
in the second it was allowed to curl in the 
neck ; the third had it also curled in the front, 
while Miss Harcourt, the eldest, had arrived 
at the dignity (and and epoch it is in a young 
lady's life) of having her hair turned up be- 
hind, and a comb. " She is hardly three 
years older than I am," thought Mabel. 

Mabel's step was always light, and her 
voice always soft, when she tripped into her 
grandfather's dressing-room to make her 
daily inquiries. To-day, her manner was 
more than usually subdued. 

" I expect my little girl," said Mr. Dacre, 
" will learn a great deal from her cousins. 
Mrs. Harcourt, my daughter, tells me they are 
uncommonly forward in their education." 

" Pray," said our heroine, " du tell me 
what is meant by a Hottentot." 

" They are a peculiarly hideous and brutal 
race of savages in Africa." 

Poor Mabel asked no farther questions. 
Mrs. Harcourt now arrived to breakfast with 
her father. The young ladies had taken theirs 
an hour before, but just came in to wish Mr. 
Dacre good morning, and then departed. 
Mabel looked after them, and felt as if she 
had no right to her usual place. " Is it pos- 
sible," exclaimed Mrs. Harcourt, " that you 
suffer Miss Dacre to have chocolate for break- 
fast] It is what I would not allow one of 
my own children to touch." To be called 
" Miss Dacre," to be eating what her visiters 
would not be allowed to partake ! — She could 
not swallow another spoonful. Chocolate 
was no indulgence to her, at all events, to-day. 
Mrs. Harcourt, after breakfast, proposed her 
niece should accompany her to what, was to 
be the school-room. " During Miss Dormer's 
holidays, I take the office of governess on my- 
self." Plow endless the morning seemed to 
Mabel ! — how wearisome the various cate- 
chisms out of which they recited dates, names, 
&c, in the driest and the most didactic order. 
And as for the harp, which the eldest Miss 
Harcourt practised for two hours, Mabel won- 
dered how she had ever liked music. The 
hours of study were succeeded by those of 
relaxation, and the four sisters proceeded to 
walk up and down the terrace in the sun ; be- 
yond this their young hostess could not allure 
them. All her efforts for their entertainment 
were equally fruitless ; they screamed when 
her greyhound came bounding towards them; 
shuddered with half real, half affected, horror, 
when she proposed a ride on her pony; and, 
when she challenged her youngest cousin to a 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



43? 



— thai such very violent exercise was only fit 
for boys. 

But the climax of all was when Miss Eliza- 
beth, the eldest, who drew, admired the bright 
red berries of a bunch of holly, and lamented 
that it was out of her reach. Immediately 
Mabel, with much good-nature, and a little of 
the pride of usefulness, began scrambling up 
the tree, quite regardless of the prickly leaves, 
and succeeded in obtaining the desired branch ; 
but, by the time she began her descent, the 
cries and ejaculations of the Misses Harcourt 
had brought their mother to the window, and, 
from the window to the terrace itself, Mabel 
swung by a bough to the ground, and found 
herself in the awful presence of her aunt. 
Blushing even deeper than the crimson which 
exertion had brought into her face, Mabel hesi- 
tatingly offered Elizabeth the stalk with its 
red berries ; Mrs. Harcourt, however, repulsed 
the proffered gift. 

"I can permit no daughter of mine to take 
what has been procured in so disgraceful a 
manner. Young ladies, you will return with 
me to the house." Poor Mabel was left stand- 
ing by herself, equally dismayed and discon- 
solate, on the terrace. But the mortifications 
of the ensuing day were even more acute. It 
was her grandfather's birthday, and each of 
the Misses Harcourt had some pretty present 
of their own work to offer him. The eldest 
brought a drawing — her latest and best per- 
formance ; the second had netted him a brown 
silk purse ; the third had embroidered a velvet 
case for his spectacles ; and the youngest had 
hemmed a silk handkerchief, and neatly mark- 
ed it with his name. And poor Mabel had 
nothing to give. Her little heart swelled 
even to bursting, and she stole out of the room 
to hide her tears, that came thick and fast. 

" Come back, my little girl," said her too 
indulgent grandfather. 

" Excuse me," said Mrs. Harcourt, "young 
ladies, you may leave the room." The Misses 
Harcourt retired. 

"A very bad sign; Miss Dacre's crying 
shows so much envy." 

Mr. Dacre did not quite agree with his 
daughter, but as he had never contradicted 
her as a child, it was not very likely he 
should do so now. 

"You are quite ruining poor Frederick's 
child : she is quite a little Hottentot!" 

"0 !" thought Mr. Dacre, "I now under- 
stand poor Mabel's question!" It is unne- 
cessary to dwell quite as long as Mrs. Har- 
court did upon Mabel's deficiencies ; but the 
result of the conversation was that with which 
our narrative commences, viz. Mabel's going 
to school. 

Drearily did the weeks pass with her grand- 
father, his existence suddenly missed its inte- 
rest, and, with all her faults, Mabel was kind- 
hearted and most affectionate. In the mean 
time his grandaughter found the novelty of 
her situation, at the Misses Smythe's, not so 
pleasant as novelties generally are. 

The silence, the stillness, the order, to say 



j nothing of the lessons, were Very dreadful in 
Mabel's eyes. Then she had the mortification 
of being behindhand with the very youngest 
of her companions. She had no available 
knowledge. True, her habit of reading aloud 
to her grandfather had given her a stock of 
information really uncommon at her age; but 
it was very miscellaneous, and not at all use- 
ful as regarded her present course of study. 
The rest of the girls, finding that at the age of 
ten she could do nothing more than read and 
w T rite, immediately set her down as a dunce, 
and a new feeling, that of timidity, interfered 
sadly with her progress — for Mabel w r as really 
a quick child. 

All beginnings are very troublesome things, 
and such she found them. But all the early 
cares of education were nothing compared to 
her other sorrows. For the first time in her 
life she found herself utterly alone, an object 
neither of importance nor affection. 

Shy, keenly alive to ridicule, and unaccus- 
tomed to girls of her own age, she experienced 
insuperable difficulties in the way of getting 
acquainted with her school-fellows ; they were 
to her strangers, if not enemies. The trees in 
the garden seemed her only friends ; a dwarf 
oak was an especial favourite — it reminded her 
of one at the hall. Her rural tastes at last led 
her into a great error. The gardener, a good- 
natured old man, whose heart inclined to a 
young lady whose interest in a patch of mus- 
tard and cress seemed almost as great as his 
own, one unlucky morning made her a present 
of a wicker cage containing a young owl, and 
a little frightful creature it was, to be sure. 
Still, had it been the celebrated queen bird of 
the fairy tales, it could not have been more, 
highly valued. 

In the first place, there was a mystery about 
keeping it, and we all know mysteries are 
very fascinating things. Moreover, it was 
something to love, and Mabel soon loved it 
very dearly. But, alas ! the necessary feed- 
ing of an evening involved a terrible breach 
of school discipline. Every night, after the 
teachers had carried away the lights from the 
young ladies' room, Mabel used to slip out of 
her bed, steal down to the garden, and feed 
the owl. For nearly a w 7 eek no suspicion was 
excited, but, one bright moonlight night, Miss 
Smythe, who had forgotten some order 10 the 
gardener, walked herself down to his cottage, 
which stood at the further extremity of the 
garden. As she returned, her attention was 
attracted to a figure in white, gliding among 
the trees. 

"Dear, dear! what mischief is going on 
now 1 ?" exclaimed Miss Smythe, whom long 
experience had made sage. In another minute 
she was at the culprit's side. "Gracious 
goodness ! she will catch her death of cold. 
Miss Dacre, you tiresome child, come witn 
me into the house this minute !" 

In silence Miss Dacre obeyed, and in si- 
lence was put to bed again, and Miss Smythe 
departed with an assurance that the offence 
would be duly visited with punishment the 
2o 9 



438 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



next day. Every yariety of punishment visit- 
ed Mabel's sleep that night. The next day 
she passed in solitary confinement. 

" Not so much," said Miss Smythe, " for 
keeping 1 the bird — that I might have permit- 
ted — but for the deception of the conceal- 
ment." It made Mabel's sorrows more acute to 
know herself how improperly she had acted. 
The day after she was seriously ill with a 
sore throat, and cough, and had to get well on 
the cold comfort that it was entirely her own 
fault. Gradually, however, she was becom- 
ing more popular with her schoolfellows. 
The first fortnight had taught the useful les- 
son that she was of no consequence, the se- 
cond brought with it the want of friends, and 
the third, the wish to acquire them. She 
soon saw that she must put herself out of the 
way for the sake of others, and that kindness 
must be reciprocal ; now, she was not natu- 
rally selfish, and its acquired habit soon wore 
off. From one extreme she ran into another, 
and the desire of popularity became an absolute 
passion. Her injudicious desire of obliging, 
right or wrong, led her into continual scrapes. 
The last was the worst. There was an old 
woman who was allowed, once a week, to 
supply the school with cakes, fruit, &c. ; but, 
besides this regular commerce, unhappily a 
good deal of smuggling went on, and divers 
sweet things entered the house unknown to 
the Misses Smythe. One evening, Mabel's 
ingenuity had been exerted in procuring a 
cherry pie, for which her purse also had paid. 
As soon as the teachers had gone their usual 
rounds, and descended to supper, the pupils 
prepared to eat their pie, for which the long 
summer evening afforded ample light: the 
road to the mouth is a very obvious one. 
Suddenly a staid and well-known step was 
heard on the stairs. It was that of the younger 
Miss Smythe. 

" What shall we do with the pie]" 
" Put it on the top of the bed," said one of 
the girls. 

Mabel jumped up, placed it rapidly on the 
bed head, and when Miss Smythe entered, all 
was seeming sleep and quiet. Her unexpected 
visit turned out to be one of great length: a 
press stood in the room, and its whole con- 
tents that night were put to rights. All were 
too sleepy when their governess departed to 
even think of the pie. 

The next morning, an exclamation of horror 
from Mabel awoke all the girls. The pie, 
turned upside down in the scuffle, had let all 
its juice run through on the bed — the pretty 
French bed, white as snow, on which the 
Misses Smythe so prided themselves — the 
furniture was utterly spoiled. In the midst 
of their dismay, and their unkindly reproaches 
to Mabel, who was called "such a stupid 
awkward thing," one of the teachers entered. 
The alarm was given, and Miss Smythe's 
anger at its height. The next day, when Mr. 
Dacre called to take Mabel home for the holi- 
days, he was told that his grandaughter was 
quite incorrigible, and really required severer 
discipline than was practised at the Misses 



Smythe's establishment. Mabel came there 
weeping, and so she left it. But her sorrow 
yet admitted of augmentation. 

Mrs. Harcourt and daughters were coming 
to the hall. They arrived fully aware of why 
their cousin had left the Misses Smythe. The 
next morning, Mrs. Harcourt said, in her most 
ungracious manner, "Young ladies, I permit 
you still to offer Miss Dacre the presents you 
have brought her, though I fear, from what I 
hear, they will be of little use." It must be 
owned, the presents themselves were unrea- 
sonable enough, if six months at school were 
held sufficient to insure their being a benefit. 
The eldest gave her a piece of music, scientific 
enough to have puzzled an advanced perform- 
er; the second gave her. a box of colours (for. 
drawing Mabel had not the least taste ;) the 
third, a volume of erudite patterns for lace, 
bead, and other work ; and the youngest pre- 
sented her with an elegantly bound French 
treatise on botany, not a word of which she 
could read. Alas, poor Mabel! Two days 
(but they were very long ones) only did Mrs. 
Harcourt stay. After her departure it was 
gradually discovered that, softened and sub- 
dued, Mabel was much improved by her having 
been at school. But a second absence from 
home was preparing for her. Mrs. Harcourt 
stayed two days again on her way home. 
She had heard of a firstrate school ; Mabel's 
deficiencies were sedulously brought forward ; 
and Mr. Dacre again convinced of the propriety 
of a remedy. 

This time Mrs. Harcourt herself consigned 
her to the care of Mrs. Weston, certainly with 
a very unflattered character. Depressed at 
parling with her grandfather, mortified by her 
aunt, and remembering the ill success of her 
first trial, Mabel sat and cried in the window- 
seat. The first week was very miserable. 
Embarrassed by so many strangers, hopeless 
with observing so much of accomplishment, 
Mabel was in a state of depression that any 
person less in the habit of making allowance 
than Mrs. Weston would have taken for abso- 
lute sullenness. 

One morning, while gazing sorrowfully on 
the parapet, and thinking how melancholy a 
window was that only looked to the tops of 
houses, she observed something dark on the 
wall. She opened the casement, and saw 
that it was a robin, lying apparently dead. 
A robin ! it was like an old friend: forgetting 
all the trouble of which her last bird had been 
the cause, Mabel caught it up and found that 
it still showed faint signs of life. She wrap 
ped it up in a handkerchief, and, putting it in 
her work-basket, hurried down stairs, with 
the intention of trying to relieve it with warm 
milk at breakfast. Previous to this there were 
some lessons to be said ; and, while they were 
in progress, the robin, reanimated by the 
warmth, escaped from the basket. No slight 
confusion ensued, and, in her hurry to secure 
the captive, which only fluttered very faintly, 
Mabel threw down a form. Of course an in- 
quiry was made as to what caused the noise., 
and our heroine was brought, bird in hand 






TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



439 



jo Mrs. Weston. To Mabel's extreme sur- 
prise, sho met with no reprimand, but praise 
for her humanity, and Mrs. Weston herself 
helped to revive the poor bird. It was a tame 
one, and Mabel's delight and gratitude were 
unbounded on being permitted to keep it. 

The system of kindness thus begun was 
most rapidly pursued; our heroine now dis- 
carded from her mind the belief that it was 
quite in vain for her to attempt to do any thing; 
she found that inclination and ability went 
hand in hand. Mrs. Weston easily saw that 
Mabel Dacre had been at once over indulged, 
and yet over blamed; and that, while there 
were in her character the elements of much 
good, they were yet of a kind that were the 
soonest turned to evil. She was therefore re- 
pressed, but not discouraged ; and industry gra- 
dually became an enjoyment, and order a habit. 

But, at the end of the first six months, a 
heavy disappointment awaited her. Mr. Da- 
cre had written to say he would fetch her the 
following week ; but, alas ! that week only 
brought a letter from Mrs. Harcourt, saying 
that her father had been very ill, and that she 
had prevailed on him to accompany the family 
to Bath. Miss Dacre would, therefore, re- 
main at school during the holidays. Poor 
Mabel ! Perhaps, however, this very unto- 
ward circumstance proved one of the most 
fortunate events in her life. Being the only 
young person left during the holidays under 
Mrs. Weston's care, much attention was di- 
rected to a disposition that well repaid the 
cultivation. Mabel was conversed Avith as a 
sensible and a responsible being, and her na- 
turally affectionate temper called into action 



by the discovery that she was really liked 
for herself. School met again, and Mabel 
was among the most gentle and the most as 
siduous. Christmas came at last, and with 
it her grandfather. Mabel cried for joy as 
she threw herself into his arms; and Mr. Da- 
cre could hardly believe that the tall, elegant 
girl, who had prizes in every one of her 
studies to exhibit, could be the little, rude, 
ignorant Mabel. The pain of parting with 
Mrs. Weston was the only drawback to her 
content. It may be doubted whether Mrs. 
Harcourt was quite so delighted with Miss 
Dacre's improvement; and the accomplish- 
ments of her daughters were brought more 
sedulously forward than ever. Perhaps the 
secret why Mabel's little stock were so much 
more efficient, in her grandfather's eyes at 
least, was that her cousins' were produced 
in display, and hers from affection. 

Early lessons are invaluable ones, and Ma- 
bel never forgot her first experiences. Out 
of mortification grew the desire of improve- 
ment ; and the desire of amendment soon pro- 
duced its effect. All the better qualities of 
her nature were now called into action by Mrs 
Weston's judicious kindness. Frank, kind, 
and affectionate, at sixteen — when Mabel Da- 
cre was the constant comfort and companion 
of her grandfather — feeling within herself at 
once the desire and capability of excellence ; 
feeling, too, all the happiness both to itself 
and others which a well regulated disposition 
and a cultivated mind is capable of diffusing 
— Mabel often said, laughing, " I used to call 
j Mrs. Harcourt my evil, but I ought to have 
! called her my good, genius." 



THE DEAD ROBIN. 



"It is dead — it is dead — it will wake no 

more 
With the earliest light, as it waked before — 
And singing, as if it were glad to wake, 
And wanted our longer sleep to break; 
We found it a little unfledged thing, 
With no plume to smooth and no voice to sing ; 
The father and mother both were gone, 
And the callow nursling left alone. 

" For a wind, as fierce as those from the sea, 
Had broken the boughs of the apple tree : 
The scatter'd leaves lay thick on the ground, 
And among them the nest and the bird we 

found ; 
We warm'd it, and fed it, and made it a nest 
Of Indian cotton, and watch'd its rest; 
Its feathers grew soft, and its wings grew 

strong, 
And happy it seem'd as the day was long. 

" Do you remember its large dark eye, 
How it brighten'd, when one of us came 

nigh? 
How it would stretch its throat and sing, 
And beat the osier cage with its wino-, ° 



Till we let it forth, and it perch'd on our hand ; 
It needed not hood, nor silken band, 
Like the falcon we read of, in days gone-by, 
Link'd to the wrist lest away they should fly. 

" But our bird knew not of the free blue air, 
He had lived in his cage, and his home was 

there : 
No flight had he in the greenwood flown — 
He pined not for freedom he never had 

known ! 
If he had lived amid leaf and bough 
It had been cruel to fetter him now ; 
For I have seen a poor bird die, 
And all for love of his native sky. 

" But ours w T ould come to our cup and sip, 
And peck the sugar away from our lip — 
Would sit on our shoulder and sing, ther. 

creep 
And nestle in our hands to sleep : 
There is the water, and there is the seed — 
Its cage hung round with the green chickweed 
But the food is untouch'd — the song is mi 

heard — 
Cold and stiff lies our beautiful bird '" 



440 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



THE SOLDIER'S HOME. 



Thus spoke the aged wanderer, 

A kind old man was he, 
Smoothing the fair child's golden hair 

Who sat upon his knee : — 

" 'Tis now some fifteen years, or more, 

Since to your town I came : 
And, though a stranger, made my home 

Where no one knew my name. 

" I did not seek your pleasant woods, 
Where the green linnets sing — 

Nor yet your meadows, for the sake 
Of any living thing. 

" For fairer is the little town, 

And brighter is the tide, 
And pleasanter the woods that hang 

My native river's side. 

" Or such, at least, they seem'd to me — 

I spent my boyhood there; 
And memory, in looking back, 

Makes every thing more fair. 

" But half a century has past 

Since last I saw their face : 
God hath appointed me, at length, 

Another resting place. 

" I have gone east — I have gone west : 

I served in that brave band 
Which fought beneath the pyramids, 

In Egypt's ancient land. 

" I saw the Nile swell o'er its banks 

And bury all around; 
And when it ebb'd, the fertile land 

Was like fair garden ground.* 

" I saw the golden Ganges, next, 

No meadow is so green 
As the bright fields of verdant rice 

Beside its waters seen. 

" There grows the mournful peepul tree,f 
Whose boughs are scatter'd o'er 

The dpor-way of the warrior's house, 
When he returns no more. 

" I follow'd where our colours led, 

In many a hard won day ; 
From ocean to the the Pyrenees, 

Old England fought her way. 

" I had a young companion then — - 

My own, my only child ! — 
The darkest watch, the longest march, 

His laugh and song beguiled. 

* Not a traveller but alludes to the beautiful appearance 
M the country when the annual overflowing of the Nile, 
in tiiry! t, has subsided. Many use the very expression in 
.Ur- text, that it is "like a fair garden." 

t It is a custom with some of the Hindoo tribes to strew 
branches of the peepul tree before the door when the chief 
of the house has fallen in battle. 



" He was as cheerful as the lark 

That singeth in the sky ; 
His comrades gladden'd on their way, 

Whene'er his step drew nigh. 

" But he was wounded, and was sent 

To join a homeward band : 
Thank God, he drew his latest breath 

Within his native land. 

" I shared in all our victories, 

But sad they were to me ; 
I only saw the one pale face 

That was beyond the sea. 

" Peace came at last, and I was sent, 

With many more, to roam ; 
There were glad partings then, for most 

Had some accustom'd home. 

" I took my medal, and with that 

I crost the salt sea wave ; 
Others might seek their native vales, 

I only sought a grave. 

" I knew that, on his homeward march 

My gallant boy had died ; 
I knew that he had found a grave 

By yonder river's side. 

" The summer sunset soft and warm, 

Seem'd as it blest the sleep 
Of that low grave, which held my child 

O'er which I long'd to weep. 

" The aged yew trees' sweeping boughs 

.A solemn shadow spread ; 
And many a growth of early flowers 

Their soothing fragrance shed. 

" But there were weeds upon his grave ; 

None watch'd the stranger's tomb, 
And bade, amid its long, green grass, 

The spring's sweet children bloom. 

" You know the spot — our old churchyarc 

Has no such grave beside; 
The primrose and the violet 

There blossom in their pride. 

" It is my only task on earth — 

It is my only joy, 
To keep, throughout the seasons fair 

The green sod of my boy. 

" Nor kin nor kindness have I lack'd, 
All here have been my friends ; 

And, with a blessing at its close, 
My lengthen'd wayfare ends. 

" And now my little Edward knows 
The cause why hare I dwell ; 

And how I trust to have my grave 
By his I love so well." 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



441 



THE INDIAN ISLAND. 



" O, many are the beauteous isles, 

Unknown to human eye, 
That, sleeping 'mid the ocean smiles, 

In happy silence lie! 
The ship may pass them in the night, 
Nor sailors know what a lovely sight, 

Is resting on the main."— The Isle of Palnus. 



*' Do not tell me so ! I cannot send my 
children from me ; they are the only links be- 
tween me and the past, and the only ties that 
bind me to the future. Care and skill" — but 
here Mr. Sehvyn's voice became inaudible. 
Dr. Irvine, the physician to whom he was 
speaking-, gave him no answer, but put back 
a large curtain that interrupted the view of the 
lawn, which stretched away from the colon- 
nade that extended round the house. The sun 
was scarcely risen, and the fresh air of the 
morning stirred the bright branches of the 
many blooming and oderiferous shrubs around; 
the grass glistening with dew, giganticfiowers, 
bright with the sunshine on their rich hues, 
and all open, as if rejoicing in the morning, 
many coloured birds flitting among the leaves 
—all these made a scene which might have 
gladdened the heart of the mourner, and rais- 
ed to their highest pitch the buoyant spirits 
of youth ; and yet, in the midst of the lawn, 
beneath a young banana tree, were two child- 
ren, evidently quite unexhilarated by the fresh- 
ness of the air or the cheerfulness of the 
morning. The one was a boy of about nine 
years of age. He was seated on a bough of 
the tree which had been trained artificially 
along the ground. He had been reading, but 
the book lay on the grass, for his arm sup- 
ported the head of a little creature about three 
years old, who was leaning against him, half 
in affection, half for support. There was 
something very striking, and yet sad, in the 
appearance of these children ; they were sin- 
gularly handsome and singularly alike ; but 
the cheek might have been marble, it was so 
utterly devoid of colour, and the faint crimson 
of the lip was parched and feverish, and the 
pale face was more striking from the profusion 
of thick, black hair, and the large, dark and 
melancholy looking eyes. The boy seemed 
naturally grave and quiet; but the fairy figure 
and dimpled mouth of the little girl were at 
variance with her present listless attitude. 
11 1 see it— I see," said Mr. Selwyn, " they 
are pining away for a healthier air. In two 
years I can retire to England : but now, amid 
the many difficulties that surround us, I can- 
not in honour resign my situation." 

"But," returned Dr. Irvine, "you have 
friends in England : and they are still too 
young to need that watchful guidance which 
1 be so important in a few years. I dare 



Mot. deceive you : Marion 
Vol. I.— 56 



will not live over 



another rainy season : Francis you migh "en- 
ture to retain with you." 

" I will not part them ; I cannot oezr that 
absence should weaken their now perfect aiTec- 
tion : besides (and do not think this weak par- 
tiality,) I shall be happier for knowing Fran- 
cis is with his sister. In care and thov.giitrul- 
ness he is far beyond his years, and till I my- 
self can reach England they shall not be 
parted." 

Dr. Irvine hesitated for a moment : he had 
only performed one-half of his painful task. 
Mr. Selwyn stood watching from the window 
the pallid countenance of his little girl, when 
his friendly adviser broke the silence by say- 
ing, " Poor Marion herself is my best argu- 
ment : but let me impress upon you the ne- 
cessity of prompt measures, though by your 
side, from this moment, you are really parted 
from them : Captain Cameron sails next 
week. Can your children be in better 
hands?" 

"Nextw r eek!" exclaimed Mr. Selwyn, in 
a broken voice. 

Dr. Irvine shook hands with him in silence, 
and left him for the present. 

To all parents such a parting would have 
been a trial ; but to Mr. Selwyn it came with 
more than usual bitterness. Immersed in bu- 
siness, whose fatigue unfitted him for the ex- 
ertion of society, shy and reserved in habits, 
to him his own family was every thing. His 
young wife had died a week after Marion's 
birth, and he had attached himself entirely to 
his children. He saw in them the relics of 
the dearest love on earth, and felt that he had 
to be both father and mother. It was impos- 
sible not to be proud of the fine mind and ge- 
nerous temper of Francis ; and it was equally 
impossible not to be enlivened by the gayety 
of Marion. But he had for some time re- 
marked that, unless stimulated by his pre- 
sence to exertion, Francis grew more and 
more silent, as if talking were a fatigue ; his 
garden was only cultivated at intervals, and 
his mimic frigate remained unfinished. Every 
day, too, the music of Marion's laugh grew 
more unfrequent in the house ; she loathed 
her food, and instead of the restless, dancing 
steps, that seemed never quiet but in sleep, 
she would creep to the knee of her father, 
and sit for hours with her languid head rest- 
ing on his shoulder. Mr. Selwyn had long 
felt what Dr. Irvine now confirmed, ana io» 



442 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



him there was but the choice of parting with 
his children to England, or to the grave. 
Now, for months and months to come, his 
hearth would be desolate, long, solitary even- 
ings, uncheered by the sweet companions now 
far away, no little hand eagerly put into his 
for his now solitary walk, and worse than all, 
strangers would be winning the affections and 
guiding the youthful hearts hitherto so entirely 
his own. 

Mr. Selwyn had married young and poor, 
and the early years of his married life had 
been imbittered by struggles which it was his 
great hope that he might spare his children. 
Gradually he had risen to the important situa- 
tion he now held in Ceylon. Wealth he had 
accumulated ; and, under Providence, Francis 
could never know the same difficulties which 
had imbittered so large a portion of his fathers 
life. But Mr. Selwyn had to learn that there 
are miseries beyond even those of poverty, 
and would have gladly given 'all, beyond a 
mere competence, of his noble fortune, to have 
accompanied his children to England. 

At length, and yet how soon! — the day 
name for the sailing of the Warren Hastings. 
Marion, tired out with fatigue, was asleep in 
her cabin with her nurse ; but Frank still held 
his father's hand, who lingered to the last 
upon deck. But the boat was in waiting, and 
Dr. Irvine gently put his arm through that of 
Mr. Selwyn, and drew him away. Once 
more he clasped his boy in his arms : and 
Frank turned to his father a pale face, but a 
tearless eye, and said, in a low, but tolerable 
steady voice, " You may trust me, father." 
The splash of the oars was heard in the 
water, the boat rowed rapidly away ; but the 
effort the heroic boy had made to subdue his 
feeling was too much for his enervated frame, 
and he sank quite insensible on the shoulder 
of an old sailor who had approached to con- 
sole him. 

The young voyagers had not been a week 
at sea before its good effects were apparent : 
both recovered their appetite, and Marion's 
little feet seemed never weary: long before 
her brother's shy temper would permit him to 
speak, she had made friends with every sea- 
man on board. There are but few boys but 
what are born with a love for a ship and a 
horse ; and, thanks to the kindness of the old 
sailor we have mentioned, Frank was soon initi- 
ated into every part of the vessel, and his steps 
became familiar with the most dangerous parts 
of the rigging. 

But no attraction, whether of amusement, 
or information, ever diverted his attention 
from his sister. His eye seemed always upon 
ner ; he would give up any employment to 
attend to her want or wish : he would spend 
hours amusing her with her box of ivory let- 
ters : and not an evening passed but her 
sweet voice might be heard repeating to her 
brother her simple prayer and hymn. Al- 
ready Frank showed a naturally mechanical 
genius ; but even the carpenter's chest and com- 
pany never detained him long from Marion, 
and the great aim of his ingenuity was to 



construct some slight toy for her. They had 
now been on board four weeks ; and often did 
Frank wish his father could have seen the 
light step and bright eyes of the once pale 
and listless Marion. One evening Frank 
came up from the cabin, where he had been 
soothing his sister, who was somewhat rest- 
less with the oppressive heat to sleep ; and 
took his usual post beside .the old sailor, who, 
from the first, had made him an especial fa- 
vourite. Nothing could be clearer than 
the atmosphere, and the sea was almost as 
bright and motionless as ths sky. Not a sin- 
gle object broke the mighty stillness ; no fish 
were visible in the clear waters, no birds in 
the clear air; not another bark shared the 
ocean with their solitary ship. No w r ind was 
stirring, the sails hung loose and motionless, 
and the red flag drooped heavily from the 
mast. The sailors shared in the general tran- 
quillity, and sat or stood round in silent 
groups ; the oppression of the air seemed also 
on their spirits. The old seaman, to whom 
Frank had drawn, was leaning over the side 
of the vessel, gazing so intently on the dis- 
tance, that his young companion's approach 
was at first unobserved ; when, suddenly turn- 
ing round, he said, "We shall have rough 
weather soon, master Francis." The boy 
looked on the shining elements around, as much 
as to ask where w r as the slightest sign of a 
storm 1 When the sailor, answering to his 
gaze, pointed out a small white cloud, or 
rather speck, which looked as if scarcely 
freighted with an April shower. 

Francis turned pale, for he thought of his 
young and helpless sister. " Why, you 
would'nt be only a fair weather sailor, would 
you ]" and, turning round, the old man began 
one of those tales of tempest, met and baffled 
by naval skill and courage, which so delight- 
ed his youthful auditor. Nearly an hour 
elapsed, when the narrator was called away to 
his duty in another part of the ship. 

The small white cloud had now spread like 
a white and gigantic veil over half the sky, 
and an unequal and capricious wind was 
awakening the sails from their repose ; and 
by the time the dinner-hour came, little order 
could be preserved among the plates and 
dishes, which were soon scattered by a sud- 
den squall. 

Francis had been accustomed to employ the 
afternoon in teaching Marion her alphabet, and 
to spell various small words ; but to-day their 
studies were interrupted — neither could keep 
their footing a single moment, and, by the 
captain's directions, Marion was fastened in 
her cot, with a stout silk handkerchief 
round her waist, and the cot itself strongly 
lashed to the sides. It was a dismal time, 
for the waves now ran so high that the port 
holes were ordered to be closed. Suddenly a 
deep and hollow sound rolled over the ship, 
and a faint flash glimmered through the dark- 
ness. That first peal of thunder was like a sum- 
mons ; the wind rose up at once with frantic 
violence; peal followed peal, and flash fol- 
lowed flash ; and the trampling of the hurried 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



443 



steps over head told of the anxiety and exer- 
tion going- on above. Frank never for a mo- 
ment left his sister, who, though too young 
for fear at their actual danger, was terrified at 
the unusual darkness and noise. A number 
of the men now came below ; a sound of 
loosened chains was heard, and plunge after 
plunge into the waters. They had been 
forced to throw the guns overboard. Imme- 
diately came a tremendous crash, as of the 
falling of some heavy mass ^ the mast had 
been cut away. Frank now fancied that the 
vessel seemed to reel less, but appeared to be 
dashing on with frightful velocity. The 
trampling over head, too, abated, and the 
thunder ceased ; it only made the fierce and 
howling sound of the wind more terrible. 
At this moment came the gleam of a dark 
lantern into their cabin ; it was the old sea- 
man ; but his face was ghastly pale, and his 
features looked rigid, as if he had suffered 
from long illness. Francis saw no hope in 
his countenance, and he asked no questions. 

" You have had no food for some hours : I 
have brought to you, poor things, some biscuit 
and a slice of ham." 

Marion laughed with delight at the sight of 
the biscuit, for she was very hungry. Poor 
Frank put away the offered food ; his heart 
was too full to eat, but he clasped the hand of 
the kind old man, who now turned to go 
away ; but Marion cried to go with him. 

" It does not matter," he muttered ; " as 
well above as here." 

He then took the child in his arms, and, 
Frank following with the lantern, they groped 
their way to the deck. They had not been 
there five minutes before an awful shock told 
the worst had come to pass — they had struck 
upon a rock. A cry of " boats ! boats !" 
now arose ; and the lanterns showed hurry- 
ing, and yet despairing, groups thronging to 
the side. 

" Come, Michael !" said two sailors, rush- 
ing past. The old man made no reply, but 
seated himself on a broken fragment of wood, 
and placed Marion on his knee. Frank im- 
mediately took his sister's hand, and drew 
her towards himself. " Michael, you must 
not stay with us. God bless you ; but go." 

"Go! Master Frank," said the sailor, " I 
have a boy your age at home, and for his sake, 
will stay with you. God would desert him 
in his need, if I deserted you." The glim- 
mer of a lantern amid the thick darkness 
showed that the last boat had pushed off. 
"And you have stayed here to perish !" And, 
for the first time, Frank gave way to a bitter 
flood of tears. Michael put his arm kindly 
around him, and said, "Do you remember the 
holy words you were teaching your little sis- 
ter the other morning'? 'Do unto others as 
you would they should do unto you V " 

" Yes," interrupted Marion, " he taught me, 
too, a new hymn yesterday; I will say it to 
you ;" and she began to repeat one of Watt's 
Hymns for Children. She did not quite know 
t through ; but the last two verses were sin- 
gularly apposite to their situation : 



" There's not a plant or flower below, 

But makes thy glories known; 
And clouds arise, and tempests blow, 

By order from thy throne. 

Creatures (as numerous as they be) 

Are subject to thy care ; 
There's not a place where we can flee, 

But God is present there." 

" Our lives are in His hand, and it may be 
His will even now to save us : somehow the 
words of this innocent creature have put hope 
into my heart:" and the old sailor turned his 
head to the east, where a dim streak told of. 
the coming day. All know how rapidly the 
light of morning floods an eastern heaven ; 
wave upon wave of fire kindled the ship, 
when Frank, who was looking in an opposite 
direction' to his companion, clapped his hands, 
and, exclaimed joyfully, " Land ! land !" 
About a quarter of a mile from the wreck ex- 
tended a line of coast, whose waving palms 
might be distinctly seen. Michael gave one 
look, and sank on his knees to return thanks 
to Almighty God for their wonderful preserva- 
tion. They could now see all the bearings 
of their situation : their ship was jammed in 
between two rocks, both now visible ; the one 
was higher than the other, and to its raising 
the head of the vessel whereon they stood 
might be attributed their safety. 

"And the boats !" exclaimed Frank. 

"Perished! No boat could have lived 
through the sea of last night," replied his 
companion ; and both remained for a few mi- 
nutes gazing on the vast expanse of air and 
water, which still bore traces of their late 
convulsion. The sea heaved with a tremulous 
and unquiet motion, and the sky was covered 
with broken clouds. But there was no time 
for melancholy meditation ; the wind, which 
had been gradually veering round, was now 
blowing full to land, and they were obviously 
under the necessity of taking advantage of its 
direction to reach the island with all possible 
speed. One rough gale would drive to frag- 
ments the frail wreck, which yet, had they 
kept by it, would have saved the lives of so 
many. A chest, with carpenters' tools had 
been lashed upon deck, and of the planks and 
spars scattered round, they soon formed a 
slight raft. Great part of the ship was under 
water ; but in the captain's cabLi they found 
an ample supply of present necessaries. 
Wrapping Marion in a boat cloak, they fast- 
ened her to a large chest in the middle of the 
raft. The wind was in their favour, steady 
and gentle and setting in directly to the shore 
Their frail launch went steadily through the 
water, the low sandy beach was easily gained ; 
and, by ten o'clock, they had kindled a small 
fire, boiled some cocoa for breakfast, and Ma- - 
rion was asleep beneath the shadow of the 
knot of palm trees which had first caught their 
attention, and under which it was their earliest 
task to raise a tent sufficient to shelter them 
from the night dews. 

They soon discovered that their place of 
refuge was a smau island, apparently quite 
uninhabited, and with no sign of any species 
of animal ; but a complete aviary of the most 



444 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



rilliant-coloured birds. With the exception 
of the little knot of palm trees where their 
tent was, that side of the island was a low 
sandy beach, which, indeed, ran around it like 
a belt; but the interior was a fertile and beau- 
tiful valley; and Frank saw with delight 
tamarinds growing in great profusion — a spe- 
cies of the bread-fruit tree, the cocoanut, and 
some wild nutmegs ; these last, however, 
imperfect for want of cultivation. The 
ground, and all the lower branches of the 
trees, were covered with the most luxuriant 
creeping plants, whose profusion of flowers 
Marion was never weary of gathering ; and 
often, after having piled them up in heaps, 
she would be found asleep half-hidden amid 
their bright and odoriferous blossoms. The 
first week passed in continued voyagings 
backwards and forwards to the ship, when, as 
Michael had foreseen, a rough gale blew one 
night, and in the morning there was not a 
trace of the wreck. That very day, walking 
along the coast, Frank's eye was caught by a 
dark mass entangled in the seaweed : he 
drew it up by means of a hook. It was the 
gallant flag, that had once 

" Braved the battle and the breeze, 1 ' 

of the now perished Indiaman. He laid it 
carefully out on the sands to dry, and went to 
impart, his plan to Michael. The knot of 
palm trees was the only part of the island 
whose height commanded a view of the sea; 
yet there it was impossible for them to fix 
their residence — fresh water, fruits, and shel- 
ter, belonging to the other part of the island — 
and yet, from not being on the spot, a vessel 
might pass and repass unobserved ; thus risk- 
ing their little chance of escape. 

Now it happened that the most conspicuous 
of the palms w r as a young and slender tree ; 
this Frank proposed to climb, and affix to its 
height the flag, which would be as striking a 
signal as any they could raise. Even Mi- 
chael shut his eyes, as the daring boy as- 
cended, with the aid of a sharp hook and a 
knife, with which he cut notches, on which 
he rested first a hand, and then a foot, till at 
length he was safely lodged amid the spread- 
ing branches at the top. He then let down a 
rope, with a pebble at the end, which had 
been put round his middle ; the flag was 
drawn up, and nailed to the summit in the 
most conspicuous manner; and then, fastening 
the rope firmly, he descended to the ground 
in perfect safety, and, we may add, satisfac- 
tion. 

The next day was the Sabbath, and was 
passed in rest and thanksgiving. When the 
heat of the day was over, they walked towards 
the interior of the island, and almost in the 
very centre found an immense banana tree, 
with at least fifty green and slender pillars 
forming as it were a natural temple. The 
whole party knelt ; and, at her brother's bid- 
ding, Marion's innocent lips were the first to 
teach that solitude the Words of prayer and 
praise. While they rested, Francis read a 
chapter from the Bible, which was his father's 



parting gift ; and he can scarcely be blame., 
if his tears fell fast and heavy on the page. 
" My child," said the old sailor, " the God 
who has preserved you so wondrously for 
your parent, will restore you to him." Frank 
looked up in hope and gratitude, and to gather 
some tamarinds for Marion ; and, by repeating 
yesterday's task of climbing a cocoanut tree, 
made a valuable addition to their store.* 

Close beside, like a vein of silver, they 
found a pure, though small fountain ; they 
steeped some of the fruit in the water, and, 
with one of the cocoanuts, they made a most 
delicious meal. The moon was shining over 
the dim and purple sea before they regained 
their tent. • 

For some days following, their labour was 
incessant — the banana tree seemed to be made 
too obviously for their home to be neglected; 
they cut away some of the boughs, and, strip- 
ping off some of the leaves, formed a kind of 
wall of branches and reeds, of which a large 
species grew near, and in great quantities. 
The spring they had found oozed away to a 
considerable distance, and at last was quite 
lost in a bed of grayish clay. Frank had 
often seen the natives of the villages, whither 
he had sometimes gone, fashioning clay into 
any form by the action of fire, and an idea 
struck him that they might harden square 
pieces of this clay,. so as to form a floor for 
their dwelling, the soft damp earth beneath 
the banana beinsr both comfortless and un- 



* The cocoanut shoot up to the height of seventy, anj 
sometimes eighty feet: we were told that a hundred feet is 
not uncommon, but I think we saw none so high. The 
fruit grows in immense clusters at the top of the stem, close 
up to" the branches. The tree from top to bottom is sur- 
rounded by a series of rings, doubtless the traces of former 
circles of branches which have successively flourished, de- 
cayed, and fallen off. These rings are very distinct near 
the top ; but lower down the trunk becomes so smooth that 
the natives are obliged to cut notches to assist them in set- 
ting up, either to pull the fruit, or to tap the tree of its 
juice, which is called toddy by the English. " The method 
used by the natives of the east in performing this feat of 
climbing— in the first place, they unite their feet, either at 
the great toes or ankles, by a thong or strap, about ten or 
twelve inches in length. This lies across the steps or 
notches cut in the treejand is strong enough to support the 
whole weight of the body. A flat board belt is then made 
to pass round the tree, and also round the man's middle, 
enclosing both in one ring, as it were, the body being at 
the distance of a foot or so from the tree. The climber 
commences by placing the strap which ties his feet together 
across the first or lowest step, while he adjusts the belt, 
embracing hitr. and the tree so as to be horizontal. He 
then plants his hands firmly against the stem, and a foot, 
or a foot and a half, below the belt. By now leaning back 
and tightening the body belt, he divides his weight, between 
it and his arms, so as entirely to relieve the foot-strap of all 
strains. The legs are next drawn up quietly, till the foot- 
strap lies across the second notch. The climber now re- 
moves his hands from the tree, and grasps the body-belt, 
which becomes quite slack on his throwing his body for 
ward till it almost touches the stem— his whole weigh; 
meanwhile resting on the foot-strop. By a sudden move- 
ment he then jerks the slackened belt about a foot and a 
half further up the tree. After this he once more rests his 
hands on the stem, relieves his feet of the weight, and 
draws them up, as before, till the next notch receives the 
foot-strap, and so on till he reaches the top. He carries 
along with him an earthen pot slung round his neck, and 
a huge knife at his girdle. With this he cuts away the 
young sprouts, and draws off the toddy, which appears to 
be the sap intended by nature to form the fruic. When 
freshly taken from the tree, in the cool of the morning, it 
forms a delicious drink, not unlike whey in appearance, 
with a slightly acid taste, and a pleasant sweetness, as 
well as sharpness or briskness not very dissimilar to that 
of ginger-beer, only more racy and peculiar in its flavour." 
—Captain Hall's Fragments of Voyages and Travels, S& 
cond series, vol. 2, pp. 217—219. 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



U 



nealthy. His plan was adopted, and they 
had soon a hard, dry, and firm floor. 

There being certainly no risk of robbers, 
they left most of the things brought from the 
wreck, on the palm tree knoll, having run up 
a slight, partition of boards for their protec- 
tion, only taking to the banana what w r as ab- 
solutely necessary. Francis, too, was the 
archer of the party ; he had been accustomed 
to the use of a bow and arrow from his in- 
fancy, and a little practice made him so ex- 
pert a shot that they were seldom without a 
bird for dinner; indeed, the island swarmed 
with them ; and then they were roasted gipsy 
fashion — a fire was kindled on the ground, 
and the bird hung between two sticks to roast. 

No time was ever lost, and nobody was ever 
idle; even Marion's services were called in 
requisition ; and she soon became very indus- 
trious in collecting all the light and dried 
sticks to be used for fuel. One of their first 
tasks had been to plant some yams and pease 
in an open space, and their labour was re- 
warded, for they throve amazingly. Whether 
it was the change, the spare diet, the exer- 
cise, and being constantly out in the open air, 
but the children became quite robust in health ; 
and Marion began to acquire a tint of crimson, 
quite English, on her cheek. Her childish 
age made her the happy one of the party ; for 
Frank, even when most exhilarated by the 
success of any plan, was ever haunted by the 
thought of his father's despair when he should 
learn that the Warren Hastings had never ar- 
rived in port. Could he but have had his fa- 
ther with him, he thought life would have 
been perfectly happy, passed in their little 
island — if he could but let him know their 
escape. At length an idea, almost an inspi- 
ration, came across his mind : he had heard 
of papers being sealed up in bottles, trusted 
to the mercy of the waves, and yet wonder- 
fully coming to human knowledge at last. 
Accordingly, he wrote three distinct accounts 
of the shipwreck : described, which Michael's 
knowledge enabled him to do, the latitude of 
the island ; gave his father's address, and also 
that of his London correspondent; finally, he 
took three bottles, placed in them the precious 
papers, and committed them to the sea. He 
was the more encouraged to this by Michael's 
observation, that a strong current run south- 
ward on the left side of the island. 

There had now elapsed three months since 
their shipwreck, and the rainy season had set 
in. For this, however, they were well pre- 
pared. The banana tree stood on an emi- 
nence, and two drains, that they had cut, car- 
ried away all moisture. The roof was quite 
impervious to rain ; and they had an ample 
stock of dried tamarinds, cocoanuts, heaps of 
the bread-fruit, kept in the sand like apples, 
their pease, almost all of which they had 
dried, biscuits, preserves, and salted provi- 
sions which yet remained of the ship's store. 
They had formed three rooms, and the rest of 
the banana tree, or rather grove, was like a 
covered garden, where Marion could run about 
in safety. But it soon became too evident 

Vol. I. 



that Michael's health was failing; he torn 
plained of dull weary pains at night: he 
loathed his food, and could with difficulty be 
prevailed on to take a little tea that was kept 
exclusively for him. Some arrowroot, which 
was found in a jar, now became invaluable; 
and, once or twice, Frank had the good luck 
to kill a bird, though the violence of the wea- 
ther drove them mostly to shelter; and then, 
after a failure or so, he became quite skilful 
in broth-making. But Michael grew, daily, 
weaker and weaker — he could just creep from 
and to his bed, but that was all. Every thing 
now devolved on Francis ; but Marion, who 
was a little, quiet, affectionate thing, would 
sit for hours by the old man's hammock, 
reach him refreshments, call her brother if he 
was wanted, and beguiled many a weary hour 
with her stock of hymns and Scripture his- 
tory. 

Fine weather came at last, but it brought 
no strength to Michael. One day, with 
Frank's assistance, he wandered out a brief 
distance in the fresh morning air ; with dif- 
ficulty he returned to his hammock, and thence 
he never rose — he died that very afternoon. 
About an hour before he breathed his last, he 
called Frank to his side, gave him directions 
how to bury him, told him that it was his last 
belief that God in his mercy would restore 
Francis and his sister to their father, and com- 
mended to their future aid the fatherless or- 
phan Philip Michael, whom he had himself 
left at Southampton. Francis wept his pro- 
mise. The old man then blessed them both, 
and said he was weary, and would fain sleep. 
They knew not when his spirit departed, for 
he died without a struggle. 

One of the singularly brilliant butterflies, 
with which the island abounded, had for some 
time been skimming about on its white and 
azure wings ; at last it settled on the sick 
man's face ; Frank rose to drive the insect 
away, and saw with terror the change of coun- 
tenance which had taken place ; his exclama- 
tion brought Marion from the adjoining room, 
w T hither she had been sent, lest her move- 
ments might disturb Michael's sleep. "He 
is dead, Marion ! — dead ! He will never look 
at or speak to us again! We have lost our 
only friend !" The poor boy sat down on the 
wooden stool and sobbed ; Marion began to 
cry too; and the evening closed upon their 
lamentations. The little girl was too young 
for sorrow and sleep not to be near comrades; 
her brother saw her weariness, gave her the 
usual supper of a piece of biscuit, and another 
of cocoanut, and watched by her till she was 
fast asleep. He then returned to tne room 
where Michael lay, and remembered his last 
injunctions, and prepared to obey them. 

A wick, floating in a goblet of oil, gave a 
dim and wavering light, scarcely sufficient 
for Francis to perform his sorrowful business. 
Michael had died with almost the very words 
on his lips urging the necessity of immediate 
burial ; and this the boy was preparing to 
effect — for the life had now been departed 
twelve hours — and he himself wished to avoh 1 
2P 



446 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



leaving any gloomy impressions on the mind 
of such an infant as Marion : for himself he 
had no fear; he knew God was as much pre- 
sent with the dead as with the living. 

It was almost beyond his strength ; but by 
lowering the hammock, as Michael had di- 
rected, on a frame which was below, and 
which, running on four rudely constructed 
wheels, had been used to drag whatever they 
had wanted from the store at the palm-knoll, 
he contrived to convey the body from the 
dwelling. He took the way he had been told ; 
and the burden was easily drawn, for it was 
on a descending slope the whole way. 

He soon reached the palm the old sailor 
had indicated, and there saw what had been 
the last employment of his more than kind 
protector — the grave was ready dug. Frank 
sat down by its side; and sobbed as if his 
heart were breaking ; at length he tightened 
the ropes of the hammock till it closed, like a 
shroud round the body : he turned over the 
frame, and it fell with a heavy sound into the 
deep grave. Frank paused for a moment, and 
then proceeded to throw in the mould heaped 
on either side. The pit was at last full ; but 
he could not bear to trample it down. He 
then knelt, and by the light of the clear full 
moon, now shining in the glory of a tropical 
night, read aloud the burial service of the 
dead. The solemn and consoling words had 
their due effect. With a tranquilized spirit 
he returned home. His sister had never be- 
fore been left for one quarter of an hour by 
herself; yet he had felt no anxiety, Provi- 
dence was watching over her, and there he 
found her ; her little arm under her head, al- 
most hidden by the black curls, the sweet 
breath coming regularly from her parted lips, 
one cheek flushed into the brightest rose and 
seeming as if she had never stirred since he 
had parted from her. Francis did not him- 
self attempt to go to bed. At length fatigue 
overpowered him, and he slept long and 
sweetly. Ovi his awakening he found Ma- 
rion seateu at his feet watching, but without 
an effort to disturb him, though it was long 
past noon. Mournfully, indeed, did the first 
week past away without Michael ; incessant 
were Marion's inquiries when he would re- 
turn : it is so difficult to give a child an idea 
of death. But, as day after day passed by, 
poor Frank grew more anxious ; for now the 
provisions, saved from the wreck, were al- 
most exhausted. All that were left he put 
by carefully for the rainy season ; he also, 
unless one now and then, as a rare treat to 
Marion, saved all the cocoanuts; and they 
lived entirely on what birds he shot, and the 
tamarinds. Both, however, continued in per- 
fect health ; and Marion now began to read 
prettily. Still, he dreaded the approach of 
the rainy season; for, with all his exertion, 
his stock of food ran short, and his crop of 
pease had failed. 

During Michael's lifetime, not a day had 
passed but he had gone to the seashore ; now 
he could only go at intervals, for he had no 
»ne to take charge of Marion in his absence, 



and it was too far for her to walk, unless the} 
could give nearly the whole day, and, by din' 
ing under the palm trees, allow sufficient time 
for her to rest. The red flag still floated in. 
the air, and on the trunk of the tree he carved 
the following inscription — "Francis and Ma- 
rion Selwyn were saved from the wreck of 
the Warren Hastings, and are now living en 
this island. Should any land, they are im- 
plored not to leave the shore without first 
searching the interior." Having thus takers 
every possible precaution, they rarely left 
their own hut ; and Frank busily employed 
himself in endeavouring to salt some of the 
birds he killed, and, by drying them over the 
smoke of a wood fire, found he succeeded 
very tolerably. 

The rainy season again commenced ; and it 
was with a heavy heart Frank listened to the 
rushing of the first mighty rains. However, 
he was too busy for despondency; several 
chests of clothes had floated on shore, and 
both were now employed in recruiting their 
own dilapidated wardrobe. The blue checked 
shirts were invaluable, for out of these he 
made Marion's new frocks, which he deco- 
rated very gayly with the bright coloured 
feathers he had collected in great quantities. 
The sewing certainly was a curiosity ; for his 
only needle was a fine splinter of wood, in 
which he had burnt an eye : and it may be 
guessed that he was not very expert in its 
use. Still, the frock kept her warm, the 
feathers were quite gay, Marion thought her- 
self an Indian princess at least. Making bas- 
kets of the various twigs he had collected was 
another source of employment; and teaching 
Marion filled up the day. But the long dark 
nights were very tedious ; for they had no 
lights, and no means of making any ; and the 
small portion of oil left after Michael's death 
was husbanded carefully in case of an emer- 
gency. With great joy did both the children 
watch the abating rains ; and the first day 
they could get as far as the palm trees was 
one of absolute festivity. 

They had been a year and three months on 
the island, when, one day, as Francis was 
climbing a tamarind tree, the branches on 
which he stood gave way : he was precipi- 
tated to the ground, and sprained his ankle. 
For the first time Frank thought their situa- 
tion hopeless; their little garden must now 
remain uncultivated, their fruit ungathered; 
and, unfortunately, the accident had happened 
at a considerable distance from home. 

" Marion, my poor little sister !" exclaimed 
he, leaning his face on her shoulder, while he 
felt the large tears of the affectionate child 
falling on his hand. Both started ; for at that 
moment they most assuredly heard the sound 
of voices. Frank sprang to his feet, but the 
pain was excruciating, and he sank on the 
grass. Voices were again heard, when, join- 
ing his hands together, so as to convey the 
sound farther, he gave a loud shout. It was 
answered ; figures appeared among the trees, 
and in another moment they were in the arms 
of their father. 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



447 



The blessing of God bad been upon their 
pian ; one of the bottles had been picked up 
at sea, and forwarded to Mr. Selwyn, who lost 
not a moment in hastening- to the place indi- 
cated. A little assistance allayed the pain of 
Frank's ankle; and a sort of handbarrow was 
soon formed. He was seated on it, and car- 
ried in triumph by the sailors ; for not one but 
shared in the admiration excited by the reso- 
lution and the resources he had displayed. 
Little Marion, in her robe of parti-coloured 
feathers, and her hat of palm leaves, was for 
the next two days her father's guide. It will 
readily be believed with what interest every 
spot in the island was visited. At Frank's 
earnest desire, a large wooden cross was 
placed over Michael's grave; and there (for a 
few days' rest and care restored the use of his j 
ankle ; and during those few days the ship 
was taking in fresh water) he and Marion paid 
their last visit. 

The voyage was unmarked by any adven- 
t-ire; and, with no ordinary feelings of thank- 



fulness, Mr. Selwyn found himself once more 
in his native land, and with his childen at his 
side. It will be readily supposed that the 
first employment of the Selwyns was to find 
out Philip Michael. To oblige Francis, they 
themselves went to Southampton, where they 
learnt that, his uncle being dead, he had been 
placed, by the parish, in the service of a 
neighbouring farmer. Thither Mr. Selwyn 
and his son directed their steps. Philip came 
into the room — a fine intelligent looking lad, 
but pale and depressed. Mr. Selwyn asked 
Francis what he wished to have done for the 
lad they were about to take into their own care. 

" His father was my father, and shall he 
not be my brother'?" 

Mr. Selwyn embraced his child ; and from 
that hour the young Michael was treated as one 
of their family. He did their gratitude ample 
credit ; and amid all the prosperity which was 
the lot of their future life, none of them ever 
forgot their early lessons of exertion, content, 
and reliance on Providence. 



FRANCES BEAUMONT. 



CHAPTER I. 

November's night is dark and drear. 
The dullest month of all the year. 

And yet the November evening now closing 
in round Mrs. Cameron's house was of a very 
cheerful nature. The Seabreeze, for the house 
was at Brighton, howled over the roof, but 
only made the fire burn the brighter. A large 
and oldfashioned mantel-shelf, divers orna- 
ments a little the worse for the wear, but still 
in tolerable preservation ; and the well filled 
grate below flung forward the huge shadow of 
the high fender that surrounded it. The school- 
room, for such was the apartment of which 
we speak, was a spacious apartment, the walls 
were hung round with maps, and deal tables 
and benches, and small upright chairs, were 
«te principal furniture. To be sure there was 
Mrs. Cameron's small mahogany table and 
her arm-chair, and these were a variety from 
the plain boards. But it was human life to 
which the room owed its cheerfulness — groups 
of young and happy faces were scattered 
around, the sound of childish voices rose plea- 
santly to the roof, and the echo of their laugh- 
ter echoed gayly from the old walls. Mrs. 
Cameron's was a very select establishment, 
her systems were always of the newest and 
most approved order; it was a common re- 
mark that no one could mistake the dancing of 
one of her pupils, and their performance on°the 
harp was equally celebrated. The following 
one was the most important of the year. The 
prizes were distributed, drawings were exhi- 
bited, songs and sonatas were apolauded, and 



the evening concluded with a ball. The vari- 
ous groups were all busy in some preparation 
for the morrow. Here sandals were being 
sown on white satin shoes, there the bows 
were being fastened on a white satin sash, 
and one of the teachers had already begun 
curling the hair of some of the younger child- 
ren. Near her were three of the elder girls, 
happily employed in doing nothing; — talking 
over the events that were to happen on the 
morrow was very sufficient employment. 

" I wish Fanny Beaumont were here, I want 
to ask her advice whether I shall tack on my 
blue or white trimmings." 

" She is still with the signor," said the se- 
cond ; " her singing is to he something won 
derful to-morrow." 

" And I want to see her dress," exclaimed 
a third. 

"Talking of dress," interrupted the teacher, 
" I wish one of you would put a string in little 
Isabel's frock. I have my hands full, and shall 
never get done. By-the-by, that tiresome child 
has not yet said her French lesson. Miss 
Elphinstone, bring your book hither." 

At these dreadful words, a little girl came 
from one of the farthest corners ; she was very 
dark, thin and pale, her face swelled with cry- 
ing, and the red circle round her eyes quite 
destroyed any beauty they might from their 
size or expression have possessed. She gave 
the volume with a trembling hand — and began 
to repeat the intricate French verb. She was 
too anxious and too timid to say it, even if she 
knew it, and the grammar was returned with 
the encouraging exclamation of, "You grow 
stupider every day, and while you are poking 



418 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



over that old verb, who is to mend your frock, 
] should like to know ?" 

The child did not attempt an answer, but 
returned to her corner, and there indulged, if 
indulgence it could be called, in a fresh burst 
of sobs. At this moment a voice was heard 
in the passage, running over the notes of a 
popular Italian song — the door opened, and in 
bounded, but with a vivacity full of grace, a 
tall handsome girl, with a profusion of bright 
hair falling in the softest ringlets, whom 
twenty different tones greeted with the same 
ejaculation : 

" Fanny Beaumont, do come here." 

IN o patriot, fresh from an harangue to the 
people, no general in the first flush of victory 
and its consequences, illuminations and public 
dinners ; not even these have a popularity that 
comes more immediate and home to them than 
a popular school girl. Her circle is small, 
but its triumph is complete. 

Fanny Beaumont was courted and flattered 
by every member of the little society of which 
she was the star. Her mistress was proud of 
the elegant and accomplished pupil who did 
her establishment such credit, nor was she in- 
sensible to the large bills duly paid, nor to 
the handsome presents which wound up every 
year in the most agreeable manner. With 
the teachers, she was an equal favourite, her 
liberality was unbounded, and her purse al- 
ways well filled, but that was little compared 
with the kindly manner in which she conferred 
a favour : a lively temper, a constant readi- 
ness to afford assistance, made her equally be- 
loved by her companions, and in Fanny Beau- 
mont's case the old proverb had no truth, that 
a favourite has no friends. In her case, every 
possible advantage seemed realized. The" 
darling of wealthy parents, neither pains nor 
cost were spared on her education, and she 
had those natural talents which reward culti- 
vation, while she had, what was even more 
than talent, that kindness of heart, and that 
sweet and affectionate disposition, which even 
prosperity cannot spoil. As she past up the 
die room, her step buoyant, and her beautiful 
face beaming with gayety and health, she 
seemed like the very extreme contrast to the 
pale and sickly child who sate weeping in the 
corner, the only one who did not call her. 
But the poor little West Indian was nut over- 
looked — Frances' quick eye soon observed her 
trouble, and turning to her side, she said in a 
low and consoling whisper, " The signor kept 
me longer than I expected, but I have not for- 
gotten my promise to help you with the French 
lesson. What, crying, my poor Emeline, fie, 
fie, dry up your tears while I am speaking to 
Miss Aiken, and I shall be back in a moment. 
You know 7 how well we always get on toge- 
ther. 

The child gave one deep sob, but it was the 
'ast, and Fanny went to the fireplace to settle 
the important question of blue or white trim- 
ming 1 . " White, by all means, and when the 
children are gone, I will tack it on for you." 
" O, Miss Beaumont," exclaimed theteach- 
pt, " she has nothing to do, and I was going 



to ask you to help me with Miss Elphinstonv 
frock ; I am sure it is a shame to ask you t« 
touch such an old thing." 

"Never mind, I will come and make my- 
self generally useful in five minutes." 

" I must say," remarked the teacher, as sho 
left the fireplace, " Miss Beaumont is an ex 
ample to you all; she never minds her own 
trouble, and does remember that of other peo 
pie." 

The object of her eulogium in the mean 
time had sought out the poor little learner in 
the dark corner, who awaited her with tears 
already dried, and eyes beginning to brighten. 
Infinite were the pains she bestowed on a pu- 
pil who was rather timid than stupid, ana 
whose success at last rewarded her exertions. 
" You can say it now. Take up your book, 
and if you repeat it well, I will ask leave to 
curl your hair myself." The child took up 
her lesson, fortified by the consciousness of 
knowing it properly. W T hile she was saying 
it, a summons came for Miss Beaumont to the 
parlour, a box had arrived for her from Lon- 
don. 

" Be sure you bring your dress in here to 
show us," was the universal exclamation. 
Fanny promised, and tripped lightly away. 
Her absence was, however, longer, than they 
expected ; at last she returned, bringing with 
her a very elegant looking dress, which she 
good-naturedly held on high, for general in- 
spection. One little step this time ventured to 
meet her, and a little face, bright with smiles, 
looked up, as Emeline Elphinstone whispered, 
"I have said my lesson." 

"It is very beautiful," exclaimed Miss 
Aiken, " but it is white muslin ; I thought 
that you said you would have w r hite crape this 
half." 

" I could not afford it," replied Fanny ; 
"and white muslin is just as pretty. But 
look at the white riband trimming. I am sure 
I can put on yours just the same." 

"And Miss Aiken, perhaps, will do Miss 
Elphinstone's frock." 

" Leave that to me," exclaimed Fanny, 
"you know she is my child, and as she has 
said her lesson, will you let me curl her 
hair ?" 

"Yes, and thank you into the bargain," re- 
plied the teacher^ glad to get rid of the job. 

The little West Indian's lot was very dif- 
ferent from that of her protector. She came 
to school straight from her native land, igno- 
rant, spoilt, and with even more than a usual 
share of indolence belonging to a warmer 
climate. She had, however, more indulgences 
than the other children, her father seemed de- 
sirous of making up to her for the necessity 
of sending her from home. The allowance 
made on her account was more than liberal, 
it was extravagant ; her pocket-money was 
quite unfit for a child of her age, so was her 
dress, and for the first year of her residence 
in England, she laboured under all the disad- 
vantages of undue preference, and improper 
indulgence. Fortune, however, had a severe 
lesson in store. She had not been above some 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



449 



fifteen months at Mrs. Cameron's before the 
usual remittances failed. 

It was war-time, and one vessel after an- 
other was intercepted: a year had elapsed, and 
Mrs. Cameron's little " account," as she al- 
ways called it, was still unsettled. She was 
too humane a woman to make any altera- 
tion in the treatment of her pupil; more- 
over, she did not dislike talking about " the 
interest she took in the unfortunate child, 
whose destitute situation was such an appeal 
to her feelings." But in the school, Miss 
Elphinstone's position was wholly changed, 
she had no longer any pocket-money, and, 
with that, disappeared all the considerations 
and indufgences it had procufed. Obliged to 
go wearing her dresses, which she was daily 
outgrowing, their alteration and repairs were 
a perpetual source of discontent to the teach- 
ers, and of this discontent Emeline soon felt 
the effects. Her slow progress in her studies 
became matter of constant complaint, and 
even Mrs. Cameron became more severe, for 
she felt she could not justify to herself any 
neglect of an education that might hereafter 
be its possessor's sole resom^e. A miserable 
child was Emeline Elphinstone. She missed 
the petting, the niceties, and the excuses to 
which she had been hitherto accustomed. Too 
much was expected from her at first, she 
grew discouraged, and persuaded of her own 
inability, soon obtained the character of -equal 
sulienness and stupidity. She was so often 
in disgrace, that she lost all hope of avoiding 
it. 

Children are too often unkind to one an- 
other, and deny the allowance they so much 
need in their own case. Emeline Elphinstone 
was not a pretty child, she was little for her 
age, thin and awkward, her dark complexion, 
unrelieved by any shade of colour, gave a 
heaviness to her countenance, which was not 
improved by a profusion of black hair never 
in very good order. Fanny Beaumont had 
been absent from school for half a year, and 
on her return, her quick and kind feelings 
were at once enlisted on the behalf of the 
poor pale little thing whom she saw constantly 
moping about, or crying in some corner or 
other. In spite of all that was said of her 
dulness and her obstinacy, she took her under 
her especial charge, and was more than repaid 
by the affection of the grateful child. 

Her task was not an easy one. Timid and 
hopeless — she had some difficulty in persuad- 
ing Emeline that it was possible to learn at 
all. Her native indolence, too, was a great 
obstacle — but the most unwearying patience 
was gradually successful, and it was allowed 
that " Miss Beaumont would make something 
of that stupid child at last." 

Miss Beaumont was quite convinced of this 
herself. In one branch, she made great pro- 
gress : one, too, which had as yet been unat- 
tempted, but Fanny, who observed her ear for 
music, resolved on beginning to teach her. 
The child made great progress, and it was 
useful in two ways First, it showed Emeline 

Voi> I.— 57 



that there was something she could learn, and 
learn well; and secondly, that very learning 
became the reward of her own exertions. 

A bright sunny morning was the next day, 
only less cheerful than the eyes which ii 
awakened : at an early hour the schoolroom 
was all gayety and bustle. There were gar- 
lands to be suspended, green boughs to be 
placed, and flowers to be arranged — in all this 
Fanny's taste was as conspicuous as her acti- 
vity. The garlands were mostly of her mak 
ing, the flowers most of her nursing, and all 
allowed that none could dispose them with 
half the effect that she could. The task was 
at length completed, the schoolrooms had 
truly put on their holiday look, and Mrs. Ca- 
meron was called in to approve and to admire. 
She was a ladylike person, a little stately, 
but that suited well with the authority of hei 
station. She came in, and looked round, "I 
must say, young ladies, this is prettier than 
ever, your exertions leave me nothing to de- 
sire — but you must not overtire yourselves. 
I want to have you all looking as well as pos- 
sible." 

She then walked through the rooms, admired 
them in detail, and said something pleasant 
to almost every one. "I believe now I have 
nothing more to say, you have all my direc- 
tions. Ah, yes, one thing I had forgotten.— 
Miss Marshal, and Miss Elphinstone, come 
here. Why, my loves, you have at least fifty 
curl-papers in — but I suppose to-day the ring- 
lets are to be in extra order — yes, it is just as 
I thought, they are exactly of a height — they 
shall walk together in the march." 

" I beg your pardon, madam," said one of ths 
teachers following her to the door, " but you 
said yesterday — Miss Marshal was to lead the 
march by herself. It is a very conspicuous 
place, and really Miss Elphinstone's dress is 
a disgrace." 

"Never mind," replied Mrs. Cameron, 
" Miss Beaumont has undertaken her toilette, 
and I have great confidence in Fanny's taste. 
By the way, Fanny, I want to consult you 
about the flowers on the table in the saloon." 

41 Well, if that is not too bad," exclaimed 
Miss Marshal — a little fair-haired, blue-eyed 
girl, who was the .school pet and beauty. 
" And so, with my new dress, I am to walk 
with that shabby thing." No one else ex 
pressed this sentiment so loudly — but many 
felt it, and it produced a general feeling of ill 
will to the unlucky Emeline, to whom it soon 
showed itself in the shape of taunts and sneers. 
Pride checked the poor child's tears, but she 
retreated to a corner, where her utmost efforts 
could not prevent the long eyelashes from 
glittering. With a downcast head she heard 
the various groups disperse and go up-stairs t9 
the agreeable duties of dressing. Suddenly 
I she heard a light and well-known step — and 
j a glad sw r eet voice exclaimed, " Why is my 
little Emeline seated all alone, what is she 
thinking about V 

" I was thinking," said the child earnestly, 
! for she was scarcely yet aroused from the 
2p2 



450 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



train of thoughts in which she was engrossed, 
" how pleasant it w T as for Cinderella to have 
a godmother who was a fairy." 

" And also thinking, I guess, that you 
would like such a godmother too." 

" Ah, I wish that I had one, indeed." 

" And what would be your first wish ?" 

" A new frock — for Miss Marshal says 
mine is so shabby she will be ashamed to 
walk with me." 

" It is very wrong of Miss Marshal to say 
any such thing ; but come up-stairs with me, 
and we will see whether we shall not do very 
well without fairy or godmother." 

Fanny ran rapidly towards her own room, fol- 
lowed by her little companion. " Look there," 
exclaimed she. Emeline looked in the direc- 
tion to which she pointed ; and, laid out on 
the bed, was a little white muslin frock, 
trimmed with white satin riband. " Who do 
you think that is for?" 

Emeline looked first at the frock, it was 
just the length of her own : then in the smil- 
ing face of her youthful friend — she could not 
speak, a hope too delightful for expression 
had lighted up her large dark eyes. 

" Yes, it is for you, my little Emeline 
must wear it for my sake." Emeline threw 
her arms round her neck, but it was some 
moments before she could speak her thanks. 
Her little eyes were full of tears, and gratitude 
for a while overpowered even pleasure. 

Fanny kissed her, and then said, " W r e are 
late, and must make so much haste ; besides 
I long to know if it will fit you." 

She began to unfasten the numerous curl- 
papers which had cost her so much labour the 
night before. The hair was in firstrate curl, 
and by the time some half dozen ringlets 
were combed out, Emeline found voice to say, 
"I can never thank you enough, my dearest, 
kindest Miss Beaumont, but I am so happy. 

Indeed her happiness was too great to allow 
of her standing still, only Fanny at last very 
judiciously turned her face towards the 
new dress, and the hair was soon finished. 
The frock fitted to perfection, and again 
thanking and kissing its kind donor, Emeline 
hurried to the schoolroom, where she was 
greeted with a universal exclamation of sur- 
prise. " It is Miss Beaumont's present," ex- 
claimed the child, eager to proclaim the name 
of her benefactor. 

"I now understand why Miss Beaumont 
could not afford white crape," remarked Miss 
Aiken. 

" It is just like her," replied her teacher. 
Fanny's own toilette was hurried, all import- 
ant as was the day, by the information that 
her cousin, Mr. Beaumont, was waiting to see 
her in the parlour. Fanny hastily smoothed 
back her beautiful ringlets, and, without even 
a last look at the glass to judge of the general 
effect, hurried down stairs. Mr. Beaumont 
was a lad of about nineteen, but his sailor's 
dress made him look still younger. 

" How glad I am to see you," exclaimed 
she on entering the room, " you are come just 



in time to dance with me to-night. I shaj 
see how well you remember my lessons." 

" Nay," replied her cousin, " I should bo 
very sorry to bring you to shame with my 
awkwardness, though I remember one part of 
your lessons very well, namely, your pa- 
tience; but I am only come to bid you good- 
by." 

" Good-by 1 where are you going V 

"I am going to Portsmouth, and this is a 
sort of a w T ay to it. My ship is under sailing 
orders, but I could not leave England without 
a last look at my pretty cousin." 

" I am so sorry," said Fanny in a melan 
choly tone, " I shall miss you so in the holi 
days." 

" And I am sure I shall miss you, but I am 
glad to go to sea again ; I hate staying at 
home doing nothing. Perhaps a day may 
come when I shall show my uncle and all of 
you that I do not forget your kindness." 

" But are you really obliged to go to-day "■ 
Could yon not stay just this one evening ?" 

" Quite impossible : but I see that I an 
come just in time, for, Fanny, you are as ga} 
as a queen." So saying he turned her ronnc 
to admire her dress, and, taking a little parcel 
from his pocket, undid several folds of paper, 
and finally produced a small gold chain and a 
cornelian heart. " I have brought you a 
keepsake, and you must wear it to-day." 

" How very pretty," exclaimed she, " how 
■ kind you are to think of me. I shall take 
such care of it for your sake." 

" I will bring you a chain from Trinchino 
poly when I come back, but you will have a 
long time to wait for it." 

Fanny's eyes filled with tears, and George 
felt inclined to follow her example, but 
this the dignity of his uniform forbade, and 
bidding " God bless you, dearest Fanny," in 
a broken voice, he hurried to the door, and 
was gone while she was yet standing in the 
middle of the room, with the chain in her 
hand ; a step in the passage aroused her, and 
she ran into her own apartment, where she 
first cried her eyes red, and then exhausted 
her stock of rosewater in effacing the traces 
of tears. Time past on, and she heard her 
name called more than once before she obeyed 
the summons. Never had she felt so little 
inclined for exertion. Still, when she entered 
the room, it was not in the nature of a girl of 
sixteen to be insensible to the praises be- 
stowed on her appearance. Mrs. Cameron's 
smile was a great stimulus, she felt that she 
was bound to do her kind instructress all the 
credit that could be given by the display of 
whatever accomplishments she might possess. 
The sight of Emeline, who turned towards 
her a face literally " covered all over with 
smiles," was very cheering. The company 
began to assemble, and Fanny entered, like 
the rest, into the pleasant anxiety and excite- 
ment of the hour. Many an admiring eye 
was cast upon her, and scarcely one there but 
asked, " Who was that very lovely girl ?" 

We have said before that Mrs Cameron's 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



451 



tearmer was a little stately, the consequence 
perhaps of her tall and erect figure, but she 
united with it a graciousness, and a happiness 
of phrase, that an ambassadress might have 
envied. Every prize was given with a few 
kind and encouraging words that doubled its 
value ; and the parents around were divided 
between admiration of the good fortune which 
had blessed them with such children, and of 
the governess who so well understood how to 
develope such excellent dispositions. But 
every human triumph must have its end, and 
even this eventful morning drew to a close. 
The visiters adjourned to the saloon to par- 
take the light refreshment of an elegant look- 
ing luncheon, and the children gladly gathered 
round a table covered with good things of a 
more substantial order. After dinner was 
concluded, Mrs. Cameron, whose other visit- 
ers were by that time dispersed, came to do 
the honours of the dessert, which was this 
day plentifully allotted to the school girls ; 
she helped them herself to wine and fruit, ex- 
pressing her great satisfaction at the way in 
which every thing had gone off. "You must 
now, all of you, keep very quiet till the even- 
ing, that you may be able to enjoy yourselves. 
Dancing will begin at eight o'clock." 

She rose from the table, but when she 
reached the door, turned round, and again 
thanked the young ladies for their exertions, 
''And it were injustice, Miss Beaumont, to 
pass you over without saying how much I 
was gratified by the universal approbation 
which rewarded your efforts — you even sur- 
passed my expectations." No wonder that 
Fanny's heart beat, and her cheek glowed 
with conscious pleasure. 



CHAPTER 11. 

Fanny was seated in the centre of a group 
who were discussing the events of the morn- 
ing, and in the gayety of youthful spirits, ex- 
tracting mirth out of the merest trifle, when 
the door of the schoolroom opened suddenly. 
and " Miss Beaumont, you are wanted," 
broke up the little circle. 

Fanny hurried away, amid the exclama- 
tions of the girls, "We hope you will soon 
be back again." 

To her great surprise she met Mrs. Came- 
ron in the passage, who, looking pale and 
agitated, caught Fanny's hand, and led her 
into the parlour where her mother's maid was 
standing, looking even yet more pale. " What 
is the matter, my father, my mother!" ex- 
claimed Fanny, fearing she knew not what. 

" Compose yourself, my dearest girl," said 
Mrs. Cameron, " your mother has sent for 

you home, I grieve to say your father " 

the unfinished sentence died on her lips. 

" He is ill, for God's sake, do not let us 
lose a moment, I shall be ready in an instant." 
She flew out of the room, and with a trem- 
bling hand Mrs. Cameron ran the bell, and 
desired one of the teachers to go and render 



Miss Beaumont all possible assistance. Then, 
pouring out a glass of wine which she made 
the servant drink, she gathered from her a 
more distinct account of the circumstances 
which led to this sudden summons. Mr. 
Beaumont was no more. He had been found 
in his library, before a table covered with 
papers, among which he had seemed busily 
engaged. The butler, who went to call him 
to breakfast, found his master dead. Mrs. 
Beaumont was in a state of distraction. Her 
only intelligible words were those which 
asked for her daughter Fanny, and the woman 
had of her own accord, or rather after a con- 
sultation with her fellow-servants, set off to 
fetch the unfortunate girl. Hastily cautioning 
her against tellingthe melancholy intelligence 
till her young mistress was in the carriage, 
and there to communicate it as gently as pos- 
sible, Mrs. Cameron broke off her discourse, 
for in less time than had seemed possible, 
Fanny came down equipped for her journey. 
A hasty embrace, a few broken words, and a 
faltering " God bless you, my poor dear 
child," from her governess, and Fanny found 
herself driving off with a rapidity that added 
to the confusion of her ideas. 

"Can they not drive faster]" exclaimed 
she in an agony of fear. 

" Lord, Miss, it is of no use now," said the 
servant. Fanny sprang from her seat, she 
looked almost doubtfully in the face of her 
attendant : it confirmed her worst terror, and 
she sank back insensible. It were needlessly 
painful to enter into the detail of that mise- 
rable journey, but all that Fanny had previ- 
ously endured seemed as nothing when she 
drove into the street where they lived, and 
saw the house shut up ; they stopped, and 
the door was opened by a stranger, though 
their own servant stood in the passage. 

"How is my mother'?" asked she, in a 
voice scarcely audible. The old man only shook 
his head, he could not find words to answer. 
Fanny had hardly power to reach her mothers 
apartment, she leant for a moment against the 
wall, before she entered. Bewildered as she 
was by the shock with which death and sor- 
row had come upon her, she could not but 
notice another strange man passing along the 
passage. The desire of avoiding him gave 
her courage tc enter the room. Dark as it 
was, she could see her mother laid on the sofa, 
and her little sister seated on a stool beside. 
On her entrance, the child looked up with a 
frightened air, but, instantly recognising her, 
ran and clasped her round the neck, and 
Fanny felt her face wet with tears : alas ! the 
poor little creature had no other means of ex- 
pression, for she was deaf and dumb. Fanny 
took her up in her arms, and approached the 
couch on tiptoe, where Mrs. Beaumont was 
extended in the wornout sleep of exhaustion. 
Knowing her mother's habits, she was sur- 
prised to find her without an attendant, but 
fearing to disturb her, she sat down quietly, 
with Edith on her knee, and gave way to a 
subdued, but agonizing burst of tears. Sud- 
denly the door of the apartment opened ; and 



452 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



in rushed the companion of her journey, too 
agitated to have the least self-control. " Oh 
Miss," exclaimed she, sobbing hysterically, 
" this is too dreadful, there is an execution in 
the house." The noise roused Mrs. Beau- 
mont, who started up from her slumber, she 
looked wildly round, and almost shrieked, 
" Can I not be quiet one moment ?" 

"Mother, dearest mother," whispered Fanny, 
springing forward, and, in another instant, she 
was clasped in her mother's arms, whose vio- 
lent weeping at last exhausted itself: and she 
remained, her head resting on her daughter's 
shoulder, in a state of complete stupefaction. 
It was night before Fanny could steal away, 
she could not rest, without having performed 
the last solemn duty — She went to look on 
her father's beloved face, now pale and set in 
the cold rigidity of death — She knelt down 
there quite alone, no one watched beside the 
deserted coffin, but the lonely and heart- 
stricken orphan, who passed the night in 
prayer. The next day brought neither com- 
fort nor hope — her poor little afflicted sister 
followed her about the darkened house, like 
her shadow, looking ill and pale, but lacking 
the power to express her sympathy, or lesson 
either fear, or sorrow, by the kindly inter- 
course of words. 

Her mother's state was deplorable, she 
sank beneath the pressure of misfortune, with- 
out an effort at self-control, w exertion — to 
lie on the sofa, and cry herself to sleep was 
all of which she was as yet capable. She 
was only roused into something like anger, 
by her favourite maid leaving her, as she had 
an offer from a lady who w T as about to travel, 
and had always so much admired her style 
of doing Mrs. Beaumont's hair. 

Every order, indeed every thing, devolved 
upon Fanny, and the difficulties around her 
might well have appalled one far older, and 
far wiser, than an inexperienced school girl. 
Mr. Beaumont's commercial undertakings had 
been of a wide and speculative order, and 
their failure had been total. One loss had 
followed upon another, and the failure of a 
bank, with which he was connected, w T as the 
last and heaviest misfortune of all. The 
shock had doubtless hastened his death, and 
it was impossible for any situation to be more 
utterly destitute than that in which he had 
left his family. In his prosperity, hard, ar- 
rogant and grasping, he had made no friends 
— and his children were equally without sup- 
port, assistance, or advice. 

Mrs. Beaumont, a vain, pretty, and silly 
woman, was utterly unable to bear up against 
the torrent of misfortune which assailed her. 
To lament, and wonder, was all of which 
Mrs. Beaumont was capable. Twenty times 
a day she would say, " But your papa was so 
rich, he must have left something for us. It 
is very cruel of those odious creditors:" all 
sorrow for her husband's memory was swal- 
bwed up in reproach. Fanny used every 
effort to console, and when she could not 
soothe, at least she listened patiently. 

Mrs. Beaumont's jewels were of course 



taken, but Fanny's manner had so much in- 
terested one of the creditors, who had a 
daughter about her age, that he exerted him- 
self in the cause of the bereaved family. 

They were allowed to retain their personal 
effects — and these he also aided Fanny to dis- 
pose of, for she saw at once their uselessness 
in what was likely to be their future situa- 
tion. Her mother would exhaust herself in 
useless complaints, find fault with every in- 
evitable arrangement, and end by leaving the 
almost broken-hearted girl to manage as she 
could. At last, her discontent took the form 
of an earnest longing to leave London : it was 
the best possible shape it could have taken, 
for had the proposal originated in any one but 
herself, it would have been impossible to ob- 
tain her consent. The only servant who re- 
mained with them was the housemaid, who 
was Fanny's chief attendant. Her strong at- 
tachment to her young mistress induced her 
to linger with them to the last. She often 
spoke of her native village, and of her aunt, 
who lived there, and the idea struck Fanny 
that it might afford them a home, as quiet 
and as cheap as their circumstances required 
She soon obtained all the requisite informa- 
tion, and, finding that the said aunt had two 
rooms which she was glad to let — wrote to 
say that her mother would take them, and 
that they might be expected at the end of the 
week. Mrs. Beaumont complained bitterly 
of the haste in which the arrangement was 
made, but the absolute necessity of leaving 
their own house silenced, if it did not satisfy, 
her. Mary went with them to the coach, and 
the tears of the affectionate girl were the only 
ones shed at the departure of those who had 
so recently been the centre of so gay and bril- 
liant a circle. 

But Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont had abused 
their prosperity. They had attached no one 
by the ties of kindness and gratitude. They 
had aimed only at worldly success, and at the 
time of trouble it was truly a reed that pierced 
those who leant on it for support 



CHAPTER III. 

Poor little Edith was the only one to whom 
the journey gave any pleasure. But to one 
whose chief source of enjoyment w r as in what 
she saw, the coaches, the moving fields and 
hedges, the various towns through which they 
passed, were constant amusement. 

The smile with which, at every new ob- 
ject, she sought her sister's eye, was Fanny's 
only consolation. She was thankful, too, that 
there was no one but themselves in the coach, 
so that Mrs. Beaumont's complainings reach- 
ed no ear but her own. 

The high road did not pass within some 
three miles of the secluded village, which 
was henceforth to be their home, but the 
housemaid had given them sufficient direc- 
tions, and the coach stopped at the corner of 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



453 



a shadowy lane, which led to Sherban — a man 
and a cart were there stationed waiting their 
arrival. 

It was a relief to the whole party to alight, 
weary alike of the perpetual motion and the 
confinement of the stage. The lane was green 
and shadowy, and the hedges filled with the 
sweetness of the late violets. A soft uncer- 
tain wind shook the branches, the only sound 
that disturbed the deep tranquillity of the 
scene. Thete were large clouds floating on 
the sky, but as yet the sunshine rested in all 
its brightness on the little open space that 
bordered the highway with its two old elms. 
Mrs. Beaumont took the hand of the little 
Edith and sauntered a few paces along the 
turf, leaving Fanny to make all the necessary 
arrangements. 

• Poor child, for she was but a child in years, 
though the bitter cares of the world had come 
upon her thus early — she had acquired Ihe 
experience of life in a few weeks. 

Brought up only to the exercise of grace- 
ful accomplishment, accustomed to attendance 
and indulgence, she had suddenly found the 
necessity of exertion. She had learnt not 
only to do every thing for herself — but much 
for others. While the desertion of so many 
former friends had given her a harsh lesson 
of self-dependance, she had yet met some un- 
expected kindness — and hope is so easily en- 
couraged in youth. Her shyness, for that she 
found impossible to conquer, seemed only na- 
tural, in one so young and lovely, and the 
sweetness inseparable from her temper se- 
sured universal civility. 

Their small store of luggage was soon 
placed in the cart, and a comfortable seat, as 
she hoped, formed for her mother — but here 
an unexpected difficulty arose. Mrs. Beau- 
mont turned angrily away, declaring " that it 
was quite impossible for her to ride in a 
cart." 

Fanny did not endeavour to convince, she 
only endeavoured to persuade. 

Fortunately a dark cloud came to her as- 
sistance, and the fear of rain did more than all 
her entreaties — they took their seats, and Mrs. 
Beaumont's sullen silence gradually yielded 
to her daughter's influence — who would not 
be discouraged from conversation. She drew 
her mother's attention to the delight of her 
little Edith, to the loveliness of the country 
around ; and at last Mrs. Beaumont passed 
her arm round her neck, and said " You are 
a dear girl, and that is the truth of it, Fanny." 
Tears swelled in the eyes of the affectionate 
child — those few kind words more than re- 
paid her. 

The shadows had lengthened around, and 
only a few of the further cottage windows on 
the hill retained the crimson radiance of the 
setting sun, when they arrived at Sarah Wil- 
mot's. Fanny had induced her mother to get 
out before they came to the house. She had 
learned, while walking up one of the hills, 
from the man who drove them, that there was 
a path through the field which led to a back 
gate in tho garden, at the style therefore they 



alighted — all were glad to be in motion, the 
heaviness on the air had passed away, leav- 
ing only a refreshing coolness behind. 

The hedge, by whose side the footpath 
wound, was covered with that rich growth ot 
leaf and bloom which marks the delicious 
season when spring is deepening into sum- 
mer. 

At every step Edith stopped, to gather 
some new treasure, till her little arms were 
filled with flowers, while her large dark eyes 
turned to her companions with such an elo- 
quent expression of delight, that the silence 
of her mouth was forgotten. The whole party 
felt the influence of the cheerful scene, and 
when they reached the small parlour, where 
the tea was prepared, it was with a sensa- 
tion of rest and hope to which they had long 
been strangers. Edith was quite ready to en- 
joy her bread and honey, and Mrs. Beau- 
mont was pleased with the respectful civility 
of the neat old woman who received them. 1 
The room was small but delicately clean, and 
the honeysuckle that peeped in at the lattice 
was now at its sweetest, with the evening- 
dew exhaling from its fragrant tendrils. 

They had been accustomed to so muck 
wretchedness of late, to confusion, to civility, 
and to noise, that only the pleasant side of the 
contrast in their present situation, was wha* 
struck them. The next day, however, Mrs. 
Beaumont discovered that their two rooms 
were wretchedly small, that she had no French 
rolls for breakfast, and that she could not see 
herself in the small square glass which hung 
beside the window, serving as the mirror. 
These were but small vexations, but we all 
know how small vexations become great ones 
when perpetually dwelt upon. From the 
first, Fanny began the habit of early rising. 
At first, Mrs. Beaumont complained bitterly 
of being herself disturbed, but when she 
found Fanny never undrew the curtains, and 
asked it as a favour, she became reconciled, 
and it may be doubted whether, after a few 
mornings, she even heard the light step that 
was so carefully subdued. It was for her 
sake that her daughter was so anxious to get 
up. She soon found that the girl, employed 
by Sarah Wilmot, had more to do than she 
could get through, and was both awkward 
and stupid in getting through with it. Fanny 
resolved to take all the preparations for break- 
fast on herself. She soon found her way to 
the kitchen, at first to old Sarah's great dis- 
may, and not a little to her own embarrass- 
ment, but, after two or three failures, she 
succeeded to admiration. Henceforth her sis- 
ter's bread and milk, and her mother's coffee, 
were made by herself. 

With my poor little Edith she had at first 
the greatest difficulty — she had been sadly 
spoilt. Her cruel misfortune had made it 
seem almost harsh ever to restrain her. The 
natural weakness of Mr. Beaumont's tempe\ 
had given way to every possible bad habit, 
rather than be at the trouble of correction, and 
of late the unfortunate child had been neg- 
lected in every way. Edith did not choose 



454 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



to get up, and Fanny neither liked to disturb 
her mother by any noise of contention, nor to 
make her sister rise merely by compulsion. 
But Edith, though violent in temper, had an 
affectionate heart, and where that exists it 
may always be worked upon to good. Very 
quick in her apprehensions, she soon saw that 
her sister was always actively employed, and 
the desire arose to assist her. Fanny ex- 
hausted her ingenuity in contriving a thousand 
ways of wanting her services. 

The pride of usefulness led, as it ever does, 
to the most beneficial results, and Edith be- 
came anxious to get up in the morning, that 
she might help her sister. An errand was 
next found to employ her. Hitherto the girl 
had fetched the milk of a morning : after going 
with her once, herself, to see that there was 
no danger that she could incur, Fanny in fu- 
ture sent her sister for it. The child was 
delighted with the office, she had a pleasant 
walk across the field, and the farmer's wife, a 
thoroughly good-hearted woman, thought that 
she could never make enough of the beautiful 
and afflicted child. Edith brought home the 
milk with due care, but she had almost al- 
ways to run back again for some fruit, flow- j 
ers, honey, or cake, which her new friends I 
had offered her. 

Edith's health and temper became equally 
improved, and, even in the very heat of anger, 
a word or a look from her sister would soften 
her at once. But it was over Mrs. Beaumont 
that Fanny's interest was the most remarkable 
and advantageous. Her mother could not 
devolve every difficulty upon her, as she did, 
without an unconscious respect for the strength 
of mind displayed by one so young; yet, 
lhanks to Fanny's sweetness, this was at- 
tended by none of that bitterness which too 
often attends such a change in the natural po- 
sition of child and parent. But Mrs. Beau- 
mont could not but see that her ease and her 
amusement were every thing to her affectionate 
daughter; while Fanny had never loved her 
mother so well as now that she was her chief 
object, and her renewed cheerfulness the great 
reward of her constant exertions. Mrs. Beau- 
mont had always been fond of work, it was 
now a great resource ; and it soon became an 
amusement to teach Edith, whose quickness 
of apprehension was surprising. 

They had been some time resident in the 
village, when Fanny one evening was in the 
kitchen engaged in washing the tea-things, a 
task she had taken upon herself, when she ob- 
served that her hostess, instead of seizing 
with her usual delight the opportunity for a 
little chat, remained in what seemed a very 
disconsolate silence. Fanny saw that more 
than once the tears rose to the old woman's 
eyes. .She could not see this without an at- 
tempt at consolation ; she took her hand, and 
asked her kindly what was the matter. The 
poor old creature was ready enough to talk of 
her troubles, she said that her son had been 
offered a situation as shopman in the next 
market town. 

"Tt is a great thing for him, miss, but — ■" 



" You do not like to part with him. But 
the distance is not great, and it is for his 
good." 

" That is what I say to myself, and to him 
too, but he won't let me talk about it." 

She then went on to explain that her son, 
for she herself could neither write nor read, 
had been in the habit of keeping the accounts 
of her little business, and that, without his 
assistance, it was impossible for her to get on 
at all. 

The thought instantly darted into Fanny's 
head could she not supply his place ? She 
had felt for some time that what her mother 
paid was a very inadequate return for the 
trouble which, in spite of her personal efforts, 
they gave, and for the comfort which they 
enjoyed. Here was an opportunity of amply 
acquitting the obligation ; she was a good ac- 
countant at school ; for, by reason of the ne- 
cessity of order in their own arrangement, she 
had of late rather improved than otherwise. 
Mrs. Wilmot's shop was nominally to sell 
grocery, but it sold almost every thing else ■ 
the old woman, whose activity and obliging- 
ness were proverbial, attended to her custom- 
ers herself, and of an evening her son regu- 
lated the accounts of the day. The profits 
were sufficient to enable her to live in great 
comfort, and the decent education which she 
had contrived to afford her son had been al- 
ready repaid by his dutiful affection, and as 
sistance. But it was time now for him to be 
doing something more ; he was growing up 
to manhood, and the present situation was 
one beyond his hopes. The last tea-cup was 
washed, and Fanny had taken her resolution ; 
she drew a stool close to the arm-chair, and 
communicated her project. "I can cast up 
accounts very well, and your son can put me 
in the way of doing yours." 

The old woman was at first silent from ex- 
cess of astonishment. 

"A young lady like yourself!" was her 
almost inarticulate reply; but at length she 
began to comprehend the possibility, and her 
surprise was next equalled by her gratitude. 

That very evening Fanny took her lesson. 
The matter had even more difficulty than she 
expected, for Sarah's own memorandums were 
hieroglyphics in chalk, that required practice 
indeed to decipher them. By dint of the 
most persevering attention she conquered all 
the difficulties, and not one of the least was 
her mother's objection, who saw in the employ 
a degradation. Fanny would only let her 
think of its utility and its kindness. 

We have alluded to Edith's morning walk, 
to fetch milk; it led to far more important 
consequences. The farmer had the care of 
the only large house in the neighbourhood. 
It had the history belonging to so many. Its 
proprietors were living in a foreign land, too 
embarrassed to return to their own, yet unable 
or unwilling to part with the noble old place 
which had been theirs so long. Edith first, and 
Fanny afterward, accompanied the farmer's 
wife on her periodical visits for airing the de- 
serted rooms. There was a large library 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



455 



2,'jd from its dusty shelves they soon obtained 
permission to take what they pleased, on con- 
dition that one set of books were returned to 
their places, before others were brought away. 
Here was indeed a treasure of delight and 
information. Fanny, who, like all" active 
minds, had still many hours of the day un- 
employed, found here an invaluable and con- 
stant resource. She had often secretly re- 
gretted how all the advantages of her earlier 
education v ere being thrown away, but here 
was an opportunity for the cultivation of her 
mental powers. Without suffering her new 
found enjoyment to interfere with her more 
active duties, she read a great deal, and one 
book, with a passion of hope and pleasure: it 
was the Abbe Sieye's work on the instruction 
of the deaf and dumb. It opened a field of 
expectation, on which she had before scarcely 
allowed herself to think. A little practice 
soon brought experience to her aid, and in a 
few months she was astonished at her sister's 
progress. 

Edith had a natural talent for drawing, and 
it was extraordinary how much this facilitated 
her progress: gradually she learnt to read; 
then to write, and she acquired an extraordi- 
nary facility in sketching any object on the 
minute. A small slate which she carried con- 
stantly about with her, became an easy means 
of communication with all, while to her mo- 
ther and sister she could talk on her fingers 
with the greatest rapidity. All this, however, 
was the work of time, for nearly five years had 
passed since they first sought the distant and 
quiet village. 

They had been five years of content and 
employment. Mrs. Beaumont's health, though 
never strong, was better than it had ever been 
before, and her two children were pictures of 
youth and loveliness. But even the lowliest 
degree of content has its changes, and the 
smaller, even as the greater, portion in life 
has its trouble. The trifling sum which they 
had so husbanded was gradually drawing to a 
close: a new shop, opened at the other ex- 
tremity of the village, had drawn away much 
of old Sarah's custom, who was daily more 
desirous of going to reside with her son. His 
success in life had been the fitting reward of 
his industry and good conduct. It was for- 
tunate for Mrs. Beaumont that, accustomed to 
depend wholly on Fanny, she took every thing 
for granted. When once used to their present 
mode of life, she supposed, as she had done of 
their former prosperity, that it would go on so 
always. She had no foresight. But Fanny's 
anxiety increased every hour. For the first 
time she felt utterly depressed ; she saw no 
possible means of earning even the most mi- 
serable pittance. She envied the labourers 
she saw working in the fields. Night after 
night, she buried her face in her sleepless pil- 
low, lest her sister should perceive her tears. 

One day Edith had been to the old manor 
house, and was returning slowly up the steep 
hill which led to their village, when she was 
overtaken by a gentleman, who had for some | 
minutes past been calling to her to learn his I 



way. The light touch on her shoulder drew 
her attention in a minute. She startled, and 
while a beautiful colour came into her face, 
fixed her dark eyes on his face, and perceived 
by the movement of his lips that he was speak- 
ing. She raised her graceful hands, but saw 
at once that he did not understand the rapid 
motion of her fingers. Then taking her slate, 
which hung on her arm, she wrote on it, "I 
am deaf and dumb, but I can read what you 
write." With a sweet smile she gave her 
touching confession to the stranger. The 
emotion with which he let the slate fall from 
his hand was beyond mere pity. With an 
expression of the tenderest interest he gazed 
on the lovely countenance that, animated and 
intelligent, met his own. "And is this sweet 
child so afflicted also I" exclaimed he in a 
broken voice. 

He could not command himself enough to 
write the question he meant to ask, and Edith's 
quick eye noted the changes of his face, and 
was naturally struck with the idea of indispo- 
sition ; she, happy in the cheerful affection of 
her mother and sister, knew not all the sym- 
pathy that she inspired. .Again she took up 
her slate and wrote, "Are you ill, our house 
is very near, if you will rest there 1 ?" Mr. 
Bennett, for such was the stranger's name, 
had now composed himself, but his curiosity 
and a deeper feeling were alike excited by 
his companion ; he therefore wrote down his 
thanks, saying " that he had lost his way, and 
would be glad to follow his present guide." 

The horse, whose bridle was thrown over 
his arm, now attracted Edith's attention, and 
a conversation was soon commenced, and car- 
ried on, by the medium of the slate. They 
arrived at the little cottage, and Edith ran in 
to announce their unexpected visiter. A boy 
was soon found to hold Mr. Bennett's horse, 
while he accepted Mrs. Beaumont's offer of 
rest and refreshment. The conversation was 
interesting to both parties. It was so long 
since Mrs. Beaumont had had a visiter of any 
kind, that she could not help enjoying the 
novelty, and Mr. Bennett was equally struck 
with her ladylike manner, and Fanny's singu- 
lar loveliness. He asked many questions about 
Edith. "You will pardon," said he, " my 
dwelling on this painful subject, but I have 
two children afflicted in a similar manner." 

This was too strong a bond of sympathy 
not to draw even strangers closely together, 
and when, after a visit of considerable length, 
he expressed his intention of taking whatever 
accommodation the little village inn could af- 
ford, Mrs. Beaumont begged him to renew his 
visit — and it was at last settled that he should 
take an early breakfast with them. 

It was late, very late, that night before 
Fanny closed her eyes ; her head was full of 
a project that had suggested itself, but which 
cost her many a bitter" pang to even attempt 
executing. She resolved every possible, we 
might say, impossible, chance of alleviating 
their situation, and she could find but one, and 
that was to go out as governess. It was a 
dreary prospect, for it must separate her from 



456 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



a mother and sister whom she loved, as we 
love those to whom we are every thing in the 
world. 

How would Mrs. Beaumont bear up when 
eeparated from the daughter who was her re- 
source and support in every thing'. 1 How 
would poor Edith bear her loss 1 And yet on 
that poor afflicted child was her chief depend- 
ance. She had taught her to read, write, and 
draw, and Edith could now get on by herself; 
not as she would have done with her sister 
always by her side, but still enough for in- 
struction and employment. Moreover, there 
would always be a companion for her mother, 
one who, if she could not amuse her like 
Fanny, would yet always be at hand to do 
those little offices which were to Mrs. Beau- 
mont quite indispensable. 

The first red light of morning was stealing 
through the lattice, and Fanny raised herself 
on her arm to gaze on her sleeping sister. The 
long dark lash rested on the pale cheek which 
looked so placid and composed, while the 
warm light played round it, like a blessing. 

In moments of great anxiety there is a sort 
of natural superstition about the heart, which 
the reason rejects in cooler moments. 

Fanny, for an instant, watched that cheerful 
ray as if it were a good omen. She thought 
with increased confidence of Edith's docility 
and intelligence, and hope grew strong within 
her that heaven would protect a creature so 
innocent and so helpless. 

Fanny started from a short, but deep, slum- 
ber, as the sunshine came full on the window, 
and hurried up, to make the needful prepara- 
tions. The room was prepared, and breakfast 
ready before their guest arrived, but even then, 
as Fanny had anticipated, her mother was not 
come down, and this gave her an opportunity 
for the conversation she had planned with Mr. 
Bennett. He took a seat by the window, and 
entered at once into conversation. But the 
thoughts of his young hostess, after the first 
civilities had passed, were too busy to enable 
her to sustain her part, and her visiter at last 
became silent, evidently a little vexed at the 
failure of all his efforts to encourage her. 
Suddenly, making a strong resolve to subdue 
her feelings, Fanny rose from the table where 
she had been seated, and, approaching Mr. 
Bennett, said, in a faltering voice, " Sir, I am 
going to ask a favour; it will not be very 
much trouble, and I have not a friend in the 
world, unless I can make one of a stranger: 
you seem very kind — " but here her utterance 
failed, and the tears came so fast to her eyes 
*hat she could no longer check them. She 
was soon reassured by the extreme kindness 
of Mr. Bennett's manner, and in a few words 
explained their unfortunate circumstances, and 
her own wish to obtain a situation as go- 
verness. 

" We have lost sight," continued she, " of 
all our former friends, but a little inquiry will 
satisfy you of the truth of my story; and the 
lady who educated me at Brighton would, I 
im sure, speak kindly of me." 

" That you can obtain such a situation," re- 



plied Mr. Bennett, " there is nu doubt, and as 
my own circle is large, I feel sure that I can 
serve you." 

" God bless you," exclaimed the grateful 
girl, when, hearing the door open of Mrs. 
Beaumont's room, she hastily added, " Say 
nothing of my plan to my mother. It will be 
hard enough to bear when it succeeds, let me 
spare her all unhappiness beforehand." 

Mr. Bennett had only time to look a reply, 
when Mrs. Beaumont entered the little par- 
lour. During breakfast, Mr. Bennett had am- 
ple time to admire the self-control which Fanny 
had so early learnt to practise. Her young heart 
was swelling with anxiety, and even then she 
was anticipating all the bitterness of parting; 
yet she suppressed all outward sign of what 
she felt : she was even more attentive than 
usual to the courtesies of the breakfast table; 
and, if a little silent, she nevertheless answer- 
ed the questions addressed to her by Mr. Ben- 
nett with equal intelligence and grace. The 
meal was soon despatched, for their guest was 
in haste, and both Fanny and Edith accompa- 
nied him till actually in the direct line of his 
route. 

During the walk Mr. Bennett put many 
questions, and ended by assuring Fanny that 
she should soon hear from him, and he hoped 
satisfactorily. Fanny listened to the sound of 
his horse's feet, as he galloped down the 
green lane, with mingled pain and pleasure : 
it seemed as if they were the first notes of se- 
paration between herself and all she loved in 
the world; yet the idea of the aid she might 
thereby give supported her, and the small do- 
mestic troubles which daily increased dis- 
tracted her attention : she had not courage to 
mention her plan to her mother, but, aware 
how much in future must depend on her sister, 
she resolved on telling her. Child as she 
was, Edith proved worthy of the care that had 
been bestowed upon her, and the confidence 
now reposed. 

. They were taking their favourite walk in a 
small oak coppice near, when Fanny called 
her attention from the wild flowers which she 
was gathering, and told her of their future 
plans. At first it was too much for Edith's 
philosophy, she listened in pale dismay, and 
then, dashing herself down on the grass, gave 
way to a passionate burst of crying ; all Fan- 
ny could do was to raise her head, and cry 
too. 

" I am setting you a bad example," at ls»_ 
exclaimed the elder sister, and Edith, seeing 
that her lips moved, remained with her eyes 
fixed on her face, and unclasping her hands, 
traced a few words hastily on the slate that 
hung at her wrist : " My sister, I shall die, 
and so will mamma, if you leave us." Fanny 
clasped the little affectionate creature in hex 
arms, and, taking her hand, walked towards 
the open fields. The fresh air, the glad open 
sunshine, revived her, she relied on the care 
of heaven, which spread so brightly over ail 
around, she then explained to her sister the 
necessity of their situation, the absolute neces- 
sity of some support, and perhaps expressed 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



457 



A little more hope than she really felt of every 
lhing turning out for the best. " You must," 
said she, " take my place with my mother, 
you must dress her, and be housekeeper, and 
every thin?-, I know I can trust my little 
Edith." 

The child swallowed down her tears, and 
turned to her sister with a steadfast, earnest 
look, " Let me dr?ss mamma to-morrow," 
asked she, and the slight fingers were tolera- 
bly steady while asking. 

" The next morning Mrs. Beaumont, was 
down rather earlier than usual, and found 
Fanny, as had been settled, very busy over 
her work. "I shall dismiss you from my 
service," said she smiling, " for Edith is so 
handy, and I know how much there is to 
do." 

" I shall grow jealous," replied Fanny, 
forcing a laugh, and from that time Edith took 
her place. This was a great point gain- 
ed, for Mrs. Beaumont required many little 
personal services, which Fanny had feared 
her sister, with her infirmity, would be inca- 
pable of rendering. A fortnight of anxious 
expectation past by : the fortnight became 
three weeks, and Fanny found herself at the 
end of their carefully hoarded pittance, and 
Mrs. Beaumont had, from finding Sarah cry- 
ing in the garden, and questioning her, learnt 
the old woman's wish to give up the shop and 
cottage. She hurried to the parlour, where 
she had left Fanny at work, and found the 
poor girl, wornout both in mind and body, cry- 
ing bitterly. This was too much for Mrs. 
Beaumont, and Fanny was roused from her 
own painful indulgence, by seeing her mother 
in strong hysterics. Caresses and entreaties 
at length restored her, and Fanny took the op- 
portunity of telling what her own hopes were. 
This seemed only making matters worse: — 
"If you leave, what will become of us'!" 
said her mother, wringing her hands. 

"If I stay, we shall starve; my obtaining 
a situation as a governess is our only resource 
against absolute want," replied Fanny gently, 
but firmly. " Dearest mother, do not deny 
me the happiness of working for you. I hope 
our separation will not, be long, and Edith 
will always be with you." 

" 0, my child, how I shall miss you," and 
again Mrs. Beaumont gave way to her tears. 
Gradually she became more composed, and 
Fanny, thenceforth, made her approaching de- 
parture the constant subject of discourse. 
When once Mrs. Beaumont considered it as 
inevitable, she grew even anxious about it, 
and, for the next three days, she harrassed 
both Fanny and herself w r ith misgivings as to 
Mr. Bennett's forgetfulness. The fourth 
evening came, and still no letter; when, just 
as Mrs. Beaumont was saying " Ah, Fanny, 
it is of no use hoping, nobody cares for us 
now," a parcel was brought in addressed to 
her. It was opened with trembling eagerness, 
and, among other things, Fanny saw a let- 
ter inscribed to herself. The contents ran 
thus : 
Vol. I.— 58 



" My dear young Friend — 

" My long silence, occasioned by severe 
illness, has, I fear, led you to suppose that I 
had forgotten the interest that I had expressed 
in your situation : as soon as you mentioned 
what your wishes for the future were, a plan 
occurred to me which I trusted might be mu- 
tually agreeable. Mrs. Bennett agrees wilh 
myself in thinking our little girls will bi 
fortunate if placed under your care. She has 
herself written to you. Will you permit me 
to enclose the accompanying trifle for the ex- 
penses of your journey l 
" With every expression of esteem and respect, 
" I remain your sincere friend, 

" Robert Bennett." 

The bank note for twenty pounds, and the 
letter, dropped from her hand in an agony of 
mute thankfulness — it was far beyond her 
hopes, and she felt as if regret would be in- 
gratitude to Providence. 

Edith had watched every turn of her face, 
while Mrs. Beaumont was employed in ex- 
amining the contents of the parcel. 

She caught up the letter, read it, and grew 
deadly pale, the tears rose in her eyes, but she- 
did not shed them, she only drew close to 
Fanny, and kissed her, as much as to say, 
"You see you may trust me." Fanny com- 
manded her voice sufficiently to read the letter 
aloud, and in the relief from the fear of des- 
titution, Mrs. Beaumont bore the idea of part- 
ing with her daughter better than could have 
been expected. The parcel itself, too, dis- 
tracted her .attention. 

Its arrival was an event in a life so monoto- 
nous as theirs. — It contained a handsome 
shawl for herself, brown merino dresses for 
the two girls, some'various silks and worsteds, 
which showed that the kind donor had noted 
Mrs. Beaumont's own employ, a variety of 
books, a box of colours, pencils, and a kind 
note to Edith. 

The kindness was felt even more than the 
service. There was also another note ad- 
dressed to Miss Beaumont, in a lady's hand. 
She broke the pale lilac seal, and read the con- 
tents. 

" Mrs. Bennett informs Miss Beaumont, 
that, in consequence of Mrs. Cameron's re- 
commendation, she is willing to give her a 
trial, though she thinks Miss B. very young. 

" Mrs. Bennett begs no time may be lost, 
as she is going to Brighton, and wants the 
children settled first. She will give Miss B. 
the same salary as her predecessor, a hundred 
guineas, though she must say it is a large 
sum for such a young person : but Mrs. Ca- 
meron says that Miss Beaumont is highly ac- 
complished, hopes thatthey have not been lost 
in the country. Will Miss Beaumont write 
to fix what day she will arrive, as the house- 
keeper is to meet her." 

It was not the utter want of elegance in 

this even unladylike note, but it was its want 

of any thing like encouragement. At that 

moment, Fanny felt the full bitterness of the 

2Q 



458 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



task she had mdertaken. She would not 
think of this, she turned at once to the bless- 
ing- of being able to support her mother, and 
just read enough of the note to fix attention 
on the amount of the salary, and the necessity 
of her immediate departure. Her plan had 
been for some time arranged in her own mind, 
and no obstacles intervened. 

It was agreed that Mrs. Beaumont and 
Edith were to live at the farmhouse we had 
before mentioned, and Fanny had the satisfac- 
tion of seeing them comfortably settled. 

"I know," said Edith, (we use the expres- 
sion say, to avoid perpetual recurrence to her 
methods of expression, which were either by 
talking on her fingers, or writing on her slate,) 
"that you are afraid mamma will miss you, 
and so she must, but it shall not be for want 
of care. Dearest sister, I will do just as if 
you were here with me, and as Mr. Bennett 
says I may always write under cover to him, 
I will tell you every thing I do." Fanny at 
that moment had less resolution than even her 
little sister, and the child went on : 

" I will keep a journal and send you every 
week. My darling Fanny, I know how good 
you have been: God will bless us both for 
your sake." 

With what lingering steps that evening did 
they wander round " the old familiar places!" 
The old hedge, now filled with honeysuckle, 
the bank beneath the ash tree, where a few 
late violets }^et lingered, the clear and dancing 
brook, where they had so often gathered water- 
cresses ; every object had now that charm 
which invests even the commonest*thing when 
seen for the last time. 

The next day, it was fortunate that all was 
hurry and confusion : there was only just time 
for Fanny to get her few packages ready, and 
to be at the end of the green lane just as the 
coach was sweeping down the hill in the dis- 
tance. Such a long journey, and by herself, 
too, was an awful thing to any girl, especially 
to one who had lived in such complete seclu- 
sion, and fear mixed with the sorrow that 
made Fanny's voice at parting quite inarticu- 
late. Neither Mrs. Beaumont nor Edith could 
restrain their tears, and even the farmer's wife 
who accompanied them cried for sympathy. 
Slowly they returned home, to miss Fanny at 
every turn. 

The room did not seem the same, her place 
was vacant. The next morning Edith was up 
with the lark, and stole from the bed as softly 
as the bird from its nest, so fearful was she of 
disturbing her mother, and of not having every 
thing nicely prepared. 

" Lord love the poor little thing," said their 
new hostess, as she watched her bring in the 
flowers and water-cresses with which she laid 
out the breakfast table, and then make the cof- 
fee with a skill which many a London draw- 
ing-room might have envied. 

"What a handy child it is, but we must 
help all we can, and without seeming to do 
it." 
. But a letter from Edith to her sister will 



give exact description of how they passed 
their time. 

" It is but a week, for I have counted every 
day, since I saw the coach take you away, 
my dearest Fanny, but it has been a very long 
week. Every thing makes us miss you. Yes- 
terday we walked past old Sarah's shop — it 
is shut up, and the sight made mamma cry 
so, that she went to bed quite ill. I shall 
take care not to walk that way again except 
by myself. 

" I will tell you just how a day passes. I 
get up at seven, go as usual to see the cows 
milked, and drink my own little cupful. I 
then go home, get the breakfast ready for 
mamma, and read till she comes, and then we 
sit down together ; after the breakfast things 
are washed and put away, we go and walk 
for an hour before the sun is on the lane. 
Then mamma and I work in the window, and 
she reads, till it is time to lay the cloth for 
dinner. After that she lies down, and I go 
into the arbour in the garden, where there is 
now a wooden table. For the next hour I am 
trying to teach Hannah and Mary to write and 
count, but they don't learn very fast. To be 
sure, you will say that they have not had 
time. Mary too is teaching me to plait straw r , 
and I like doing it very much. 

" Then I get the tea ready, and mamma and 
I take another walk, but I walk more than she 
does. 

" Then I read till bedtime, or talk to mam- 
ma, but I am afraid she misses } r our reading 
aloud to her. 

"Ah, dear Fanny, I wish we were as rich 
as we have been ! But there are many poor 
children starving; and, if I could see you, I 
should be quite happy. Mamma says I may 
give her love, but she is going to write the 
last page herself. Good-by, dear, dear Fanny. 
" Your affectionate sister, 

" Edith Beaumont " 

In the mean time, Fanny proceeded on her 
long and cheerless journey, without, however, 
meeting the slightest adventure. 

Her own sweet and gentle manner every 
where won her civility, and, after two very 
fatiguing days, she arrived safely in London, 
where the housekeeper was waiting to meet 
her. She was a quiet, civil person, very care- 
ful of her young charge, and a coach, which 
was soon procured, conveyed them to Mr. 
Bennett's house in Harley street. She was 
shown at once to her own room, but had 
scarcely time for either rest or refreshment, 
before she was summoned to tea. 

With a beating heart and a faltering step, 
she entered the magnificent drawing-room, 
where every thing swam before her eyes. She 
was a little reassured by Mr. Bennett coming 
kindly forward, and taking her hand : he led 
her to a lady who was thrown back in a large 
arm-chair. "This, my dear, is Miss Beau- 
mont, of whom I have had so much pleasure 
in talking to you." 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



459 



Mrs. Bennett rather stared than looked at 
the new comer: apparently the survey was 
any thing but satisfactory, for, in a very pee- 
vish tone, she exclaimed — rather to her hus- 
band than to Fanny — 

"Why do you keep her standing — there, 
Miss — Miss — what is your name? — is a chair 
close by." 

Well for Fanny was it that the chair did 
stand close by, for she almost sank upon it, 
appalled at her reception. 

A dead silence prevailed for some minutes, 
broken by Mrs. Bennett's asking her husband 
some trifling question, to which he made no 
reply. Silence again prevailed, and to Miss 
Beaumont's great relief, Mrs. Bennett ad- 
dressed her very civilly, as to whether she 
had not found her journey fatiguing. " You 
will not see your pupils till to-morrow; they 
are in bed, and glad enough everybody is 
when they are there." 

The carriage, was announced, but while put- 
ting on her cloak, Mrs. Bennett begged that 
Fanny would ring for any thing she wanted. 

" Indeed, my dear, you must make yourself 
quite at home." 

_ Mr. Bennett wished her a cordial good 
night, and Fanny heard the street door close 
before she had recovered her surprise at the 
change in the lady's manner. 

It was a new and weary lesson that. Fanny 
had to learn in the experience of Mrs. Ben- 
nett's temper. A vain, weak, and selfish wo- 
man, every fault had increased with an unin- 
terrupted course of worldly prosperity, and 
she had no kindliness, no natural generosity 
to counteract her violent and overbearing dis- 
position. 

It required all her husband's calm, and even 
severe, good sense to obtain any influence ; 
but she feared him, she knew that it was in 
his power to curtail her enjoyments, and if 
selfishness gave way to petulance at first, the 
same selfishness soon controlled it. 

She saw that her husband was justly dis- 
pleased at her reception of the friendless and 
interesting girl, whose situation would have 
called forth kindness from almost any one 
else; she felt no pity for Fanny, but she 
thought that Mr. Bennett might decline ful- 
filling their evening engagement, and, having 
vented her spleen at seeing her so very lovely" 
thought that some show of politeness was 
necessary to propitiate her husband. 

It was with a heavy heart that Fanny rose 
the next morning. The dull parapet, the 
gloomy roofs of the houses, was any thing 
but a cheering spectacle. She missed the 
glad sunshine, the buoyant morning air that 
was wont to come in from the open casement 
of their little cottage. The noise,- to which 
she had been so long unaccustomed, quite be- 
wildered her, and the gloom seemed infec- 
tious. She soon dressed, and a servant came 
to conduct her to the schoolroom, where so 
much of her future life was to be passed. It 
was a large dull room, the bars before the 
window giving it almost the look of a prison, 
and a large iron fender destroying even the 



cheerfulness of the fire. By that fire the two 
children w r ere seated, who slowly turned round 
their dull and sullen faces. Fanny went up 
to them, and tried to take a hand of each 
They started back, making an inarticulate and 
frightful sound ; the one pushed against the 
other, who immediately struck her sister, and 
a complete battle ensued. The servant parted 
them, and, turning to Miss Beaumont, said, 
"They are little furies, miss, I shall be glad 
enough to have done with them." 

Breakfast was now brought, and the two 
children began to eat ravenously, and without 
the least regard even to decency. Fanny 
vainly endeavoured to make them imitate her 
movements ; the least interference only pro- 
duced the same discordant mutter, and at- 
tempts at blows : after the meal was over, they 
appeared to have no idea of either employ 
ment or amusement, excepting scrambling 
amid a profusion of broken toys, or climbing 
up to look out of the window. At last, how 
ever, Fanny began to draw figures on a sheet 
of paper; this attracted their attention, the 
one pushed the other, but Matilda, the eldest, 
obtained the mastery, and Susan was elbowed 
from the table. Fanny seized the opportunity 
of giving her first lesson in obedience. She 
showed the figures to Susan, and, after a little 
while, let her show them to Matilda. She 
next made them come to the table quietly to- 
gether, and finished by dividing the drawings 
between them. At one o'clock they were 
summoned to Mrs. Bennett's dressing-room 
who received the unfortunate children with 
ill-diso-nised disgust, and Miss Beaumont with 

u 6 1 

coldness. 

" I suppose," said she, half yawning, " you 
won't want much in the schoolroom ; indeed 
I don't know what you are to teach; you can 
give me a list of any thing you want : and I 
suppose Mr. Bennett will choose 3 r ou to have 
it." After this ungracious interview they 
went out for their walk, a service of no smal 
difficulty, as the children were not under the 
least control. They then returned, and the 
afternoon passed in much the same way as 
the morning. 

Fanny was indeed thankful when eight 
o'clock came, and the children went to bed. 
Sad, wearied out both in body and mind, she 
sat down by the fire, and was startled from her 
gloomy revery by the servant bringing in the 
tray with her supper. It was the first solitary 
meal she had ever taken, and now it departed 
untouched. Such for the two succeeding 
years was the daily journal of Fanny Beau- 
mont's life. Now and then Mr. Bennett would 
send to ask her to join their circle, but Mrs. 
Bennett's ill humour was so visible and so 
sure to lead to petty annoyance the following 
day, that Fanny almost always excused her 
self. Such for two years was the dull and 
lonely life of a girl singularly lovely and ac- 
complished ; she had the comfort of support- 
ing her mother, but that comfort was her only 
one. The children who were confided to hei 
care were perfectly untractable, the com 
monest domestic, who was kind, and honest 



4G0 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



would have done all that she could do, she 
felt that her energies and talents were alike 
wasted, she had none of the pleasures of 
youth, and but little hope for the future. 

One morning, while making the daily visit 
to Mrs. Bennett's dressing-room, that lady 
said in a tone of more than usual civility, "I 
should be much obliged, Miss Beaumont, by 
your giving up your room next week. The 
heiress, Miss Elphinstone, is coming to stay 
with us, and her maid must have a room with 
a fireplace." Fanny of course assented, but 
it was with a bitter feeling of comparison. 

The name of Elphinstone called up her 
school days, and she could not but contrast 
her present and former situation. Then she 
was loved, caressed, the favourite of her own 
happy little circle — now she was dependent 
and lonely and forgotten. 

The arrival of Miss Elphinstone was ob- 
viously an event in the Harley street house- 
hold. 

All sorts of preparations were made, and 
Fanny was surprised one morning by a re- 
quest from Mrs. Bennett to come to her in the 
dressing-room. She found that it was to 
write out the cards of an invitation for a 
splendid ball to be given in honour of the 
visiter. The important day of the heiress's 
arrival at last came, the whole house in a com- 
motion, for Mrs. Bennett, like all vulgar 
minded people, delighted in bustle. 

Fanny soon heard enough from the maid 
who attended the children to be nearly sure 
that the visiter was the little Emeline who 
had been her pet at school, and her heart 
warmed at the thought of seeing a friend. 
But the hope was vain, for Miss Elphinstone 
never came near her. A week passed, and it 
was now the night of the ball, and the courted 
and flattered heiress had never found a single 
moment to bestow on her former kind friend. 
Fanny felt the neglect bitterly, a single affec- 
tionate word would have been such a happi- 
ness to one so lonely. 

It was late, and she sat down by the heavy 
iron fender in the schoolroom. All around 
ner was life and gayety, she could hear the 

fierpetual rattle of the carriages, and the pro- 
onged knocks at the door, while nearer still 
came the sound of music. She could distin- 
guish a favourite waltz, it was the last that 
she had ever danced, she had seen little Eme- 
line Elphinstone dance it that very day which 
had ended so unfortunately to herself. 

" I should have come to see her," thought 
Fanny ; and she felt the neglect of her former 
protege more keenly than all the privations 
which she was now enduring. 

Yet it was a hard trial for any young girl, 
to sit by herself in that gloomy schoolroom, 
hearing the gayety so near! poor Fanny could 
not help conjuring up the scene to herself, 
the light, the flowers, and the dancers. 

With the over sensitiveness of a singularly 
affectionate heart, it seemed as if the natural 
regret were selfish. She would not repine at 
any sacrifice made for the sake of her mother 
and sister. How long it was since they had 



met ! " Ah," exclaimed Fanny, " if we couM 
but have lived on in our little cottage, how 
happy we should have been. My own little 
Edith, when shall I see you again !" The 
tears that had been swallowed down with af- 
fectionate shame, now rose into her eyes, and 
Fanny scarcely heard the carriages or the mu- 
sic, while the image of her darling sister rose 
before her : she was roused from her revery 
by the schoolroom door, and to her astonish- 
ment saw a young lady enter bearing a light 
in her hand. She was drest in white satin 
which showed to advantage her tall and ele- 
gant figure, while a wreath of scarlet flowers 
contrasted the rich folds of her thick black 
hair. A chain of gold was round her neck, 
from which hung a diamond cross, and there 
was something so brilliant about her whole 
appearance that Fanny, though she rose, re- 
mained silent. She almost expected the 
bright apparition to vanish. 

" I beg your pardon for this intrusion," 
said the unexpected visiter, "but I wanted 
my wreath altered, for it hurts my head. I 
could make no one hear in my own room, and 
set off in search of my maid : I lost my way 
and, seeing a light, ventured to come in." 

" Can I be of any use"?" said Fanny. 

" Why, to own the truth, I shall be thank- 
ful for any assistance," and as she went to 
sit down, she placed her candle on the table, 
so that the light fell full on Fanny's face : the 
stranger started from her seat. " No, impos« 
sible, yes, it is Fanny, Fanny Beaumont, O, 
I know it is herself," and, forgetting wreath 
and every thing else, she flung her arms round 
her neck, and almost sobbed out incoherent 
expressions of joy and surprise. 

Fanny was too amazed for words, and he- 
companion was the first to recover herself. 
" Do you not recollect me," asked she half- 
crying, half-laughing, " Emeline Elphin- 
stone"]" 

"Emeline, my little Emeline," exclaimed 
Fanny : she could not, in the tall, graceful, 
and very handsome girl who stood before her, 
find a single trace of the little girl whom she 
had once petted. 

" Why I am taller than you now," said the 
other, enjoying her surprise, "0, how I 
have tried to find you out, since I came from 
France, but I never could discover any thing 
about you : only think of that odious Mrs. 
Bennett never naming you. What does she 
keep you shut up here for'?" 
, " You did not know then that I was go- 
verness to the children." 

"Governess!" cried Miss Elphinstone; 
" do you think that I should have been here a 
week without seeing you if I had had the 
most remote idea of it. I heard that there 
were two children heavily afflicted, and of 
course avoided any inquiry. Ah, I see how 
it is, you are too pretty." 

Fanny blushed, and added, " But I must 
not keep you here, you will be missed." 

"Very true," replied the other, "and, as 
my father's friend, I would not affront Mr 
Bennett: but 1 have so much to say to you 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



461 



Do you mind sitting up] Come with me to 
my room, I must leave you there ; I shall say 
good night as soon as I can, down-stairs, and 
you can, in the meantime, take a nap on the 
sofa.'' 

" But Mrs. Bennett will be angry." 

" I do not care for the unreasonable anger 
of any one. Besides she won't be angry with 
me, so come ; it is only reversing old times. 
I used to mind you, and now you must mind 
me." 

Miss Elphinstone waited no further denial, 
but hurried her prize off to her own apart- 
ment. It was a little pretty room fitted up 
with every possible luxury, trinkets, toys, 
books and flowers were scattered in every di- 
rection. 

She drew an arm-chair to the fire, threw a 
large Indian shawl round Fanny, placed a ta- 
ble near : "You used to like reading," said 
she, pointing to the volumes upon it. " Now, 
be a good child, and wait patiently till I re- 
turn, which shall be as soon as possible. 
Really I must now hurry off, Mrs. Bennett, 
else, will insist that I have run away." 

" But your wreath, let me alter it," said 
Fanny. 

" I had forgotten all about it," replied the 
other, and stooping down, she had it loosened. 
"It is not the first time that you have dressed 
me," said Emeline, with a grateful and affec- 
tionate look. The door closed after her, and 
Fanny looked round the small luxurious apart- 
ment with a feeling of bewilderment. The 
last, half-hour seemed like a dream. She had 
again heard kind words,- again been treated 
with affection. It was not much, but her 
heart bounded with enjoyment. 

Two hours passed rapidly away, and soon 
after Miss Elphinstone appeared, accompa- 
nied by her maid bringing in a tray of refresh- 
ments. 

" You see, I have taken care ycu shall not 
be starved. Now, take a sandwich and some 
jelly, while Fanchette undresses me with all 
possible rapidity." 

The two friends were soon seated over the 
fire, and each began their mutual history. 
Miss Elphinstone's had been one unbroken 
course of prosperity. Her father had come 
to Europe to recover his health, she had joined 
him within six months of Fanny's leaving 
school in the south of France. There and at 
Paris she had remained till the last twelve- 
month. " Ever since we came to England, I 
can safely say, you have never been out of my 
head a day. I have asked in every quarter I 
could discover. Little did I think when I 
came so reluctantly on this visit, that here I 
was to find you." It was now so late that 
they were obliged to separate, but as Fanny 
rose to go, Miss Elphinstone said, 

" You had better think of packing up, for 
I tell you fairly, I leave here to-morrow, ancl 
you must accompany me. Now, do not even 
look hesitation. Remember, I am such a 
spoiled child now that I will have my own 
way. Henceforth you are my sister," and, 



with a little gentle violence, she half-pushed 
Fanny out of the room to prevent an answer. 

Miss Elphinstone soon fell asleep, full of 
pity and wonder at all her former friend had 
gone through, and equally full of resolutions 
to make her in future as happy and comforta- 
ble as possible. 

Fanny's meditations were of a less satis- 
factory order. She was not only older in 
years, but far older in experience, than her 
friend ; she felt as if to accept her offer would 
he to take advantage of the romance of youth- 
ful generosity. Moreover, Miss Elphinstone 
had a parent to consult, and he might not ap- 
prove of her incurring the expense. " I have 
no right to be dependent, while by my own_ 
exertions I can support myself." 

The next morning had finished the little in- 
struction she could give the children, when 
Miss Elphinstone entered the schoolroom. 

"You see, I have found my way again," 
said she. " Mrs. Bennett is now dressing, 
and 1 have sent a note to beg that you may 
breakfast with me." 

The children now attracted her attention, 
and for a moment she paused with the shock ; 
their melancholy and idiotic look and incohe- 
rent murmurs, had with her the full force of 
novelty. Recovering herself, she tried to notice 
them, but it was in vain, and in a few minutes 
the servant returned to say, "That Miss El- 
phinstone was to do as she pleased about 
breakfasting in her dressing-room, but that 
Miss Beaumont could not possibly leave the 
children." 

" Then I will breakfast here," cried Eme- 
line. " My r poor Fanny, and is it in the power 
of such a woman, and with such children, 
that you have past the last two years !" 

They now began talking of their future 
plans, and Fanny was scarcely prepared for 
the excessive disappointment which her refu- 
sal excited. Eineline had been so accustomed 
to have her wishes the study of all-around 
that she could scarcely Cumprehend Fanny's 
supposing that there could be an objection 
raised to their gratification. 

"I tell you what you may do for me," said 
Fanny, at last. " I feel I can do no more 
here than a servant could do ; I will ask you 
to aid me in procuring another situation. 
Could I benefit these children, I own Mr. 
Bennett's kindness would give him a para- 
mount claim upon my exertions, but I cannot; 
they are incapable of even attachment." 

" Say no more," interrupted Miss Elphin- 
stone, " your accomplishments will secure any 
situation. Just let me go home, and we will 
see what can be done." 

Again the servant entered, to say that Mrs. 
Bennett had been waiting in the drawing-room 
above an hour for Miss Elphinstone. The 
friends affectionately embraced, and parted 
hastily ; while Fanny sat down, and began to 
think over the events of the morning. She 
felt that she had done rightly, and, while her 
heart warmed at the thought of Emeline's 
kindness, she could not endure the idea of do. 
2q2 



462 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



pendence on her generosity — a generosity, too, 
unsanctioned by her father. Still, a person 
of Mr. Elphinstone's position in society might 
serve her in many ways. She was justified 
in desiring to change her situation ; her health, 
her spirits were rapidly giving way. Surely, 
she might obtain a situation where she would 
be treated with something like kindness, and 
where the children might do some credit to 
her care. Her first step was to acquaint Mr. 
Bennett with her intentions, indeed, she 
thought it but due to him to ask his consent ; 
and she at once sat down and asked an inter- 
view before he went out the following morn- 
ing. The next day she received a message 
to say he was waiting in the library. In as 
few words as possible, she stated her inten- 
tions, adding that even now she should consi- 
der it a duty to consider his wishes, if he, un- 
der the circumstances, wished her to remain. 
Mr. Bennett remained silent for a few mo- 
ments, he was grieved that his children should 
lose one so kind and so trust-worthy, but he 
had long felt for the isolated and melancholy 
situation of a young creature shut up in such 
dreary seclusion. He saw clearly that his 
wife would enter into none of his kindly plans 
for Fanny's advantage, and that to attempt 
them might only expose her to annoyance : 
and he was too just a man to throw an obsta- 
cle in the w^ay of whatever might be for her 
benefit. He therefore contented himself with 
expressing his gratitude for her devotion to 
his children, his perfect satisfaction with her 
endeavours, and that if ever she wanted a 
friend, she had a firm one in himself. Fanny 
could not thank him, and when she at length 
attempted to falter out a few grateful words, 
he interrupted her, "You have nothing to 
thank me for, I wish I had had more in my 
power." 

The only comment Mrs. Bennett made was 
" that she supposed Miss Beaumont was go- 
ing to turn toadeater to the heiress, but that, 
of course, she could not go till some one else 
was found to take care of the children." 

About this she was not long in suspense, 
for, during the course of the week, Mr. Ben- 
nett found a motherly and very respectable 
woman, whom he himself introduced to Miss 
Beaumont, asking her to instruct the new- 
comer in the best method of managing the 
children. Fanny soon saw that they were in 
excellent hands ; the new attendant was kind, 
steady, and had known trouble enough to 
make her sympathize with misfortune in any 
shape. 

But a new subject of uneasiness arose for 
Fanny : day after day past by, and she heard 
nothing of Miss Elphinstone. Was it possi- 
ble that all she had said was but the hasty 
impulse of the moment — could she have for- 
gotten her 1 

A fortnight had elapsed, a fortnight of con- 
stant suffering. 

Suspense was too painful to her, and Fanny, 
for the first time, began to fear the approach 
of illness. She was sitting with a feverish 
headach, when a letter was brought: her 



hand trembled to such a degree that she could 
scarcely open it ; at length she read as fol 
lows : — 

" Dearest Fanny, — You never can forgive 
me — the enclosed letter ought to have been 
sent the very day after I left Harley street. I. 
found it in my desk when I arrived from a 
journey into the country which we have been 
taking. What you have thought, I cannot 
bear to fancy. I come for you to-morrow at 
one o'clock. I am sure all our plans will be 
arranged to our mutual satisfaction. 
" Your gratefully affectionate 

" Emeline." 

A letter in a gentleman's handwriting was 
enclosed, and Fanny read, though with tear- 
ful eyes, the contents : 

" My dear young Friend, — My spoilt Eme- 
line has repeated her conversation with you 
yesterday; she is quite surprised that any 
body can refuse her any thing, and so am I. 
Come to us you must. It would be unkind- 
ness, and not independence, to refuse that af- 
fection which you yourself lavished on a little 
friendless girl. We give you a week to make 
what arrangements you think proper w r ith Mr. 
and Mrs. Bennett, and then we come to claim 
you. 

"Your affectionate and obliged, 

Charles Elphinstone." 

With what fervent gratitude to heaveti 
Fanny went to sleep that night ! The next 
day Miss Elphinstone was even before her 
time. Her father accompanied her, one of 
those kind and warm-hearted people, whose 
frank and yet polished manner sets you at 
ease at once. 

With a cold farewell from Mrs. Bennett,, 
whose temper could scarcely restrain itself, 
and a most kind one from Mr. Bennett, Fanny 
left their house full of hope and thankfulness. 
Miss Elphinstone, who was in the gayest spi- 
rits, laughed and talked nearly the whole way 
to Richmond, and Fanny's gayety rose too 
under their influence. The drive too was de- 
lightful, it was one of those bright sunny 
days of an early spring, which impart their 
own genial softness. The carriage turned 
into a sheltered lane, whose hedges were al- 
ready beginning to put forth that pure yellow 
green which promises so much, and the starry 
clusters of the primroses were smiling on 
either side. 

They stopped at a very pretty little cottage, 
and Miss Elphinstone scarcely waited for the 
door to open before she led Fanny in. "I 
forgot to tell you that you were coming home," 
said her companion, for the next moment she 
was kneeling at her mother's feet, and Edith's 
arms were about her neck ! Tears, caresses, 
and blessings, filled up the first quarter of an 
hour ; when a young man, who had hitherto 
been concealed in the window-seat, came for- 
ward, and claimed a little notice. 

Fanny at once recognised her cousin George 



TRAITS AND TRIALS O? EARLY LIi L 



463 



Beaumont. He had discovered his relations \ 
that very morning-, through a chance interview j 
on business with Mr. Elphiastone. 

The cottage where Mr. Beaumont now 
lived had been Mrs. Elphinstone's birthday- 
present to. his daughter; and the object of 
their journey out of town had been to fetch 
Edith and her mother; a happier party never 



assembled than dined that day in the cottage 
parlour, for there Emeline had insisted on 
dining-. Edith could not satisfy herself with 
looking- at her sister, she would not leave her 
side, and from that day she never did. Fanny 
soon after married her cousin George Beau- 
mont, and a life of well-deserved happiness 
amply repaid the trials of her youth. 



THE HISTORY OF A CHILD. 



How well I remember it, that single and 
lonely laurel tree, it was my friend, my con- 
fidant. How often have I sat rocking on the 
one long, pendant branch which dropped even 
to the grass below. 1 can remember the 
strange pleasure I took in seeing my tears fall 
on the bright shining leaves; often while ob- 
serving them have I forgotten the grief that 
led to their falling. I was not a prett)' child, 
and both shy and sensitive ; I was silent, and 
therefore not amusing. No one loved me but 
an old nurse — why she should have been fond 
of me I know not, for I gave her much trou- 
ble; night after night has she wakened with 
my crying — but she only wakened to soothe 
me. She was far advanced in years, but was 
still strikingly handsome. Her face, with its 
bold Roman profile, its large black eyes, is 
still before me as I used to see it bending 
over my crib, and singing, or rather croning 
me to sleep with the old ballad of " Barbara 
AJen " Never will the most finished music, 
that ever brought the air and perfume of an 
Italian summer upon its melody — never will 
it be sweet in my ears as that untaught and 
monotonous tone. My first real sorrow was 
her departure ; life has been to me unhappy 
enough, but never has it known a deeper de- 
solation than that first parting. It is as pre- 
sent as yesterday ; she had married, and was 
now about to go to a home of her own. How 
I hated her husband ; with the rest of the 
nursery he was a popular person, for he had 
been a sailor, and his memory was stored 
with wild histories of the Buccaneers ; nor 
was he without his own perils: he had been 
shipwrecked on the coast of Cornwall, and 
was once prisoner of war, though rescued be- 
fore the French vessel made harbour. From 
any one else with what rapt attention should 
I have listened to these narratives, but to him 
I always turned a reluctant ear. Whenever 
he came, which he often did, into the large 
old nursery, where the hearth would have 
suificed for ten fireplaces of these degenerate 
days ; I used to draw my stool close to my 
nurse, and, leaning my head on her knee, 
keep fast hold of her hand — she encouraged 
this, and used to tell me she would never go 
away. 

The time of her departure was kept a se- 
cret, but I knew it ; the coach passed the road 
at the end of the horsechestnut avenue, and 
one night, they thought that I was asleep, I 



heard that two days after she was there to 
meet the coach, and go to London, to go there 
forever. I buried my face in my pillow, that 
my crying might not be heard. I slept, and 
my dreams brought the old avenue, the coach 
stopping, as vividly as when I really saw 
them. 

I awoke the next morning, pale and heavy- 
eyed, but I was subject te violent headachs, 
and all passed off as their effects. Not a word 
passed my lips of the previous night's dis- 
course. For the first time I felt the bitterness 
of being deceived ; I could have better brooked 
the approaching separation, had I been trusted 
with it. But the secrecy made me feel so 
unworthy and so helpless; young as I was, I 
should have been proud of my nurse's confi- 
dence ; at length, after three miserable silent 
days, the last night came. My nurse gave us 
all some little keepsake, though without tell- 
ing her immediate departure. To me she 
gave a book, for I was, to use her own ex- 
pression, " a great scholar." That is, I had 
not the bodily strength for more active amuse- 
ment, and was therefore very fond of reading ; 
but to-night I had not the heart to look into 
the pages which at another time would hav 
been greedily devoured. She was hurt at m) 
seeming indifference, and took my brother on 
her knee, who was all rapture with his wind- 
mill ; I was very wrong, I could not bear to 
see him caressed, and pushing him violently 
aside, entreated her with a passionate burst 
of tears, to love me, and only me. 

We slept in a sort of gallery off the nursery, 
and the next morning 1 was up with the ear- 
liest daybreak. Taking the greatest care not 
to awaken my companions, I put on my 
clothes as well as I could, and stole down- 
stairs. It was scarcely light through the 
closed windows, and j,he shadows took all 
fantastic semblances, and one or two of the 
chance rays fell upon the pictures in the hall, 
giving them strange and distorted likenesses, 
There was one stately lady in black, with » 
huge white ruff that encircled a face yet palei. 
The eyes seemed to follow me wherever I 
moved ; cold, glassy, immovable eyes, which 
looked upon, as if they hated, the little trem- 
bling thing that was creeping along below. 
Suddenly a noise like thunder, at least such 
it seemed in my ears, rang through the hall. 
I clung to the oaken banisters of the stair- 
case, my very heart died within me, and ] 



464 



MISS LAN DON'S WORKS. 



2ould scarcely raise my head from the place 
in which it had almost unconsciously buried 
;+ self, to ascertain the cause of an unusual 
light : the fact was a shutter had been care- 
lessly fastened, and a gust of wind had caused 
the iron bar to fall. It was, however, fortu- 
nate for me, as in my well arranged plan, I 
had forgotten one very important point, name- 
ly, how I was to leave the house. To un- 
fasten the hall door was utterly beyond my 
strength ; now an obvious method of escape 
presented itself. I opened the window and 
sprang out, running thence at full speed till I 
gained the avenue ; , there I was secure. 
Breathless with running, agitated and afraid, 
it is singular how soon I grew composed, and 
even cheerful, in the clear bright morning; 
its gladness entered into my heart. For a 
moment I almost forgot the purpose that had 
brought me there at such an hour : the mists 
were rising from the park, rolling away like 
waves of some silvery sea, such as I ever after 
fancied the seas in fairy tales to be. The 
clouds were warming into deeper crimson 
every moment, till the smallest leaf on the 
chestnut trees seemed distinct on that bright 
red sky. How beautifully it was reflected 
on the lake, and yet it was almost terrible ; it 
seemed to me filled with flame. How huge 
and dark too rose our two cedars ; what a dis- 
tance did their shadows spread before them ; 
but I then turned to what was brightest. I 
was delighted to see the dewdrops on the 
painted speargrass, and the down-balls shin- 
ing with moisture ; it is a common supersti- 
tion in our part of the country, that wish and 
blow away the gossamer round, i^ it goes at 
one breath your wish will he granted. I 
caught one eagerly — I blew with all my 
strength — alas, only a little of the shining 
down was displaced ; I could scarcely see the 
remainder for tears ; at that moment I heard 
the horn of the coach. I wonder now that I 
could distinguish at such a distance; I stop- 
ped my ears not to hear it again ; and the 
moment after held my breath to listen. At 
last I caught sight of the coach in a winding 
of the road; how glad I felt to think that 
there was still the hill between us. I had 
never before seen it coming, though I had 
often watched it drive past on a summer 
evening: I saw it pass rapidly through the 
windings of the green hedges, till it began 
slowly to ascend the hill. Here my attention 
was drawn from it, by the sight of my nurse 
and one of her fell ow«ser van ts hurrying up 
the avenue ; years — years have passed since 
then, but even now the pang of that moment 
is cold at my heart. I was standing with my 
arm round the slender stem of one of the 
young trees. I leant my face upon it; but I 
saw my nurse turning along as distinctly as 
if I had watched her. The coach stopped at 
the gate, and the coachman gave a loud and 
hasty ring, my nurse hurried by without see- 
ing me, another moment and 1 felt that she 
was lost to me forever: I sprang forward, I 
flung my arms around her, I clung to her 
with the momentary strength of despair; I 



implored her to take me with her, I said I 
would work, beg for her, any thing, if she 
would let me go and be her own child. At 
first she kissed and coaxed me to loose her, 
but at last the coachman became impatient 
of waiting ; in the fear of the stage going 
without her, harassed too by all the perplexi 
ties which I have since learnt belong to all 
departures ; she exclaimed in the momentary 
peevishness of not being able to unclasp my 
arms, — 

" What a tiresome child it is, I shall have 
the coach go without me." 

My arms relaxed their tender and passionate 
clasp. I stood at her side pale, for I felt the 
colour go from my cheek back upon my heart; 
my eyes drank back their tears ; I felt then 
what I never felt before; the perfect self-con- 
trol of strong excitement, and I bade her civil- 
ly good morning. I walked slowly away from 
the gate without looking back to see her get 
into the coach, but hearing the horn echo on 
the air, T ran ttf a point of rising ground, I 
caught the last sight of the horses, and flung 
myself down on the grass ; the w r ords " how 
tiresome the child is," ringing in my ears, as 
if another person at my side delighted to re- 
peat them in every possible way. 

To know yourself less beloved than you 
love, is a dreadful feeling — alas, how often 
has the remembrance of that bitter hour come 
back again by some following hour too sadly 
like the one that went before. How often 
have I since exclaimed, " I am not beloved as 
Hove." 

The consequence of my being so long on 
the dewy grass, aided by the agitation that I 
had endured, brought on one of those violent 
colds to which I have always been subject. 
It was poor consolation, the undeniable fact 
that it had been brought on by my own fault. 
I never coughed without a sensation of shame. 
Of all shapes that illness can take, a cough 
is the worst. Pain can be endured in silence, 
but a cough is so noisy, it inevitably attracts 
attention ; the echo of mine from the vaulted 
roof was a perpetual torment to myself, be 
cause I knew that others must hear it as well. 
My cough brought also what was the severest 
of punishments, it kept me within doors, il 
prevented my daily visit to the old laurel, 
where I used to share my luncheon with a fa* 
vourite old pointer of my father's. 

One day, while I was sitting by the win- 
dow, forced, alas, to be shut, I heard a whin- 
ing at the door. I opened it, and in bounded 
the dog, overwhelming me with its caresses. 
Its large bright brown eyes were fixed upors 
me with all the depth of human affection. It 
was a delicious sensation to think that any 
thing in the world had missed me. Clio was 
a beautiful creature, with a coat of glossy 
blackness only broken by a few spots of tan. 
I have since heard a lovely head of hair com- 
pared to thfe " down of darkness," and to the 
raven's wing, but the highest compliment 
that ever passes through my mind is to liken 
it to the dark silkiness of my darling Clio. 
The weather being very dry, no dirt could be 






TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE. 



•165 



bi ought into the house, and the visits of the 
intruder were a permitted pleasure. Another 
source of enjoyment too opened upon me. I 
began to read the book that my nurse had 
given me ; at first the very sight of it was in- 
supportably painful, but one long weary morn- 
ing when the severity of illness had softened 
into that lanaour which needs some quiet 
amusement, I opened its pages. It was an 
epoch in my life, it is an epoch in every child's 
life, the first reading of Robinson Crusoe. 
What entire possession it took of my imagi- 
nation. Henceforth one-half of my time was 
past on that lovely and lonely island. The 
only thing that I could not understand were 
Robinson Cru-soe's lamentations over his so- 
litude, to me the most unreasonable things in 
the world. How little did I share his joy 
when the English vessel came and bore him 
once more over the sea to his native England. 
It was a long time before 1 had any wish to 
read the rest. For weeks after reading that 
book, I lived as if in a dream., indeed I rarely 
dreamt of any thing else at night. 1 went to 
sleep with the cave, its parrots and goats, 
floating before, my closed eyes ; I wakened in 
some rapid flight from the savages landing in 
their canoes. The elms in our own hedges 
were not more familiar than the prickly shrubs 
which formed his palisade; and the grapes 
whose drooping branches made fertile the wild 
savannahs. When at length allowed to go 
into the open air, my enjoyment was tenfold. 

We lived in a large, old, and somewhat di- 
lapidated place, only part of the grounds were 
kept up in their original high order. I used 
to wander in the almost deserted shrubberies, 
where the flowers grew in all the luxuriance 
of neglect over the walks, and the shrubs be- 
come trees drooped to the very ground, the 
boughs heavy with bloom and leaves. In the 
very heart of one of these was a large deep 
pond, almost black with the depths of sha- 
dow. One bank only was sunny, it had been 
turf, but one flower after another had taken 
possession of a situation so favourable. The 
rododhendron spread its fragile blossom of 
the softest lilac, beside the golden glories of 
the Constantinople rose ; a variety too of our 
English roses, had taken root and flourished 
there. There was the damask, with all its 
York and Lancaster associations, the white, 
cold as snow, the little red Ayshire darling, 
and last, but not least, for it grew with a 
spendthrift's prodigality, the Chinese rose, a 
delicate frail stranger, yet the last to shed 
beauty on even our dark November. Below, 
the pcnd was covered with water lilies with 
the large green leaves that support the love- 
liest of ivory boats, fit for the fairy queen and 
her summer court. But these \vere not the 
attractions of that solitary pond in my eyes. 
Its charm was a little island which seemed to 
float upon the dark water; one side of the 
pond was covered with ancient willow trees, 
whose long pendant branches dropped forever 
over the same, mournful mirror. One of these 
trees, by some natural caprice, shot cut direct 
from the bank, a huge, straight bouo-h that 

Vol. I— 59 



formed a complete bridge to tne little island 
— at least so near that a rapid spring enabled 
me to gain it. — There was only one tree on 
this miniature island — a curiously shaped but 
huge yew tree; it quite rivalled the laurel 
that used to be my favourite haunt. I would 
remain hidden in the deep shadows of that 
gloomy tree, for the whole of my playtime-, I 
was there, 

u Monarch of all I survey'd 

My right there was none to dispute." 

How well I recollect the eagerness with 
which, one morning, I sprang into its shade. 
The day before I had been to a juvenile ball 
given in the neighbourhood. I was dressed 
with unusual care — and I am convinced that 
dress is the universal passion — and turned to 
leave the nursery with an unusual glow of 
complacency, one of the servants smoothing 
down a rebellious curl. As I past I heard 
the other say " leave well alone'' — and unfor- 
tunately I heard the rejoinder also — "Leave 
ill alone, you mean; did you ever see such a 
little plain thing." This was but the begin- 
ning of my mortifications, that evening was 
but the first of many coming events that cast 
their shadows before. Still it was my earliest 
experience of the bitterness of neglect, and of 
the solitude of a crowd. I had for several 
hours the melancholy satisfaction of sitting 
unnoticed in a corner; at length the lady of 
the house, in the most cruel kindness, insisted 
on my dancing. How the first figure of the 
quadrille was accomplished I know not. I 
fancied every one was laughing at me; I had 
to advance by myself, the room swam round, 
my head became gidd}', I left my unfortunate 
partner, sprang away, and took refuge in a 
balcony and a burst of tears. The next morn- 
ing I had to endure reproof, for I had inflict- 
ed the mortification I felt, and the unanswer- 
able question of "What use was my being 
taught any thing]" In sad truth, at that 
time, it might have seemed very little use in- 
deed. I was a clever, very clever child, but 
my mind w ? as far beyond my years, and it 
lacked the knowledge which alone can teach 
how to use its powers. Moreover I was 
wholly deficient in all showy talents ; for mu- 
sic I had no ear, for drawing no e3"e, and 
dancing was positively terrible to my timid 
temper. My sensitiveness made any attempt 
at display a hopeless endeavour. An hun- 
dred times has my book been returned be- 
cause I was too anxious that I might say my 
lesson well, the words died on my lips, I be- 
came confused, speechless, while the tears 
that rose too readily into my eyes appeared 
like sullenness. And yet at that moment my 
heart almost stopped beating with its eager 
ness to repeat, what in reality I had thorough- 
ly mastered, and whose spirit had become a 
part of my mind. 

Still the imagination conquers the real. My 
head ached with crying when I reached my 
darling island, and yet 'in half an hour I wa? 
sitting in the shadow of the yew tree, my 
arm round Clio's dark and glossy neck, an-' 



4G6 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



fancying the pointer an excellent representa- 
tion of " my man Friday." There was one 
time in the day, however, when I could never 
prevail on Clio to be my companion — about 
six she regularly disappeared, and all my 
coaxing to keep her at my side was in vain. 
One afternoon I watched and followed her. 
She took her way across the long shadows 
that were now beginning to sweep over the 
sunny park. She made her way to a small 
gate that opened an the road, and there lay 
down patiently awaiting the arrival of her 
master. I thought I would wait too, for I 
knew that my father was in the habit of com- 
ing in at that gate, as it saved a long round 
by the road. I soon heard the s'ound of his 
horse's hoofs, and felt half inclined to run 
away. I was so glad that I did not, for my 
father took me up in his arms and kissed me 
with the utmost pleasure, saying, — " So you 
have been waiting for me ;" and taking the 
horse's bridle in one hand, and me in the 
other, we walked across- the park together. 
I now went to meet him every day ; happy, 
happy hours that I past on that gate, with the 
pointer at my feet, looking up with its large 
human eyes, as if to read in mine when I first 
caught sight of my father. How I hated the 
winter with its cold cutting air, its thick fog, 
that put an end to this waiting; winter, that 
left out the happiest hour of the day. But 
spring came again, spring that covered one 
bank with the sweet languor of the pale prim- 
rose, and another with the purple arabia of 
the breathing violet. No flower takes upon 
me the effect of these. Years, long. years 
past away since I have seen these flowers, 
other than in the sorted bouquet, and the cul- 
tivated garden, but those fair fresh banks rise 
distinct on my mind's eye. They colour the 
atmosphere v/ith themselves, their breath 
nses on the yet perfumed air, and I think 
with painful pleasure over all that once sur- 
rounded them. I think of affections gone 
down to the grave, and of hopes and beliefs 
which I can trust no more. 

It was in the first week of an unusually 
forward May, that one afternoon, for I had 
again began my watchings by the park gate, 
that rny father produced four volumes and for 
me. How delicious was the odour of the 
Russian leather in which tkey were bound, 
how charming the glance at the numerous pic- 
tures, which glanced through the half-opened 
leaves. The first reading of the Arabian 
Nights was like the first reading of Robinson 
Crusoe. For a time, their world made mine 
— my little, lonely island, dark with the min- 
gled shadow of the yew and the willow, was 
now deserted, I sought a gayer site, that har- 
monized better with the bright creations now 
around me, I found it in a small, oldfashioned 
(lower garden, where the beds, filled with the 
richest colours, were confined by small edgings 
of box into every variety of squares, ovals, 
*nd rounds. At one end was the beehouse, 
vhence the murmur of myriad insect wings 
.-dme like the facing of wate* Near was a 



large accacia, now in the prodigality of bloom 
which comes but every third year; I found a 
summer palace amid its luxuriant boughs. 
The delight of reading those enchanted pages, 
I must even to this day rank as the most de- 
licious excitement of my life. I shall never 
have courage to read them again, it would 
mark too decidedly, too bitterly, the change 
in myself, — I need n>ot. How perfectly I re- 
collect those charming fictions whose fasci- 
nation was so irresistible ! How well I re- 
member the thrill of awe which came over 
me at the brazen giant sitting alone amid the 
pathless seas, mighty and desolate till the ap- 
pointed time came for the fated arrow, at whose 
touch he was to sink down, an unsolved mys- 
tery, hidden by the eternal ocean ! 

How touching the history of Prince Agib 
— when he arrives at the lovely island, only 
inhabited, by the beautiful boy who dwelt there 
in solitude and fear till he came! How in 
the thoughtlessness of youth, they laughed, 
when sweet confidence had grown up between 
them, at the prediction which threatened that 
beloved and gentle child with death at Prince 
Agio's hand 1 Fate laughs at human evasion 
— the fated morning comes — one false step, 
and even in the very act of tender service, the 
knife enters the heart of the predestined vic- 
tim. Prince Agib sees from the thick leaves 
of the tree where he had taken shelter, the 
anxious father — anxious, but hopeful — arrive. 
He comes with music and rejoicing. What 
does he take back with him ? The dead body 
of his son. 

Again, with what all but actual belief did I 
devour the history of the wondrous lamp, 
whose possessor had only to wish. For 
weeks I lived in a world of wishes, and yet it 
was this dreaming world first led me into con- 
tact with the actual. As usual, such know- 
ledge began in sorrow. 

One morning, before the period of leaving 
the schoolroom, I heard the report of a gun. 
In spite of the intricate path of rivers and 
boundaries I was then tracing, it still occurred 
to me to wonder what could lead to a gun's 
being fired at that time of year. Alas, I learnt 
only too soon. On going to the accacia I was 
surprised not to find my usual companion 
waiting. As to reading in any comfort till I 
had Clio's soft brown eyes watching me, was 
impossible. I sent off in search of the truant. 
Perhaps she had been fastened up. I found 
my way to the stable, and to the dead body of 
my favourite. She had been bitten by an ad- 
der, and they had been obliged to shoot her. 
It was one of those shocking spectacles which 
remain with you for your life. Even now my 
dreams are haunted with the sight. I believe 
at first that horror predominated over regret. 
I could not cry, I stood and trembling beside 
the mangled remains of what I had loved so 
dearly. I prevailed on one of the servants to 
bury it near my accacia tree. For days after- 
wards I did nothing but sob on that grave. 
How desolate the mornings seemed— how the 
presence of one real sorrow shook to its very 



TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY L I F E. 



4GT 



foundations my fairy land. I started from 
ven a moment's forgetfulness as a wrong to 
the memory of my beloved companion. 

At length I began to take an interest in de- 
corating the grave, and planted first one flower 
and then another. I was not very successful 
in my gardening attempts, till at length Lucy 
came to my assistance. Lucy was the gran- 
daughter of an old blind woman who lived 
near; an aged retainer of some great family, 
whose small pension had long outlasted the 
original donors. I have seen many beautiful 
faces since, but nothing that rises to my me- 
mory to be compared with Lucy's childish 
but exceeding loveliness. She was delicately 
fair, though constant exposure to the sun had 
touched the little hands, and the sweet face 
with soft brown, through which came the 
most transparent colour that ever caught its 
red from the rose, or its changefulness from 
the rainbow. Her hair was of that pale yet 
rich gold so rarely seen : with the sunshine 
upon it, it was positively radiant-, h s'uone as 
the wind lifted some of the long, soft curls. 
It was a species of beauty too frail, too deli- 
cate, and the large blue eyes had that clear, 
skylike azure, that violet shadow round the 
orbs, which mark an hereditary tendency to 
decline. She was in the habit of coming into 
our gardens to gather roses for distillation. 
Accustomed from her cradle to strangers and 
exertion, making friends by a manner whose 
sweetness was as natural as the smile to her 
face, Lucy was not the least shy : if she had 
been, we should never have become acquaint- 
ed. But when she frankly offered her services 
to assist in ornamenting the little plot of 
ground on which my shrubs were drooping, 
and round which my flowers always made a 
point of dying; they were accepted on my 
part with equal surprise and gratitude. Under 
her more judicious management, the ground 
was soon covered with leaf and bloom, and 
every blossom that put forth was a new link 
in our intimacy. 

"I wish I could do any thing to oblige 
you,'' was my exclamation at the sight of my 
first carnation. 

" 0," exclaimed she, the soft colour warm- 
ing into her cheek with eagerness, "you are 
a great reader, would you sometimes come 
and read to my grandmother ?" This I easily 
obtained permission to do, and that very even- 
ing I went with Lucy to Mrs. Selby's. The 
cottage where she lived stood alone in a little 
nook between our park and the churchyard ; 
yew trees were on the one side, and our cedars 
on the other, but the garden itself seemed a 
a very fairyland of sunshine ; a jessamine 
covered the front with its long, trailing, green 
branches, and its white delicate blossoms. 
The porch was enlivened by that rare and 
odoriferous shrub, the yellow musk rose; it is 
the only one I have ever seen, but of a sum- 
mer evening, it covered that little portal with 
gold, and filled the whole air with its peculiar 
and aromatic fragrance. We read of the gales 
that bear from the shores of Ceylon the breath- 
ings of the cinnamon groves. I have always 



fancied that the musk rose resembles them. 
Inside, how cool, clean and neat was the room, 
with its brick floor and large old fireplace, 
and yet there was only Lucy to do every 
thing; I have often thought since of the dif- 
ference between the children of the rich and 
the children of the poor — the first, kept apart, 
petted, indulged, and useless; — the second, 
with every energy in full exercise from the cra- 
dle, actively employed, and earning their daily 
bread, almost from the hour that they begin 
to eat it. If there is too much of this in the 
lower classes, if labour be carried into cruelty, 
there is infinitely too little of it in the higher. 
The poor child, as Charles Lamb so touch- 
ingly expresses it, is not brought, but " drag- 
ged out," and if the wits are sharpened, so, 
too, is the soft, round cheek. The crippled 
limb and broketLconstitution attest the effects 
of the over-early struggle with penury ; but 
the child of rich parents suffers, though in an- 
other way; there is the heart that is crip- 
pled, by the selfishness of indulgence and the 
habit of relying upon others. It takes years 
of harsh contact with the realities of life to 
undo the enervating work of a spoilt and over- 
aided childhood. We cannot too soon learn 
the strong and useful lessons of exertion and 
self-dependar.ee Lucy was removed from 
the heaviest pressure of poverty, but how 
much did she do that was wonderful in a child 
of her age ! The cottage was kept in the most 
perfect neatness, and her grandmother's every 
want watched as only Jove watches ; she was 
up with the lark, the house was put in order, 
their own garden weeded, her nosegays col- 
lected from all parts, for Lucy was the flower 
market, the Madeline of our village. Then 
their dinner was made ready; afterwards, her 
light song and even lighter step were again 
heard in the open air, and when evening came 
on, you saw her in the porch as busily plait- 
ing straw, as if the pliant fingers had only just 
found employment. 

That was my time for visiting at the cot- 
tage, when the last red shadows turned the 
old Gothic lattices of the church into rubies: 
then, on the low bench beside Lucy, I used 
to sit and read aloud to her grandmother 
She was a very remarkable woman, her tall, 
stately figure was unbent by age, and her high 
and strongly marked features were wonderful 
in expression for a face where the eyes were 
closed fr»r«ver. She was a north country 
woman, and her memory was stored witli all 
those traditions which make so large a portion 
of our English poetry. Lucy was her only 
link with the present, but for her affection tc 
that beautiful child, she lived entirely with 
the past. The old castle where she had 
chiefly lived, whose noble family had pen&hed 
from the earth, as if smitten by some strange 
and sudden doom, the legends connected with 
their house, — these were her sole topics of 
discourse. All these legends were of a 
gloomy tendency, and I used to gaze on her 
pale, sightless face, and listen to the hollow 
tones of her voice, till my heart sank within 
me for fear. But if, by any chance, Lucy left 



468 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



us for a moment, no matter how interesting 
the narrative, the old woman would suspend 
her discourse and question me about Lucy's 
appearance. I did not then understand the 
meaning of her questions. Alas ! how I look 
back to the hour passed every summer even- 
ing in that little shady porch, reading- to that j 
blind old woman, Lucy thanking me all the 
time, with her sweet blue eyes. I have rarely 
I fear me, been so useful since, certainly 
never so beloved. It was not to last long ; 
August was now beginning, and it came in 
with violent thunder storms. One of Lucy's 
occupations was to gather wild strawberries 
in a wood at some distance, and nothing could 
exceed the natural taste with which she used 
to arrange the bright scarlet fruit amid the j 
vine leaves she fetched from our garden. Re- 
turning over the common, sij^ was caught in 
a tremendous shower, and wet through. The 
sudden chill struck to a constitution naturally 
delicate, and in four-and-twenty hours Lucy 
was no more — I went to see her, unconscious 
of what had happened. The house was shut 



up. I felt for the first time in my life, thai 
vague presentiment of evil which is its certain 
forerunner ; I thought only of the aged wo 
man, and entered hastily and yet stealthily in. 
No one was to be seen in the front room, and 
I found my way to the one at the back. There 
were no shutters to the window, and the light, 
streamed through the thin white curtain ; it 
fell on the face of the dead. Beside sat the 
grandmother, looking the corpse which she 
became in the course of that night. She 
never spoke after she felt her child's hand 
grow cold and stiff in her own. There she 
lay, that beloved and beautiful girl, her bright 
hair shining around her, and her face so pal?, 
but with such strange sweetness. I bent 
down to kiss her, but the touch was death. 
But why should I go on ; 1 had lost my gen- 
tle companion forever. 

I have told the history of my childhood, 
childhood which images forth our after, life. 
Even such has been mine — it has but re- 
peated what it learnt from the first, Sorrow, 
Beautv, Love and Death. 



&SD OF VOLUME u. 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



or 



L. E. L A N D O N. 



COMPRISING 



IMPROVISATRICE, 
THE TROUBADOUR, 
VENETIAN BRACELET, 



GOLDEN VIOLET, 

VOW OF THB PEACOCK, 

EASTER GIFT, &c. &c. 



BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY. 

NEW YORK : J. C. DERBY. 
1856. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Improvisatrice .... 7 

The Troubadour - - - - 55 

The Venetian Bracelet - - - - 103 

The Lost Pleiad - - - » - 110 

A History op the Lyre • - • - 115 

The Ancestress ..... 119 
Poetical Portraits :— 

No. I. - ..... 127 

No. II. 127 

No. III. 128 

No. IV. 129 

No. V. 129 

No. VI 130 

The Golden Violet - - - - - 147 

Erinna - - - - - - - 183 

The Vow op the Peacock - - - - 195 

The Easter Gift :— 

Christ, crowned with Thorns - - - 249 

Christ blessing the Bread * - - - 249 

The Flkht into Eeypt .... 250 

The Madonna and Child - - - - 250 

Hagar and Ishmael - 251 

St. John in the Wilderness - 251 

The Nativity - - - - - 252 

Judas returning the thirty Pieces ... 252 

The Magdalen .'.*... 253 

Nathan and David ..... 254 

The Incredulity of St. Thomas ... 255 

The Infant Christ, with Flowers - - - 256 

The Infant St. John 256 

Christ blessing little Children ... 257 
4 Birthday Tribute to her Royal Highness 
the Princess Victoria 



TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS ^OEMS. 
Rosalie ...... 

Roland's Tower ..... 

The Guerilla Chief - 

The Bayadere ..... 

St. George's Hospital .... 

The Deserter ..... 

Gladesmuir ..... 

The Minstrel of Portugal 

The Basque Girl and Henri Quatre - 

The Sailor - - - - . 

The Covenanters .... 

Poetical Sketches of Modern Pictures:— 

Juliet after the Masquerade 

Portrait of a Lady - • 

The Combat 

The Fairy Queen sleeping ... 

The Oriental Nosegay - 

A Child screening a Dove from a Hawk - 

The Enchanted Island ... 

Cupid and Swallows flying from Winter - 

Love nursed by Solitude ... 

Fairies on the Seashore . - - 

A Girl at her Devotions ... 

Nymph and Zephyr ... 

sketches from History: — 

The Sultana's Remonstrance 

Hannibal's Oath .... 

Alexander and Phillip ... 

The Record - - - - ' - 

The Neglected One .... 

A. Night in May - 

Warning ...... 

The Nameless Grave .... 

Fantasies, inscribed to T. Crofton Croker, Esq. 
Revenge ...... 

A Summer Day ..... 

The Wreath 

The Dying Child 

Song 

A Summer Evening's Tale 

Lines of Life ..... 

The Battle FieH 

New Year s kve ... 



- 25S 



130 
131 
133 
134 
134 
135 
135 
135 
136 
136 
137 
139 
140 
140 
141 



The Mountain Grave 

The Coniston Curse 

The Omen 

One Day - 

Love's Last Lesson 

Classical Sketches:— 
Sappho - 

Bacchus and Ariadne 
Unknown Female Head 
Leander and Hero - 
Head of Ariadne 
A Nereid floating on a Shell 
The Thessalian Fountain - 
An old Man over the Body of his 
L'Amore Dominatore 

The Castilian Nuptials - 

The Lover's Rock 

The Painter 

A Village Tale - 

The Sisters 

The Knight's Tale 

The Factory 

April - 

Glencoe - 

The Wreck 

The Moon 

The Frozen Ship 

The Minstrel's Monitor - 

The Spirit and the Angel of Death 

The Lost Star 

The Danish Warrior's Death Song 

The Change 

The Aspen Tree - 

The Violet 

The Little shroud 

The Churchyard - 

The Three Brothers 

Change - 

Edith .... 

The Forgotten One 

The City of the Dead 

The Altered River 

Admiral Collingwood 

The First Grave - 

The Feast of Life 

Follow Me! 

The Legacy of the Lute - 

The Festival 

The Middle Temple Gardens - 

The Zenana - 

John Kemble ... 

The Dancing Girl 

A Legend of Teignmouth 

Airey Force - 

The Reply of the Fountain 

The Wishing Gate 

Hebe .... 

Shuhur Jeypore - 

Preston - 

The Missionary - 

Coniston Water - 

The Visionary - - - 

Etty's Rover ... 

Sassoor, in the Deccan - 

Hindoo and Mahommedan Buildings 

Honister Crag, Cumberland 

The Orphan Ballad Singers 

St. Mawgan Church and Lanhern Nur 

Scene ih"Kattiawar 

Speke Hall 

The Coquette - 

Jahara Bau?, Agra 

Olinthus Gregory, LL.D., F.R.A.S., &c 

Corfu - 

Manchester 

The Nizam's Daughter - 

Durham Cathedral 

Cottage Courtship 





i'ags 


c,»"Ada,'' &g 


141 




142 




187 




189 




190 




191 




212 




213 




214 




214 




216 




216 




216 


Son 


217 




217 




218 




220 




221 




223 




225 




226 




228 




229 




229 




230 




231 




231 




232 




232 




233 




234 




234 




234 




235 




235 




236 




237 




238 




238 




239 




240 




240 


. 


241 


. 


241 


. 


242 


. 


242 


. 


243 


. 


243 


. 


244 


-■ 


261 


- 


274 


- • 


274 


- . m 


274 


. . . 


275 


. 


275 


. 


276 


. 


277 


. 


277 


' . 


277 


- 


278 


. 


279 


. 


279 


. 


280 


. • 


281 


. 


281 


. 


282 


. 


282 


inery, Cornwall 


283 


. 


284 


* 


284 


. - . 


284 


. 


2S5 




287 


. 


287 


. 


288 


. 


288 


. 


289 
2S9 



CONTENTS. 



Calderon Snout, Westmorland - 

Scene in Bundelkhund - 

St. Knighton's Kieve .... 

Windleshaw Abbey * ' 

Raphael Sanzio - 

Mardale Head - 

The Shepherd Boy - 

The Caves of Elephanta ... 

The Fairy of the Fountains ... 

The Hindoo Mother 

Immolation of a Hindoo Widow 

The Lily of the Valley - 

Scenes in London:— 

Piccadilly 

The Savoyard in Grosvenor Square 

The City Churchyard 

Oxford Street . . - - 

Warkworth Hermitage - 
The Snowdrop ..... 
The Astroloser - ... 

The Indian Girl .... 

The Hindoo Girl's Song .... 
The Rush-bearing at Ambleside 
The Young Destructive - 
Fishing Boats in the Monsoon ... 
Beverley Minster .... 

The Montmorency Waterfall and Cove 
Dunold Mill-hole .... 

Ruins about the Taj Mahal ... 
The Widow's Mite - 

Sir Thomas Hardy .... 

Eskdale, Cumberland .... 
Barro Boedoor 
The Phantom 

Fountain's Abbey .... 

Dr. Adam Clarke and the two Priests of Budha 
The Coleraine Salmon Leap 
Chrifimas in the olden Time, 1650 
The Queen's Room, Sizergh Hall, Westmorland 
Hindoo Temples and Palace at Madura 
The Aisle of Tombs 
The Palace called Beautiful 
Valley of Linmouth, North Devon 
PuloPenang .... 
Robert Blake .... 
Rebecca ..... 
Cafes in Damascus ... 

Sir Robert Peel .... 
The Delectable Mountains 
Cemetery of the Smolensko Church - 
Lincoln Cathedral ... 

The Sacred Shrines cf Dwarka 
Song of the Sirens 
Expectation 
The Lake of Como 
The Princess Victoria 
A Dutch Interior - 

Eucles announcing the Victory of Marathon 
The Unknown Grave - 
The Woodland Brook - 
Carthage - 

Lord Melbourne - - 

The Pirate's Song 

The Church at Polignac ... 
The Knight of Malta 
Derwent'Water .... 
The Spanish Page ; or, The City's Ransom 
Dirge - 

Strada Reale— Corfu ... 
Antioch - ■. . 

Lancaster Castle 
Sir William Stanley 
Claverhouse at the Battle of Bothwell 
The Hall of Glennaquoich 



Pa?e 

290 
290 
291 
291 
292 
292 
293 
293 
294 
299 
299 
300 

300 
305 
309 
316 
301 
302 
302 
302 
304 
304 
304 
305 
306 
306 
307 
307 



303 
309 
310 
310 
311 
312 
312 
313 
313 
314 
315 
315 
315 
316 
317 
317 
318 
318 
319 
319 
319 
320 
320 
320 
321 
321 
322 
322 
322 
323 
323 
323 
324 
324 
324 
325 
326 
326 
326 
327 
327 
328 
323 



Strada St. Ursola,— Malta - -329 

The Earl of Sandwich ... - . . 32i) 

Town and Harbour of Ithaca .... 329 

Belvoir Castle, Seat of the Duke of Rutland - > 33C 

Regatta, — Windermere Lake .... 33c 

Gibraltar.— Scene during the Plague .... 33c 

Scale Force, Cumberland .... 331 

Black Linn of Linklater - 331 

The Evening Star 331 

The Devotee - - - - - - 332 

Jesuits in Procession : Valetta, Malta - - - 332 

Runjeet-singh, and his Suwarree of Seiks - - 332 

The tillage of Kursalee .... 333 

The Tournament - - - - - - 333 

Felicia Hemans - - - - - - 33-1 

The Tombs of the Kings of Golconca - - - 335 

Tunis - - - - - - - 335 

Djouni : the Residence of Lady Hester Stanhope - 336 

Gibraltar— from the Sea - - - - - 336 

Miller's Dale, Derbyshire - - - - 337 

Captain Cook - - - - - 337 

The Abbey, near Mussooree : the Seat of J. C. Glyn, 

Esq. 33S 

The Church of St. John, and the Ruins of Lahneck 

Castle, formerly belonging to the Templars - 333 

Death of the Lion among the^Ruins of Sbeitlah - 339 

The Ionian Captive - - - - - 339 

The Cedars of Lebanon 339 

Rydal Water and Grasmere Lake : the Residence of 

Wordsworth - - - - - 340 
Warkworth Castle, Northumberland - - -341 

Can You forget Ma? - - - - - 341 

Dr. Morrison and his Chinese Attendants - 342 

The Ganges 342 

Kalendria: a Port in Cilicia - - - 343 

Infanticide in Madagascar - - 343 

Hurdwar— the Gate of Vishnoo - - - 344 

The Prophetess 344 

Gibraltar— from the Queen of Spain's Chair - - 345 

The River Wear 345 

Corfu 346 

The Castle of Chillon .... 347 

Death of Louis of Bourbon, Bishop of Liege - 347 

Admiral Benbow .... 347 

Disenchantment - '- - - - - 348 

FRAGMENTS. 
Lines written under a Picture of a Girl burning a 

Love-letter - - - - - 40 

The Soldier's Funeral 40 

Arion, a Tale - - - - - 40 
Manmadin, the Indian Cupid, floating down the 

Ganges - - - - - 42 

The Female Convict - ... 43 

The Painter's Love - 43 
Inez .......45 

The Oak 46 

The Violet 46 

Change 47 

The Gray Cross 47 

Crescentius - - - - • - 47 
On a Star - - - • • - -48 

Home 48 

The Emerald Ring: a Superstition - - - 48 

Love 49 

Love, Hope, and Beauty - - - - 49 

The Crusader - ' - - - - - 49 

The Warrior : a Sketch - - - - - 50 

Apologue - - - - - - - 50 

BALLADS. 

The SohPer's Grave - 51 

Song of the Hunter's Bride • - - - 51 

When should Lovers breathe their Vows? - 52 



THE IMPR0VISATR1CE: 

ANL> 

OTHER POEMS. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



Poetry needs no preface : if it do not 
speak for itself, no comment can render 
it explicit. I have only, therefore, to 
state that The Improvisatrice is an at- 
tempt to illustrate that species of inspira- 
tion common in Italy, where the mind is 
warmed from earliest childhood by all 
that is beautiful in nature, and glorious in 
art. The character depicted is entirely 



Italian, — a young female with all the love- 
liness, vivid feeling and genius of her own 
impassioned land. She is supposed to 
relate her own history; with which are 
intermixed the tales and episodes which 
various circumstances call forth. 

Some of the minor poems have appear* 
ed in The Literary Gazette. 

U E. L. 



6 



THE IMPROVISATRICE 






1 am a daughter of that land 

Where the poet's lip and the painter's hand 

Are most divine, — where the earth and sky, 

Are picture both and poetry — 

I am of Florence. 'Mid the chill 

Of hope and feeling, oh ! I still 

Am proud to think to where I owe 

My birth, though but the dawn of woe ! 

My childhood pass'd 'mid radiant things, 
Glorious as Hope's imaginings ; 
Statues but known from shapes of the earth, 
By being too lovely for mortal birth ;• 
Paintings whose colours of life were caught 
From the fairy tints in the rainbow wrought ; 
Music whose sighs had a spell like those 
That float on the sea at the evening's close ; 
Language so silvery, that every word 
Was like the lute's awakening chord ; 
Skies half sunshine, and half starlight ; 
Flowers whose lives were a breath of delight ; 
Leaves whose green pomp knew no withering ; 
Fountains bright as the skies of our spring ; 
And songs whose wild and passionate line 
Suited a soul of romance like mine. 

My power was but a woman's power ; 
Yet, in that great and glorious dower 
Which Genius gives, I had my part : 
I poured my full and burning heart 
In song, and on the canvass made 

My dreams of beauty visible ; 
I knew not which I loved the most — 

Pencil or lute, — both loved so well. 

Oh, yet my pulse throbs to recall, 
When first upon the gallery's wall 
Picture of mine was placed, to share 
Wonder and praise from each one there ! 
Sad were my shades ; methinks they had 

Almost a tone of prophecy — 
I ever had, from earliest youth, 

A feeling what my fate would be. 

My first was of a gorgeous hall, 
Lighted up for festival ; 
Braided tresses, and cheeks of bloom, 
Diamond agraff, and foam-white plume ; 



Censors of roses, vases of light, 

Like what the moon sheds on a summer night 

Youths and maidens with link'd hands,., 

Joined in the graceful saraoands, 

Smiled on the canvass ; but apart 

Was one who leant in silent mood, 
As revelry to his sick heart 

Were worse than veriest solitude. 
Pale, dark-eyed, beautiful, and young, 

Such as he had shone o'er my slumbers-, 
When I had only slept to dream 

Over again his magic numbers. 

Divinest Petrarch ! he whose lyre, 
Like morning light, half dew, half fire, 
To Laura and to love was vow'd — 
He looked on one, who with the crowd 
Mingled, but mix'd not ; on whose cheek 

There was a blush, as if she knew 
Whose look was fix'd on hers. Her eye, 

Of a spring sky's delicious blue, 
Had not the language of that bloom, 
But mingling tears, and light, and gloom, 
Was raised abstractedly to Heaven : — 
No sign was to her lover given. 
I painted her with golden tresses, 
Such as float on the wind's caresses, 
When the laburnums wildly fling 
Their sunny blossoms to the spring, 
A cheek which had the crimson hue 

Upon the sun touched nectarine ; 
A lip of perfume and of dew ; 

A brow like twilight's darken'd line. 
I strove to catch each charm that long 
Has lived, — thanks to her lover's song ! 
Each grace he number'd one by one, 
That shone in her of Avignon. 

I ever thought that poet's fate 
Utterly lone and desolate. 
It is the spirit's bitterest pain 
T© lave, to be beloved again ; 
And yet between a gulf which ever 
The hearts that burn to meet must sever. 
And he was vowed to one sweet star. 
Bright yet to him, but bright afar. 

O'er some, Love's shadow may but pass 
As passes the breath stain o'er glass ; 

7 



8 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



And pleasures, cares, and pride combined, 
Fill up the blank Love leaves behind. 
But there are some whose love is high, 
Entire, and sole idolatry ; 
Who, turning from a heartless world, 

Ask some dear thing, which may renew 
Affection's several links, and be 

As true as they themselves are true. 
But Love's bright fount is never pure ; 
And all his pilgrims must endure 
All passion's mighty suffering 
Ere they may reach the blessed spring. 
And some who waste their lives to find 

A prize which they may never win : 
Like those who search for Irem's groves, 

Which found,_they may not enter in. 
Where is the sorrow but appears 
In ] love's long catalogue of tears 1 
And some there are who leave the path 

In agony and fierce disdain ; 
But bear upon each cankered breast 

The scar that never heals again. 

My next was of a minstrel too, 
Who proved that woman's hand might do, 
When, true to the heart pulse, it woke 

The harp. Her head was bending down, 
As if in weariness, and near, 

But unworn, was a laurel crown. 
She was not beautiful, if bloom 
And smiles form beauty ; for, like death, 
Her brow was ghastly ; and her lip 
Was parched, as fever were its breath. 
There was a shade upon her dark, 
Large, floating eyes, as if each spark 
Of minstrel ecstasy was fled, 
Yet leaving them no tears to shed ; 
Fix'd in their hopelessness of care, 
And reckless in their great despair. 
She sat benca'ii a cypress tree, 

A little fountain ran beside, 
And, in the distance, one dark rock 

Threw its long shadow o'er the tide ; 
And to the west, where the nightfall 
Was darkening day's gemm'd coronal, 
Its white shafts crimsoning in the sky, 
Arose the sun-god's sanctuary. 
I deemed, that of lyre, life, and love 

She was a long, last farewell taking ; — 
That, from her pale and parch'd lips, 

Her latest, wildest song was breaking. 

SArrHo's SONG. 

Farewell, my lute ! — and would that I 
Had never waked thy burning chords ! 

Poison has been upon thy sigh, 

And fever has breathed in thy words. 



Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame 
Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute 1 

I should have been the wretch I am, 
Had every chord of thine been mute. 

It was my evil star above, 

Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong ; 
It was not song that taught me love, 

But it was love that taught me song. 

If song be past, and hope undone, 

And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame , 

It is thy work, thou faithless one ! 

But, no ! — I will not name thy name ! 

Sun-god ! lute, wreath are vowed to thee ! 

Long be their light upon my grave — 
My glorious grave — yon deep blue sea : 

I shall sleep calm — beneath its wave ! 

Florence I with what idolatry 

I've lingered in thy radiant halls, 
Worshipping, till my dizzy eye 
' Grew dim with gazing on those walls, 
Where Time had spared each glorious gift 
By Genius unto Memory left ! 
And when seen by the pale moonlight, 
More pure, more perfect, though less bright, 
What dreams of song flashed on my brain, 
Till each shade seem'd to live again ; 
And then the beautiful, the grand, 
The glorious of my native land, 
In every flower that threw its veil 
Aside, when woo'd by the spring gale ; 
In every vineyard, where the sun, 
His task of summer ripening done, 
Shone on their clusters, and a song 
Came lightly from the peasant throng ; — 
In the dim loveliness of night, 
In fountains with their diamond light, 
In aged temple, ruin'd shrine, 
And its green wreath of ivy twine ; — 
In every change of earth and sky, 
Breathed the deep soul of poesy. 

As yet I loved not ; — but each wild, 
High thought I nourish'd rais'd a pyre 
For love to light ; and lighted once 
By love, it would be like the fire 
The burning lava floods that dwell 
In Etna's cave unquenchable. 

One evening in the lovely June, 

Over the Arno's waters gliding, 
I had been watching the fair moon 

Amid her court of white clouds riding : 
I had been listening to the gale, 

Which wafted music from around, 



THE IMPROVISATRI CE 



(For scarce a lover, at that hour, 

But waked his mandolin's light sound.) — 
And odour was upon the breeze, 
Sweet thefts from rose and lemon trees. 

They stole me from my lulling dream, 

And said they knew that such an hour 
Had ever influence on my soul, 

And raised my sweetest minstrel power. 
I took my lute, — my eye had been 
Wandering round the lovely scene, 
Fill'd with those melancholy tears, 
Which come when all most bright appears, 
And hold-their strange and secret power, 
Even on pleasure's golden hour. 
I had been looking on the river, 
Half-marvelling to think that ever 
Wind, wave, or sky, could darken where 
All seem'd so gentle and so fair : 
And mingled with these thoughts there came 

A tale, just one that memory keeps — 
Forgotten music, till some chance 

Vibra<? the chord whereon it sleeps! 

A rcOQIUSH ROMANCE. 

Softly through the pomegranate groves 
Came the gentle song of the doves ; 
Shone the fruit in the-evening light, 
Tike Indian rubies, blood-red and bright ; 
Shook the date-trees each tufted head, 
As the passing wind their green nuts shed ; 
And, like dark columns, amid the sky 
The giant palms ascended on high : 
And the mosque's gilded minaret 
Glisten'd and glanced as the daylight set. 
Over the town a crimson haze 
Gather'd and hung of the evening's rays ; 
And far beyond, like molten gold, 
The burning sands of the desert roll'd. 
Far to the left, the sky and sea 
Mingled their gray immensity ; 
And with flapping sail and idle prow 
The vessels threw their shades below 
Far down the beach, where a cypress grove 
Casta its shade round a little cove, 
Darkling and green, with just a space 
For the stars to shine on the water's face, 
A small bark lay, waiting for night 
And its breeze to waft and hide its flight. 
Sweet is the burthen, and lovely the freight, 
For which those furled-up sails await, 
To a garden, fair as those 
Where the glory of the rose 
Blushes, charm' d from the decay 
That wastes other blooms away ; 
Gardens of the fairy tale 
'i Ad, till the wood fire grows pale, 
(2) 



By the Arab tribes, when night, 
With its dim and lovely light, 
And its silence, suiteth well 
With the magic tales they tell. 
Through that cypress avenue, 
Such a garden meets the view, 
Fill'd with flowers — flowers that seem 
Lighted up by the sunbeam ; 
Fruits of gold and gems, and leaves 
Green as hope before it grieves 
O'er the false and brokenhearted, 
All with which its youth has parted, 
Never to return again, 
Save in memories of pain ! 

There is a white rose in yon bowei, 
But holds it a yet fairer flower: 
And music from that cage is breathing, 
Round which a jasmine braid is wreathing, 
A low song from a lonely dove, 
A song such exiles sing and love, 
Breathing of fresh fields, summer skies,- • 
Not to be breathed of but in sighs !! 
But fairer smile and sweeter sigh 
Are near when Leila's step is nigh ! 
With eyes dark as the midnight time, 
Yet lighted like a summer clime 
With sun-rays from within ; yet now 
Lingers a cloud upon that brow, — 
Though never lovelier brow was give 
To Houri of an Eastern heaven ! 
Her eye is dwelling on that bower, 
As every leaf and every flower 
Were being number'd in her heart; — 

There are no looks like those which dwell 
On long-remember'd things, which soon 

Must take our first and last farewell. 

Day fades apace : another day, 
That maiden will be far away, 
A wanderer o'er the dark-blue sea, 
And bound for lovely Italy, 
Her mother's land ! Hence, on her breast 
The cross beneath a Moorish vest ; 
And hence those sweetest sounds, that seem 
Like music murmuring in a dream, 
When in our sleeping ear is ringing 
The song the nightingale is singing ; 
When by that white and funeral stone, 

Half hidden by the cypress gloom, 
The hymn the mother taught her child 

Is sung each evening at her tomb. 
But quick the twilight time has past, 
Like one of those sweet 'calms that last 
A moment and no more, to cheer 
The turmoil of our pathway here. 

The bark is waiting in the bay, 
Night darkens round : — Leila, away ! 



IC 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Far, ere to-morrow, o'er the tide, 
Or wait and be — Ab galea's bride 1 



She touch'd her lute — never again 
Her ear will listen to its strain ! 
She took her cage, first kiss'd the breast — 

Then freed the white dove prison'd there : 
It paused one moment on her hand, 

Then spread its glad wings to the air. 
She drank the breath, as it were health, 

That sigh'd from every scented blossom ; 
And taking from each one a lea/, 

Hid them, like spells, upon her bosom. 
Then sought the sacred path again 

She once before had traced, when lay 
A Christian in her father's chain ; 

And gave him gold, and taught the way 
To fly. She thought upon the night, 
When, like an angel of the light, 
She stood before the prisoner's sight, 
And led him to the cypress grove, 
And show'd the bark and hidden cove ; 
And bade the wandering captive flee, 
In words he knew from infancy ! 
And when she thought how for her love 

He had braved slavery and death, 
That he might only breathe the air 

Made sweet and sacred by her breath. 
She reach'd the grove of cypresses — 

Another step is by her side : 
Another moment, and the bark 

Bears the fair Moor across the tide ! 

'Twas beautiful, by the pale moonlight, 
To mark her eyes, — now dark, now bright, 
As now they met, now shrank away, 
From the gaze that watch'd and worshipp'd their 

day. . 

They stood on the deck, and the midnight gale 
Just waved the maiden's silver veil — 
Just lifted a curl, as if to show 
The check of rose that was burning below : 
And never spread a sky of blue 
More clear for the stars to wander through ! 
And never could their mirror be 
A calmer or a lovelier sea ! 
For every wave was a diamond gleam : 
And that light vessel well may seem 
A faiiy ship, and that graceful pair 
Young Genii, whose home was of light and air ! 

Another evening came, but dark ; 
The storm clouds hover'd round the bark 
Of misery : — they just could see 
The distant shore of Italy, 
As the dim moon through vapours shone — 
few short rays, her light was gone. 



O'er head a sullen scream was heard, 
As sought the land the white sea bird, 
Her pale wings like a meteor streaming. 
Upon the waves a light is gleaming — 
Ill-omen'd brightness, sent by Death 
To light the night-black depths beneath. 
The vessel roll'd amid the surge ; 
The winds howl'd round it, like a dirge 
Sung by some savage race. Then came 
The rush of thunder and of flame : 
It show'd two forms upon the deck, — 
One clasp'd around the other's neck, 
As there she could not dream of fear — 
In her lover's arms could danger be near ? 
He stood and watch'd her with the eye 
Of fix'd and silent agony. 
The waves swept on : he felt her heart 

Beat closer and closer yet to his ! 
They burst upon the ship ! — the sea 

Has closed upon their dream of bliss ! 

Surely theirs is a pleasant sleep 

Beneath that ancient cedar tree, 
Whose solitary stem has stood 

For years alone beside the sea ! 
The last of a most noble race, 
That once had there their dwelling-place, 
Long past away ! Beneath its shade, 
A soft green couch the turf had made : — 
And glad the morning sun is shining 
On those beneath the boughs reclining. 
Nearer the fisher drew. He saw 

The dark hair of the Moorish maid, 
Like a veil, .floating o'er the breast 

Where tenderly her head was laid ; — 
And yet her lover's arm was placed 
Clasping around the graceful waist ; 
But then he mark'd the youth's black curls 

Were dripping wet with foam and blocYl ; 
And that the maiden's tresses dark 

Were heavy with the briny flood ! 
Wo for the wind ! — wo for the wave ! 
They sleep the slumber of the grave ! 
They buried them beneath that tree ; 

It long had been a sacred spot. 
Soon it was planted round with flowers 

By many who had not forgot ; 
Or yet lived in those dreams of truth 
The Eden birds of early youth, 
That make the loveliness of love : 
And call'd the place " The Maiden's Cove,' 
That she who perish'd in the sea 
Might thus be kept in memory. 



From many a lip came sounds of praise, 
Like music from sweet voices ringing ; 



THE IMPROVISATRIOE 



11 



For many' a boat had gather'd round, 

To list the song I had been singing. 
There are some moments in our fate 

That stamp the colour of our days ; 
As, till then, life had not been felt, — 

And mine was scal'd in the slight gaze 
Which fix'd my eye, and fired my brain, 
And bow'd my heart beneath the chain. 
'Twas a dark and flashing eye, 
Shadows, too, that tenderly, 
With almost female softness, came 
O'er its mingled gloom and flame. 
His cheek was pale ; or toil, or care, 
Or midnight study, had been there, 
Making its young colours dull, 
Yet leaving it most beautiful. 
Raven curls their shadow threw, 
Like the twilight's darkening hue, 
O'er the pure and mountain snow 
Of his high and haughty brow : 
Lighted by a smile, whose spell 
Words are powerless to tell. 
Such a lip ! — oh, pour'd from thence 
Lava floods of eloquence. 
Would come with fiery energy, 
Like those words that cannot die. 
Words the Grecian warrior spoke 
When the Persian's chain he broke, 
Or that low and honey tone, 
Making woman's heart his own ; 
Such as should be heard at night, 
In the dim and sweet starlight ; 
Sounds that haunt a beauty's sleep, 
Treasures for her he^jrt to keep. 
Like the pine of summer tall ; 
Apollo, on his pedestal 
In our own gallery, never bent 
More graceful, more magnificent ; 
Ne'er look'd the hero, or the king, 

More nobly than the youth who now, 
As if soul-centred in my song, 

Was leaning on a galley's prow. 
He spoke not when the others spoke, 

His heart was all too full for praise ; 
But his dark eyes kept fix'd on mine, 

Which sank beneath their burning gaze. 
Mine sank— but yet I felt the thrill 
Of that look burning on me still. 
I heard no word that others said — 

Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh. 
My hand kept wandering on my lute, 

In music, but unconsciously 
My pulses throbb'd, my heart beat high, 
A flush of dizzy ecstasy 

Crimson'd my cheek; I felt warm tears 
Dimming my sight, yet was it sweet, 
My wild heart's most bewildering beat, 
Consciousness, without hopes or fears, 



Of a new power within me waking, 
Like light before the morn's full breaking. 
I left the boat — the crowd : my mood 
Made my soul pant for solitude. 

Amid my palace halls was one, 

The most peculiarly my own : 

The roof was blue and fretted gold, 

The floor was of the Parian stone, 

Shining like snow, as only meet 

For the light tread of fairy feet; 

And in the midst, beneath a shade 

Of cluster'd rose, a fountain play'd, 

Sprinkling its scented waters round, 

With a sweet and lulling sound, — 

O'er oranges, like Eastern gold, 

Half hidden by the dark green fold 

Of their large leaves ; — o'er hyacinth bells, 

Where every summer odour dwells, 

And, nestled in the midst, a pair 

Of white wood doves, whose home was there ; 

And like an echo to their song, 

At times a murmur past along ; 

A dying tone, a plaining fall, 

So sad, so wild, so musical— 

As the wind swept across the wire, 

And waked my lone iEolian lyre, 

Which lay upon the casement, where 

The lattice woo'd the cold night air, 

Half hidden by a bridal twine 

Of jasmine with the emerald vine. 

And ever as the curtains made 

A varying light, a changeful shade, 

As the breeze waved them to and fro, 

Came on the eye the glorious show 

Of pictured walls where landscape wild 

Of wood, and stream, or mountain piled, 

Or sunny vale, or twilight grove, 

Or shapes whose every look was love ; 

Saints, whose diviner glance seem'd caught 

From Heaven, — some whose earthlier thought 

Was yet more lovely, — shone like gleams 

Of Beauty's spirit seen in dreams. 

I threw me on a couch to rest, 

Loosely I flung my long black hair ; 
It seem'd to soothe my troubled breast 

To drink the quiet evening air. 
I look'd upon the deep-blue sky, 
And it was all hope and harmony. 
Afar I could see the Arno's stream 
Glorying in the clear moonbeam ; 
And the shadowy city met my gaze, 
Like the dim memory of other days ; 
And the distant wood's black coronal 
Was like oblivion that covereth all. 
I know not why my soul felt sad ; 

I touch'd my lute, — it would not waken, 
Save to old songs of sorrowing — 



12 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Of hope betray'd — of hearts forsaken — 
Each lay of lighter feeling slept, 
I sang, but, as I sang, I wept. 

THE CHAIUIED CUP. 

And fondly round his neck she clung ; 

Her long black tresses round him flung, — 

Love chains, which would not let him part ; 

And he could feel her beating heart, 

The pulses of her small white hand, 

The tears she could no more command, 

The lip which trembled, though near his ; 

The sigh that mingled with her kiss ; — 

Yet parted he from that embrace. 

He cast one glance upon her face : 

His very soul felt sick to see 

Its look of utter misery ; 

Yet turn'd he not ; one moment's grief, 

One pang, like lightning, fierce and brief, 

One thought, half pity, half remorse, 

Pass'd o'er him. On he urged his horse ; 

Hill, ford, and valley spurr'd he by, 

And when his castle-gate was nigh, 

White foam was on his 'broidered rein, 

And each spur had a blood-red stain. 

But soon he enter'd that fair hall : 

His laugh was loudest there of all ; 

And the cup that wont one name to bless, 

Was drain'd for its forgetfulness. 

The ring, once next his heart, was broken ; 

The gold chain kept another token. 

Where is the curl he used to wear — 

The raven tress of silken hair ] 

The winds have scatter'd it. A braid 

Of the first spring day's golden shade, 

Waves with the dark plumes on his crest. 

Fresh colours are upon his breast : 

The slight blue scarf, of simplest fold, 

la changed for one of woven gold. 

And he is by a maiden's side, 

Whose gems of price, and robes of pride, 

V/ould suit the daughter of a king ; 

And diamonds are glistening 

Upon her arm. There's not one curl 

Unfasten'd by a loop of pearl. 

And he is whispering in her ear 

Soft words that ladies love to hear. 

Alas ! — the tale is quickly told — 

His love hath felt the curse of gold ! 

And he is bartering his heart . 

For that in which it hath no part. 

There's many an ill that clings to love ; 

But this is one all else above ; — 

For love to bow before the name 

Of this world's treasure : shame ! oh, shame 

Love, be thy wings as light as those 

That waft the zephyr from the rose, — 



This may be pardon' d — something rare 
In loveliness has been thy snare! 
But how, fair love, canst thou become 
A thing of mines — a sordid gnome 1 

And she whom Julian left — she stood 
A cold white statue ; as the blood 
Had, when in vain her last wild prayer, . 
Flown to her heart, and frozen there. 
Upon her temple, each dark vein 
Swell'd in its agony of pain. 
Chill, heavy damps were on her brow ; 
Her arms were stretch'd at length, though novr 
Their clasp was on the empty air : 
A funeral pall — her long black hair 
Fell over her ; herself the tomb 
Of her own youth, and breath, and bloom. 

Alas ! that man should ever win 
So sweet a shrine to shame and sin 
As woman's heart ! — and deeper wo 
For her fond weakness, not to know 
That yielding all but breaks the chain 
That never reunites again ! 

It was a dark and tempest night — 
No pleasant moon, no blest starlight ; 
But meteors glancing o'er the way, 
Only to dazzle and betray. 
And who is she that, 'mid the storm, 
Wraps her slight mantle round her form ? 
Her hair is wet with rain and sleet, 
And blood is on her small snow feet. 
She has been forced a way to make 
Through prickly weed and thorned brake, 
Up rousing from its coil the snake ; 
And stirring from their damp abode 
The slimy worm and loathsome toad : 
And shudder'd as she heard the gale 
Shriek like an evil spirit's wail ; 
When follow'd, like a curse, the crash 
Of the pines in the lightning flash : — 
A place of evil and of fear — 
Oh ! what can Julian's love do here 1 

On, on the pale girl went. At last 
The gloomy forest depths are past, 
And she has reach'd the wizard's den, 
Accursed by God and shunn'd by men. 
And never had a ban been laid 
Upon a more unwholesome shade. 
There grew dank elders, and the yew 
Its thick sepulchral shadow threw ; 
And brooded there each bird most foul, 
The gloomy bat and sullen owl. 

But Ida entered in the cell, 
Where dwelt the wizard of the delL 



THE IMPROVISATRICE 



13 



Her heart lay dead, her life-blood froze 

To look upon the shape which rose 

To bar her entrance. On that face 

Was scarcely left a single trace 

Of human likeness : the parch'd skin 

Show'd each discolour'd bone within ; 

And, but for the most evil stare 

Of the wild eyes' unearthly glare, 

It was a corpse, you would have said, 

From which life's freshness long had fled. 

Yet Ida knelt her down and pray'd 

To that dark sorcerer for his aid. 

He heard her prayer with withering look ; 

Then from unholy herbs he took 

A drug, and said it would recover 

The lost heart of her faithless lover 

She trembled as she turn'd to see 

His demon sneer's malignity ; 

And every step was wing'd with dread, 

To hear the curse howl'd as she fled. 

It is the purple tw ilight hour, 
And Juliax is in Ida's bower. 
He has brought gold, as gold could bless 
His work of utter desclateness ! 
He has brought gems, as if Despair 
Had any pride in being fair ! 
But Ida only wept, and wreath'd 
Her white arms round his neck ; then breathed 
Those passionate complaints that wring 
A woman's heart, yet never bring 
Redress. She call'd upon each tree 
To witness her lone constancy ! 
She call'd upon the silent boughs, 
The temple of her Julian's vows 
Of happiness too dearly bought ! 
Then wept again. At length she thought 
Upon the forest sorcerer's gift — 
The last, lone hope that love had left ! 
She took the^cup, and kiss'd the brim, 
Mix'd the dark spell, and gave it him 
To pledge his once dear Ida's name ! 
He drank it. Instantly the flame 
Ran through his veins : one fiery throb 
Of bitter pain — one gasping sob 
Of agony — the cold death-sweat 
Is on his face — his teeth are set — 
His bursting eyes are glazed and still : 
The drug has done its work of ill. 
Alas ! for her who watch'd each breath, 
The cup her love had mix'd bore — death. 



Lorenzo ! — when next morning came 
For the first time I heard thy name ! 
Lorexso .— how each ear-pulse drank 

The more than music of that tone ! 



Lorenzo ! — how I sigh'd that name, 

As breathing it, made it mine own ! 
I sought the gallery : I was wont 

To pass the noontide there, and trace 
Some statue's shape of loveliness — 

Some saint, some nymph, or muse's face. 
There, in my rapture, I could throw 

My pencil in its hues aside, 
And, as the vision past me, pour 

My song of passion, joy, and piide. 
And he was there, — Lorenzo there ! 

How soon the morning past away, 
With finding beauties in each thing 

Neither had seen before that day ! 
Spirit of Love ! soon thy rose-plumes wear 
The weight and the sully of canker and care : 
Falsehood is round thee ; Hope leads thee on, 
Till every hue from thy pinion is gone. 
But the bright moment is all thine own, 
The one ere thy visible presence is known ; 
When, like the wind of the south, thy power, 
Sunning the heavens, sweetening the flower, 
Is felt but not seen. Thou art sweet and calm 
As the sleep of a child, as the dew full of balm. 
Fear has not darken'd thee ; Hope has not made 
The blossoms expand, it but opens to fade. 
Nothing is known of those wearing fears 
Which will shadow the light of thy after years. 
Then art thou bliss : — but once throw by 
The veil which shrouds thy divinity ; 
Stand confess'd, — and thy quiet is fled ! 
Wild flashes of rapture may come instead, 
But pain will be with them. What may r<* 

store 
The gentle happiness known before ? 
I own'd not to myself I loved, — 

No word of love Lorenzo breathed, 
But I lived in a magic ring, 

Of every pleasant flower wreath'd. 
A brighter blue was on the sky, 
A sweeter breath in music's sigh ; 
The orange shrubs all seem'd to bear 
Fruit more rich, and buds more fair. 
There was a glory on the noon, 
A beauty in the crescent moon, 
A lulling stillness in the night, 
A feeling in the pale starlight. 
There was a charmed note on the wind, 

A spell in Poetry's deep store — » 
Heart-uttered words, passionate thoughts 

Which I had never mark'd before. 
'Twas as my heart's full happiness 
Pour'd over all its own excess. 

One night there was a gorgeous feast 
For maskers in Count Leon's hall ; 

And all of gallant, fair and young, 
Were bidden to the festival. 
b 



14 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



I went, garb'd as a Hindoo girl ; 

Upon each arm an amulet, 
And by my side a little lute 

Of sandal wood with gold beset. 
And shall I own that I was proud 
To hear, amid the gazing crowd, 
A murmur of delight, when first 

My mask and veil I threw aside 1 
For well my conscious cheek betray'd 

Whose eye was gazing on me too ! 
And never yet had praise been dear, 
As on that evening, to mine ear, 
Lorenzo ! I was proud to be 
Worshipp'd and flatter'd but for thee ! 



THE HINDOO GIRL S SONG. 

Playful and wild as the fire-flies' light, 
This moment hidden, and next moment bright, 
Like the foam on the dark-green sea, 
Is the spell that is laid on my lover by me. 
Were your sigh as sweet as the sumbal's sigh, 
When the wind of the evening is nigh ; 
Were your smile like that glorious light, 
Seen when the stars gem the deep midnight ; 
Were that sigh and that smile for ever the same — 
They were shadows, not fuel, to love's duil'd 
flame. 

Lo^e once form'd an amulet, 

"W ith pearls, and a rainbow, and rose-leaves set. 

The pearls were pure as pearls could be, 

And white as maiden purity ; 

The rose had the beauty and breath of soul, 

And the rainbow-changes crown'd the whole. 

Frown on your lover one little while, 

Dearer will be the light of your smile ; 

Let your blush, laugh, and sigh ever mingle to- 
gether, 

Like the bloom, sun, and clouds of the sweet 
spring weather. 

Love never must sleep in security, 

Or most calm and cold will his wakinsr be. 



And as that light strain died away, 
Again I swept the breathing strings : 

But now the^notes I waked were sad 
As those the pining wood-dove sings. 



THE INDIAN BRIDE. 

She has lighted her lamp, and crown'd it with 

flowers, 
The sweetest that breathed of the summer hours ; 
Red and white roses link'd in a band, 
Like a maiden's blush, or a maiden's hand ; 



Jasmines, — some like silvery spray, 
Some like gold in the morning ray ; 
Fragrant stars, — and favourites they, 
When Indian girls, on a festival-day, 
Braid their dark tresses : and over all weaves 
The rosy-bower of lotus leaves — 
Canopy suiting the lamp-lighted bark, 
Love's own flowers, and Love's own ark. 

She watch'd the sky, the sunset grew dim ; 

She raised to Camdeo her evening hymn. 

The scent of the night-flowers came on the air . 

And then, like a bird escaped from the snare, 

She flew to the river — (no moon was bright, 

But the stars and the fire-flies gave her their light ,•} 

She stood beneath the mangoes' shade, 

Half delighted and half afraid ; 

She trimm'd the lamp, and breathed on each 
bloom, 

(Oh, that breath was sweeter than all their per- 
fume I) 

Threw spices and oil on the spire of flame, 

Call'd thrice on her absent lover's name ; 

And every pulse throbb'd as she gave 

Her little boat to the Ganges' wave. 

There are a thousand fanciful things 

Link'd round the young heart's imaginings. 

In its first love-dream, a leaf or a flower 

Is gifted then with a spell and a power • 

A shade is an omen, a dream is a sign, 

From which the maiden can well divine 

Passion's whole history. Those only can 

Who have loved as young hearts can love so well, 

How the pulses will beat, and the cheek will be 

dyed, 
When they have some love-augury tried 
Oh, it is not for those whose feelings are cold, 
Wither'd by care, or blunted by gold ; 
Whose brows have darken' d with many yeara, 
To feel again youth's hopes and fears — 
What they now might blush to confess, 
Yet what made their spring-day's happiness , 

Zaide watch'd her flower-built vessel glide, 
Mirror'd beneath on the deep-blue tide ; 
Lovely and lonely, scented and bright, 
Like Hope's own bark, all bloom and light. 
There's not one breath of wind on the air, 
The heavens are cloudless, the waters are fai< 
No dew is falling : yet wo to that shade ! 
The maiden is weeping — heT lamp has decay d. 

Hark to the ring of the cyme tar ! 
It tells that the soldier returns from afar, 
Down from the mountains the wairiors come : 
Hark to the thunder-roll ol the arum ! — 



THE IMPROVISATRICE, 



15 



To the startling voice of the trumpet's call ! — 

To the cymbal's clash ! — to the atabal ! 

The banners of crimson float in the sun, 

The warfare is ended, the battle is won. 

The mother hath taken the child from her breast, 

And raised it to look on its father's crest. 

The pathway is lined, as the bands pass along-, 

With maidens, who meet them with flowers and 

song. 
4nd Zaide hath forgotten in Azix's arms 
Ml her so false lamp's falser alarms. 

This looks not a bridal, — the singers are mute, 
Still is the mandore, and breathless the lute ; 
Yet there the bride sits. Her dark hair is bound, 
And the robe of her marriage floats white on the 

ground. 
Oh ! where is the lover, the bridegroom 1 — oh ! 

where 1 
Look under yon black pall — the bridegroom is there ! 
Yet the guests are all bidden, the feast is the 

same, 
And the bride plights her troth amid smoke and 

'mid flame ! 
They have raised the death-pyre of sweet-scented 

wood, 
And sprinkled it o'er with the sacred flood 
Of the Ganges. The priests are assembled : — their 

song 
Sinks deep on the ear as they bear her along, 
That bride of the dead. Ay, is not this love 1 — 
That one pure, wild feeling all others above ■ 
Vow'd to the living, and kept to the tomb ! — 
The same in its blight as it was in its bloom. 
With no tear in her eye, and no change in her 

smile 
Young Zaide had come nigh to the funeral pile. 
The bells of the dancing-girls ceased from their 

sound ; 
Silent they stood by that holiest mound. 
From a crowd like the sea-waves there came not a 

breath, 
When the maiden stood by the place of death ! 
One moment was given — the last she might spare ! 
To the mother, who stood iu her weeping there. 
She took the jewels that shone on her hand ; 
She took from her dark hair its flowery band, 
And scattered them round. At once they raise 
The hymn of rejoicing and love in her praise. 
A prayer is mutter'd, a blessing said, — 
Her torch is rais'd ! — she is by the dead. 
She, has fired the pile ! At once there came 
A mingled rush of smoke and of flame : 
The wind swept it off. They saw the bride, — 
Laid by her Azur, side by side. 
The breeze had spread the long curls of her hair : 
Like a banner of fire they play'd on the air. 
The smoke and the flame gather'd round as before, 
Then clear'd 5 — but the bride was seen no more. 



I heard the words of praise, Dut not 

The one voice that I paused to hear ; 
And other sounds to me were like 

A tale pour'd in a sleeper's ear. - 
Where was Lorenzo 1 — He had stood 

Spell-bound ; but when I closed the lay, 
As if the charm ceased with the song, 

He darted hurriedly away. 
I masqued again, and wander'd on 

Through many a gay and gorgeous ioom 
What with sweet waters, sweeter flowers, 

The air was heavy with perfume, 
The harp was echoing the lute, 
Soft voices answer'd to the flute, 
And, like rills in the noontide clear, 
Beneath the flame-hung gondolier, 
Shone mirrors peopled with the shades 
Of stately youths and radiant maids ; 
And on the ear in whispers came 
Those winged words of soul and flame, 
Breathed in the dark-e} r ed beauty's ear 
By some young love-touch'd cavalier ; 
Or mix'd at times some sound more gay, 
Of dance, or laugh, or roundelay. 
0, it is sickness at the heart 
To bear in revelry its part, 
And yet feel bursting: — not one thing 
Which has part in its suffering, — 
The laugh as glad, the step as light, 
The song as sweet, the glance as bright ; 
As the laugh, step, and glance, and song, 
Did to young happiness belong. 

I turn'd me from the crowd, and reach'd 

A spot which seem'd unsought by all — 
An alcove fill'd with shrubs and flowers, 

But lighted by the distant hall, 
With one or two fair statues placed, 

Like deities of the sweet shrine. 
That human art should ever frame 

Such shapes so utterly divine ! 
A deep sigh breathed, — I knew the tone , 

My cheek blush'd warm, my heart beat high 
One moment more I too was known, 

I shrank before Lorenzo's eye. 
He leant beside a pedestal. 

The glorious brow, of Parian stone, 
Of the Antinous, by his side, 

Was not more noble than his own ! 
They were alike : he had the same 

Thick-clustering curls the Roman wore— 
The fix'd and melancholy eye — 

The smile which pass'd like lightning o'ci 
The curved lip. We did not speak, 
But the heart breathed upon each cheek , 
We look'd round with those wandering loobs 

Which seek some object for their gaze, 
As if each other's glance was like 

The too much light of morning's rays. 



16 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



I saw a youth beside me kneel ; 

I heard my name in music steal ; 

I felt my hand trembling in his ; — 

Another moment, and his kiss 

Had burnt upon it ; when, like thought, 

So swift it past, my hand was thrown 
Away, as if in sudden pain. 

Lorenzo like a dream had flown ! 
We did not meet again : — he seem'd 

To shun each spot where I might be : 
And, it was said, another claim'd 

The heart — more than the world to me ! 

I loved him as young Genius loves, 

When its own wild and radiant heaven 
Of starry thought burns with the light, 

The love, the life, by passion given. 
I loved him, too, as woman loves — 

Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn : 
Life had no evil destiny 

That, with him, I could not have borne ! 
I had been nurst in palaces ; 

Yet earth had not a spot so drear, 
That I should not have thought a home, 

In paradise, had he been near ! 
How sweet it would have been to dwell, 
Apart from all, in some green dell 
Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers ; 
And nestling birds to sing the hours ! 
Our home, beneath some chestnut's shade, 
But of the woven branches made ; 
Our vesper hymn, the low, lone wail 
The rose hears from the nightingale ; 
And waked at morning by the call 
Of music from a waterfall. 
But not alone in dreams like this, 
Breathed in the very hope of bliss, 
I loved : my love had been the same 
In hush'd despair, in open shame. 
I would have rather been a slave, 

In tears, in bondage, by his side, 
Than shared in all, if wanting him, 

This world had power to give beside 
My heart was wither'd, — and my heart 

Had ever been the world to me : 
And love had been the first fond dream, 

Whose life was in reality. 
I had sprung from my solitude 

Like a young bird upon the wing 
To meet the arrow ; so I met 

My poison'd shaft of suffering. 
And as that bird, with drooping crest 
And broken wing, will seek his nest, 
But seek in vain ; so vain I sought 
My pleasant home of song and thought. 
There was one spell upon my brain, 
T fpon my pencil, on my strain ; 
But one face to my colours came ; 
My chords replied but to one name — 



LoiiEjf zo ! — all seem'd vow'd to thee, 
To passion, and to misery ! 
I had no interest in the things 

That once had been like life, or light; 
No tale was pleasant to mine ear, 

No song so sweet, no picture bright. 
I was wild with my great distress, 
My lone, my utter hopelessness ! 
I would sit hours by the side 
Of some clear rill, and mark it glide, 
Bearing my tears along, till night 
Came with dark hours ; and soft starlight 
Watch o'er its shadowy beauty keeping, 
Till I grew calm : — then I would take 
The lute, which had all day been sleeping 

Upon a cypress tree, and wake 
The echoes of the midnight air 
With words that love wrung from despair 



Faueweii ! — we shall not meet again 

As we are parting now ! 
I must my beating heart restrain — 

Must veil my burning brow ! 
0, I must coldly learn to hide 

One thought, all else above — 
Must call upon my woman's pride 

To hide my woman's love ! 
Check dreams I never may avow ; 
Be free, be careless, cold as thou ! 

! those are tears of bitterness, 
Wrung from the breaking heart, 

When two, blest in their tenderness, 

Must learn to live — apart ! 
But what are they to that long sigh, 

That cold and fix'd dcspaii, 
That weight of wasting agony 

It must be mine to bear 1 
Methinks I should not thus repine, 
If I had but one vow of thine. 

1 could forgive inconstancy 

To be one moment loved by thee ! 
With me the hope of life is gone 

The sun of joy is set ; 
One wish my soul still dwells upon — 

The wish it could forget. 
I would forget that look, that tone, 
My heart hath all too dearly known. 
But who could ever yet efface 
From memory love's enduring trace ] 
All may revolt, all may complain- 
But who is there may break the chain 1 
Farewell ! — I shall not be to thee 

More than a passing thought ; 
But every time and place will be 

With thy remembrance fraught ! 
Farewell ! we have not often met — 

We may not meet again 7 



THE 1MPR0VISATRICE. 



17 



But on my Heart the seal is set 

Lovo never sets in vain ! 
Fruitless as constancy may be, 
No chance, no change, may turn from thee 
One who has loved thee wildly, well — 
But whose first love-vow breathed — farewell 1 



And lays which only told of love 

In all its varied sorrowing, 
The echoes of the broken heart, 

Were all the songs I now could sing. 
Legends of olden times in Greece, 

"When not a flower but had its tale ; 
When spirits haunted each green oak ; 

When voices spoke in every gale ; 
When not a star shone in the sky 

Without its own love history. 
Amid its many songs was one 

That suited well with my sick mind. 
[ sang it when the breath of flowers 

Came sweet upon the midnight wind. 

LEADES AXD CYDIPPE. 

She sat her in her twilight bower, 

A. temple form'd of leaf and flower ; 

Rose and myrtle framed the roof, 

To a shower of April proof; 

And primroses, pale gems of spring, 

Lay on the green turf glistening. 

Close by the violet, whose breath 

Is so sweet in a dewy wreath. 

And 0, that myrtle ! how green it grew ! 

With flowers as white as the pearls of dew 

That shone beside : and the glorious rose 

Lay like a beaut}" in warm repose, 

Blushing in slumber. The air was bright 

With the spirit and glow of its crimson light 

Cydippe had turn'd from her column'd hall, 
Where, the queen of the feast, she was worshipp'd 

by all : 
Where the vases were burning with spices and 

flowers, 
And the odorous waters were playing in showers ; 
And lamps were blazing — those lamps of perfume 
Which shed such a charm of light over the bloom 
Of woman, when Pleasure a spell has thrown 
Over one night hour and made it her own. 
And the ruby wine-cup shone with a ray, 
As the gems of the East had there melted away; 
And the bards were singing those songs of fire, 
That bright eyes and the goblet so well inspire ; — 
While she, the glory and pride of the hour, 
Sat silent and sad in her secret bower ! 

There is a grief that wastes the heart, 
Like mildew on a tulip's dyes, — 
(3) 



When hope, deferr'd but to depart, 

Loses its smiles, but keeps its sighs: 
When love's bark, with its anchor gone, 
Clings to a straw, and still trusts on. 
O, more than all ! — methinks that, love 

Should pray that it might ever be 
Beside the burning shrine which had 

Its young heart's fond idolatry. 
0, absence is the night of love ! 

Lovers are very children then ! 
Fancying ten thousand feverish shapes, 

Until their light returns again. 
A look, a word, is then recall'd, 

And thought upon until it wears, 
What is, perhaps, a very shade, 

The tone and aspect of our fears. 
And this is what was withering now 
The radiance of Cydippe's brow. 
She watch'd until her cheek grew pale ; 
The green wave bore no bounding sail : 
Her sight grew dim ; 'mid the blue ail 
No snowy dove came floating there, 
The dear scroll hid beneath his wing, 
With plume and soft eye glistening, 
To seek again, in leafy dome, 
The nest of its accustom'd home ! 
Still far away, o'er land and seas, 
Linger'd the faithless Leades. 

She thought on the spring days, when sh« 
had been, 
Lonely and lovely, a maiden queen : 
When passion to her was a storm at sea, 
Heard 'mid the green land's tranquility. 
But a stately warrior came from afar ; 
He bore on his bosom the glorious scar 
So worshipp'd by woman — the death-seal oi 

war. 
And the maiden's heart was an easy prize, 
When valour and faith were her sacrifice 

Methinks, might that sweet season last v 
In which our first love-dream is past, 
Ere doubts and cares, and jealous pain, 
Are flaws in the heart's diamond-chain :• 
Men might forget to think on heaven. 
And yet have the sweet sin forgiven. 

But ere the marriage-feast was spread, 

Leades said that he must brook 
To part awhile from that best light, 

Those eyes which fix'd his every look : 
Just press again his native shore, 

And then he would that shore resign 
For her dear sake, who was to him 

His household god ! — his spirit's shrine . 

He came not ! Then the heart's decay 
Wasted her silently away : — 
52 



18 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



A sweet fount, which the mid-day sun 
Has all too hotly look'd upon ! 

It is most sad to watch the fall 

Of autumn leaves ! — hut worst of al. 

It is to watch the flower of spring 

Faded in its fresh blossoming ! 
To see the once so clear blue orb 

Its summer light and warmth forget : 
Darkening beneath its tearful lid, 

Like a rain-beaten violet ! 
To watch the banner-rose of health 

Pass from the cheek ! — to mark how plain 
Upon the wan and sunken brow, 

Become the wanderings of each vein ! 
The shadowy hand so thin, so pale ! 

The languid step ! — the drooping head ! 
The long wreaths of neglected hair ! 

The lip whence red and smile are fled ! 
And having watch'd thus, day by day, 
Light, life, and colour, pass away ! 
To see, at length, the glassy eye 
Fix dull in dread mortality ; 
Mark the last ray, catch the last breath, 
Till the grave sets its sign of death ! 

This was Ctdippe's fate ! — They laid 
The maiden underneath the shade 
Of a green cypress, — and that hour 

The tree was wither'd, and stood bare ! 
The spring brought leaves to other trees, 

But never other leaf grew there ! 
It stood, 'mid others flourishing, 
A blighted, solitary thing. 

The summer sun shone on that tree 
When shot a vessel o'er the sea — 
When sprang a warrior from the prow — 
Leades ! by the stately brow. 
Forgotten toil, forgotten care, 
All his worn heart has had to bear. 
That heart is full ! He hears the sigh 
That breathed ' Farewell !' so tenderly. 
If even then it was most sweet, 
What will it be that now they meet 1 
Alas ! alas ! Hope's fair deceit ! 
He spurr'd o'er land, has cut the wave, 
To look but on CrniPPE's grave. 

It has blossom'd in beauty, that lone tree, 
Leades' kiss restored its bloom ; 

For wild he kiss'd the wither'd stem — 
It grew upon Ctdippe's tomb ! 

And there he dwelt The hottest ray, 

Still dew upon the branches lay 

Like constant tears. The winter came ; 

Dut still the green tree stood the same. 



And it was said, at evening's close, 
A sound of whisper'd music rose ; 
That 'twas the trace of viewless feet 
Made the flowers more than flowers sweet. 
At length Leades died. That day, 
Bark and green foliage past away 
From the lone tree, — again a thing 
Of wonder and of perishing! 



One evening I had roam'd beside 
The winding of the Arno's tide ; 
The sky was flooded with moonlight : 
Below the waters azure bright, 
Palazzos with their marble halls, 
Green gardens, silver waterfalls, 
And orange groves and citron shades, 
And cavaliers and dark-eyed maids ; 
Sweet voices singing, echoes sent 
From many a rich-toned instrument. 
I could not bear this loveliness ! 

It was on such a night as this 
That love had lighted up my dream 

Of long despair and short-lived bliss. 
I sought the city ; wandering on, 

Unconscious where my steps might be : 
My heart was deep in other thoughts ; 

All places were alike to me : — 
At length I stopp'd beneath the walls 
Of San Mark's old cathedral halls. 
I enter'd : — and, beneath the roof, 
Ten thousand wax-lights burnt on high 
And incense on the censers fumed 
As for some great solemnit}^. 
The white-robed choristers were singing , 
Their cheerful peal the bells were ringing : 
Then deep-voiced music floated round, 
As the far arches sent forth sound — 
The stately organ : — and fair bands 
Of young girls strew'd, with lavish hands, 
Violets o'er the mosaic floor ; 
And sang while scattering the sweet store. 

I turn'd me to a distant aisle 

Where but a feeble glimmering cams 
(Itself in darkness) of the smile 

Sent from the tapers' perfumed flame 
And colour'd as each pictured pane 
Shed o'er the blaze its crimson stain : — 
While, from the window o'er my head, 
A dim and sickly gleam was shed 
From the young moon, — enough to show 
That tomb and tablet lay below. 
I leant upon one monument, — 

'Twas sacred to unhappy love : 
On it were carved a blighted pine — 

A broken r<ix>c: — a wounded dove. 



THE IMPROVISATRICE. 



19 



\nd two or three brief words told all 

Her history who lay beneath : — 
The flowers — at morn her bridal flowers, — 
Form'd, e'er the eve, her funeral wreath.' 

I could but envy her. I thought, 
How sweet it must be thus to die ! 

Your last looks watch'd— your last sigh caught, 
As life or heaven were in that sigh ! 

Passing in loveliness and light ; 

Your heart as pure, — your cheek as bright 

As the spring-rose, whose petals shut 

By sun unscorch'd, by shower unwet ; 

Leaving behind a memory 

Shrined in love's fond eternity. 

But I was waken'd from this dream 

By a burst of light — a gush of song — 
A welcome, as the stately doors 

Pour'd in a gay and gorgeous throng. 
I could see all from where I stood. 

And first I look'd upon the bride ; 
She was a pale and lovely girl ; — 

But, O God ! who was by her side 1 — 
Lorenzo ! — No, I did not speak; 
My heart beat high, but could not break. 
I shriek'd not, wept not ; but stood there 
Motionless in my still despair ; 
As I were forced by some strange thrall, 
To bear with and to look on all, — 
[ heard the hymn, I heard the vow : 
(Mine ear throbs with them even now !) 
I saw the young bride's timid cheek 

Blushing beneath her silver veil. 
* saw Lorenzo kneel ! Methought 

('Twas but a thought !) he too was pale. 
But when it ended, and his lip 

Was prest to hers — I saw no more ! 
My heart grew cold, — my brain swam round, — 

I sank upon the cloister floor ! 
I lived, — if that may be call'd life, 

From which each charm of life has fled — 
Happiness gone, with hope and love, — 

In all but breath already dead. 

Rust gather'd on the silent chords 
Of my neglected lyre, — the breeze 

Was now its mistress : music brought 
For me too bitter memories ! 

The ivy darken'd o'er my bower ; 

Around, the weeds choked every flower. 

I pleased me in this desolateness, 

As each thing bore my fate's impress. 

At length T made myself a task — 
To paint that Cretan maiden's fate, 

Whom Love taught such deep happiness, 
And whom Love left so desolate. 



I drew her on a rocky shore : — 

Her black hair loose, and sprinkled o er 

With white sea-foam ; — her arms were bare, 

Flung upwards in their last despair. 

Her naked feet the pebbles prest ; 

The tempest-wind sang in her vest : 

A wild stare in her glassy eyes ; 

White lips, as parch'd by their hot sighs , 

And cheek more pallid than the spray, 

Which, cold and colourless, on it lay : — 

Just such a statue as should be 

Placed ever, Love ! beside thy shrine ; 
Warning thy victims of what ills — 

What burning tears, false god ! are thine, 
Before her was the darkling sea : 

Behind the barren mountains rose — 
A fit home for the broken heart 

To weep away life, wrongs, and woes ! 

I had now but one hope : — that when 

The hand that traced these tints was cold- 
Its pulse but in their passion seen — 
Lorenzo might these tints behold, 
And find my grief; — think — see — feel all 
I felt, in this memorial ! 

It was one evening, — the rose-light 

Was o'er each green veranda shining ; 
Spring was just breaking, and white buds 

Were 'mid the daiker ivy twining. 
My hall was fill'd with the perfume 
Sent from the early orange bloom : 
The fountain, in the midst, was fraught 
With rich hues from the sunset caught ; — 
And the first song came from the dove, 
Nestling in the shrub alcove. 
But why pause on my happiness 1 — 

Another step was with mine there 
Another sigh than mine made sweet 

With its dear breath the scented air ! 
Lorenzo ! could it be my hand, 

That now was trembling in thine own * 
Lorenzo ! could it be mine ear 

That drank the music of thy tone 1 

We sat us by a lattice, where 

Came in the soothing evening breeze, 
Rich with the gifts of early flowers, 

And the soft wind-lute's symphonies. 
And in the twilight's vesper-hour, 
Beneath the hanging jasmine-shower, 
I heard a tale, — as fond, as dear 
As e'er was pour'd in woman's ear ! 

Lorenzo's history. 

I was betroth' d from earliest youth 
To a fair orphan, who was left 



2^ 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



beneath m) T father's roof and care, — 

Of every other friend bereft : 
An heiress, with her fertile vales, 

Caskets of Indian gold and pearl ; 
Yet meek as poverty itself, 

And timid as a peasant girl : 
A delicate, frail thing, — but made 
For spring sunshine, or summer shade; — 
A slender flower, unmeet to bear 
One April shower, — so slight, so fair. 

1 loved her as a brother loves 

His favourite sister : — and when war 
First call'd me from our long-shared home 

To bear my father's sword afar, 
I parted from her, — not as one 

Whose life and soul are wrung by parting 
With death-cold brow and throbbing pulse, 

And burning tears like lifeblood starting. 
Lost in war dreams, I scarcely heard 

The prayer that bore my name above : 
The " Farewell !" that kiss'd off her tears, 

Had more of pity than of love ! 
I thought of her not with that deep, 
Intensest memory love will keep 
More tenderly than life. To me 

She was but as a dream of home, — 
One of those calm and pleasant thoughts 

That o'er the soldier's spirit come ; 
Remembering him, when battle lowrs, 
Of twilight walks and fireside hours. 

I came to thy bright Florence when 

The task of blood was done : 
I saw thee ! Had I lived before 1 

O, no ! my life but then begun. 
Ay, by that blush ! the summer rose 

Has not more luxury of light ! 
Ay, by those eyes ! whose language is 

Like what the clear stars speak at night, 
Thy first look was a fever spell ! — 
Thy first word was an oracle 
Which seal'd my fate ! I worshipp'd thee, 
My beautiful, bright deity ! 
Worshipp'd thee as a sacred thing 
Of Genius' high imagining ; 
But loved thee for thy sweet revealing 
Of woman's own most gentle feeling. 
I might have broken from the chain 

Thy power, thy glory round me flung ! 
But never might forget thy blush — 

The smile which on thy sweet lips hung ! 
I lived but in thy sight ! One night 

From thy hair fell a myrtle blossom ; 
It was a relic that breathed of thee : 

Look ! it has wither'd in my bosom ! 
Yet I was wretched, though I dwelt 

In the sweet sight of Paradise : 



A curse lay on me. But not now, 

Thus cmiled upon by those dear eyes, 
Will I tnink over thoughts of pain. 

I'll only tell thee that the line 
That ever told Love's misery, 

Ne'er told of misery like mine ! 
I wedded. — I could not have borne 

To see the young Iaxthe blighted 
By that worst blight the spring can know- 
Trusting affection ill requited ! 
0, was it that she was too fair, 

' Too innocent for this damp earth ; 
And that her native star above 

Reclaim'd again its gentle birth 1 
She faded. 0, my peerless queen, 

I need not pray thee pardon me 
For owning that my heart then felt 

For any other than for thee ! 
I bore her to those azure isles 

Where health dwells by the side of spring 
And deem'd their green and sunny vales, 

And calm and fragrant airs, might bring 
Warmth to the cheek, light to the eye, 
Of her who was too young to die. 
It was in vain ! — and, day by day 
The gentle creature died away. 
As parts the odour from the rose — 
As fades the sky at twilight's close — 
She past so tender and so fair ; 

So patient, though she knew each breath 
Might be her last ; her own mild smile 

Parted her placid lips in death. 
Her grave is under southern skies ; 
Green turf and flowers o'er it rise. 

! nothing but a pale spring wreath 
Would fade o'er her who lies beneath ! 

1 gave her prayers — I gave her tears — 

I staid awhile beside her grave ; 
Then led by Hope, and led by Love, 

Again I cut the azure wave. 
What have I more to say, my life ! 

But just to pray one smile of thine, 
Telling I have not loved in vain — 

That thou dost join these hopes of mine * 
Yes, smile, sweet love ! our life will be 

As radiant as a fairy tale ! 
Glad as the sky-lark's earliest song — 

Sweet as the sigh of the spring gale ! 
All, all that life will ever be, 
Shone o'er, divinest love ! by thee.. 






0, mockery of happiness 

Love now was all too late to save. 
False Love ! what had you to do 

With one you had led to the grave ' 
A little time I had been glad 
To mark the paleness on my cheek ; 



THE IMPROVISATRICE. 



21 



1*0 feel how, day by day, my step 

Grew fainter, and my hand more weak 
To know the fever of my soul 

Was also preying on my frame : 
But now I would have given worlds 

To change the crimson hectic's flame 
For the pure rose of health ; to live 
For the dear life that Love could give. 
— 0. youth may sicken at its bloom, 
And wealth and fame pray for the tomb ; — 
But can love bear from love to part, 
And not cling to that one dear heart 1 
I shrank away from death, — my tears 
Had been unwept in other years : — 
But thus, in love's first ecstasy. 
Was it not worse than death to -die 1 
Lorenzo! I would live for thee ! 
But thou wilt have to weep for me ! 
That sun has kiss'd the morning dews, — 

I shall not see its twilight close ! 
Tnat rose is fading in the noon, 

And I shall not outlive that rose ! 
Come, let me lean upon thy breast, 
My last, best place of happiest rest ! 
Once more let me breathe thy sighs — 
Look once more in those watching eyes ! 
! but for thee, and grief of thine, 
And parting, I should not repine ! 
It is deep happiness to die, 
Yet live in Love's dear memory. 
Thou wilt remember me, — my name 
Is link'd with beauty and with fame. 
The summer airs, the summer sky, 
The soothing spell of Music's sigh, — 
Stars in their poetry of night, 
The silver silence of moonlight, — 
The dim biush of the twilight hours, 
The fragrance of the bee-kiss'd flowers : — 
But, more than all, sweet songs will be 
Thrice sacred unto Love and me. 
Lorenzo ! be this kiss a spell ! 
My first ! — my last ! Farewell ! — Farewell 



There is a lone and stately hall, 
Its master dwells apart from all. 



I A wanderer through Italia's land, 

One night a refuge there I found. 
The lightning flash roll'd o'er the sky, 

The torrent rain was sweeping round : 
These won me entrance. He was young, 

The castle's lord, but pale like age ; 
His brow, as sculpture beautiful, 

Was wan as Grief's corroded page, 
He had no words, he had no smiles, 

No hopes : — his sole employ to brood 
Silently over his sick heart 

In sorrow and in solitude. 
I saw the hall where, day by day, 
He mused his weary life away ; 
It scarcely seem'd a place for wo, 

But rather like a genie's home. 
Around were graceful statues ranged, 

And pictures shone around the dome. 
But there was one — a loveliest one ! — 

One picture brightest of all there ! 
! never did the painter's dream 

Shape thing so gloriously fair ! 
It was a face ! — the summer day 

Is not more radiant in its light ! 
Dark flashing eyes, like the deep stars 

Lighting the azure brow of night ; 
A blush like sunrise o'er the rose ; 

A cloud of raven hair, whose shade 
Was sweet as evening's, and whose curls 

Cluster'd beneath a laurel braid. 
She leant upon a harp : — one hand 

Wander'd, like snow, amid the chords ; 
The lips were opening with such life, 

You almost heard the silvery words. 
She look'd a form of light and life, — 

All soul, all passion, and all fire ; 
A priestess of Apollo's, when 

The morning beams fall on her lyre ; 
A Sappho, or ere love had turn'd 
The heart to stone where once it burn'd. 
But by the picture's side was placed 
A funeral urn, on which was traced 
The heart's recorded wretchedness ; — 

And on a tablet, hung above, 
Was 'graved one tribute of sad words — 

" Lorenzo to his Minstrel Love." 



PALES, AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ROSALIE. 

Tis a wild tale — and sad, too, as the sigh 

That young lips breathe when Love's first dream- 

ings fly ; 
When blights and cankerworms, and chilling 

showers, 
Come withering o'er the warm heart's passion- 
flowers. 
Love ! gentlest spirit ! I do tell of thee, — 

Of all thy thousand hopes, thy many fears, 

Thy morning blushes, and thy evening tears ; 
What thou hast ever been, and still will be, — 
Life's best, but most betraying witchery ! 

It is a night of summer, — and the sea 
Sleeps, like a child, in mute tranquillity. 
Soft o'er the deep-blue wave the moonlight breaks ; 

Gleaming, from out the white clouds of its zone, 
Like beauty's changeful smile, when that it seeks 

Some face it loves, yet fears to dwell upon. 
The waves are motionless, save where the oar, 

Light as Love's anger, and as quickly gone, 
Has broken in upon their azure sleep. 

Odours are on the air : — the gale has been 
Wandering in groves where the rich roses weep, — 
Where orange, citron, and the soft lime-flowers 
Shed forth their fragrance to night's dewy hours. 
Afar the distant city meets the gaze, 

Where tower and turret in the pale light shine, 
Seen like the monuments of other days — 
Monuments Time half shadows, half displays. 
And there are many, who, with witching song 

And wild guitar's soul-thrilling melody, 
Or the lute's melting music, float along 

O'er the blue waters, still and silently. 
That night had Naples sent her best display 
Of young and gallant, beautiful and gay. 

There was a bark a little way apart 

From all the rest, and there two lovers leant : — 
One with a blushing cheek and beating heart, 

And bashful glance, upon the sea-wave bent ; 

She might not meet the gaze the other sent 
Upon her beauty ; — but the half-breathed sighs 
The deepening colour, timid smiling eyes, 
Told that she listen'd Love's sweet flatteries. 
Then they were silent : — words are little aid 
To love, whose deepest vows are ever made 
By the heart's beat alone. O, silence is 
[love's own peculiar eloquence of bliss ! — 



Music swept past : — it was a simple tone ; 

But it has waken'd heartfelt sympathies; — 
It has brought into life things past and gojie ; 

Has waken'd all those secret memories, 
That may be smother'd, but that still will be 
Present within thy soul, young Rosalie ! 
The notes had roused an answering chord within: — 
In other days, that song her vesper hymn ha 

been. 
Her alter'd look is pale : — that dewy eye 

Almost belies the smile her rich lips wear ; — 
That smile is mock'd by a scarce-breathing sigh, 

Which tells of silent and suppress'd care — 

Tells that the life is withering with despair, 
More irksome from its unsunned silentness — 

A festering wound the spirit pines to bear ; 
A galling chain, whose pressure will intrude, 
Fettering Mirth's step, and Pleasure's lightesl 
mood. 

Where are her thoughts thus wandering 1 — A 
spot, 
Now distant far, is pictured on her mind, — 
A chestnut shadowing a low white cot, 

With rose and jasmine round the casement 

twined, 
Mix'd with the myrtle-tree's luxuriant blind. 
Alone, (0 ! should such solitude be here ?) 
An aged form beneath the shade reclined, 
Whose eye glanced round the scene ; — and then 
a tear 
Told that she miss'd one in her heart en- 
shrined ! 
Then came remembrances of other times, 

When eve oped her rich bowers for the pal 
day; 
When the faint, distant tones of convent chimes 
Were answer'd by the lute and vesper lay ; — 
When the fond mother blest her gentle child, 
And for her welfare pray'd the Virgin mild. 

And she has left the aged one to steep 

Her nightly couch with tears for that lost 
child,— 

The Rosalie, — who left her age to weep, 
When that the tempter flatter'd her and wiled 
Her steps away, from her own home beguiled. 

She started up in agony : — her eye 

Met Manfredi's. Softly he spoke, and smiled 

Memory is past, and thought and feeling lie 

Lost in one dream — all thrown on one wild die. 

22 



TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



23 



ihey floated o'er the waters, till the moon 
Look'd from the blue sky in her zenith noon, — 
Till each glad bark at length had sought the 

shore, 
And the waves ccho'd to the lute no more ; 
Then sought their gay palazzo, where the ray 
Of lamps shed light only less bright than day ; 
And there they feasted till the morn did fling 
Her blushes o'er their mirth and revelling. 

And life was as a tale of faerie, — 
As when some Eastern genie rears bright bowers, 
And spreads the green turf and the colour'd 
flowers ; 

And calls upon the earth, the sea, the sky, 
To yield their treasures for some gentle qu-een, 
Whose reign is over the enchanted scene. 
And Rosalie had pledged a magic cup — 

The maddening cup of pleasure and of love ! 
There was for her one only dream on earth ! 

There was for her one only star above ! — 
She bent in passionate idolatry 
Before her heart's sole idol — Maetkedi ! 



II. 



'Tis night again — a soft and summer night ; — 
A deep blue-heaven, white clouds, moon and star- 
light;— 
So calm, so beautiful, that human eye 
Might weep to look on such a tranquil sky : — 
A night just form'd for Hope's first dream of 

bliss, 
Or for Love's yet more perfect happiness ! 

The moon is o'er a grove of cypress trees, 
Weeping, like mourners, in the plaining breeze ; 
Echoing the music of a rill, whose song 
Glided so sweetly, but so sad, along. 

There is a little chapel in the shade, 
Where many a pilgrim has knelt down and 

pray'd 
To the sweet saint, whose portrait, o'er the shrine, 
The painter's skill has made all but divine. 
It was a pale, a melancholy face, — 

A cheek which bore the trace of frequent tears, 
And worn by grief, — though grief might not 
efface 
The seal that beauty set in happier years ; 
And such a smile as on the brow appears 

Of one whose earthly thoughts, long since sub- 
dued 
Past this life's joys and sorrows, hopes and fears — 
The worldly dreams o'er which the many 

brood. — 
The heart-beat hush'd in mild and chasten 'd 
mood. 



vcpt 

Those precious tears that heal and purify. 
Love yet upon her lip his station kept, 

But heaven and heavenly thoughts were in hei 
eye. 
One knelt before the shrine, with cheek as pale 
As was the cold white marble. Can this be 
The young — the loved — the happy Rosalie 1 
Alas ! alas ! hers is a common tale : — 
She trusted, — as youth ever has believed ; — 
She heard Love's vows — confided — was deceived '. 

Oh, Love ! thy essence is thy purity ! 

Breathe one unhallow'd breath upon thy flame, 
And it is gone fore ver,— and but leaves 

A sullied vase — its pure light lost in shame ! 

And Rosalie was loved, — not with that pure 
And holy passion which can age endure ; 
But loved with wild and self-consuming fires, — 
A torch which glares — and scorches — and ex-/ 

pires. 
A little while her dream of bliss remain'd, — 
A little while Love's wings were left unchain'd. 
But change came o'er the trusted Maxeredi : 
His heart forgot its vow'd idolatry ; 
And his forgotten love was left to brood 
O'er wrongs and ruin in her solitude ! 

How very desolate that breast must be, 
Whose only joyance is in memory ! 
And what must woman suffer, thus betray'd ! — 
Her heart's most warm and precious feelings mado 
But things wherewith to wound : that heart — so 

weak, 
So soft — laid open to the vulture's beak ! 
Its sweet revealings given up to scorn 
It bums to bear, and yet that must be borne ! 
And, sorer still, that bitterer emotion, 
To know the shrine which had our soul's devotion 
Is that of a false deity ! — to look 
Upon the eyes we worshipp'd, and brook 
Their cold reply ! Yet these are all for her ! — 
The rude world's outcast, and love's wanderer ! 
Alas ! that love, which is so sweet a thing, 
Should ever cause guilt, grief, cr suffering ! 
Yet she upon whose face the sunbeams fall — 
That dark-eyed girl — had felt their bitterest thrall i 

She thought upon her love ; and there was not 
In passion's record one green sunny spot — 
It had been all a madness and a dream, 
The shadow of a flower on the stream, 
Which seems, but is not ; and then memory turn'd 
To her lone mother. How her bosom burn'd 
With sweet and bitter thoughts ! There might he 

rest — 
The wounded dove will flee into her nest- 



24 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



That mother's arms might fold her child again, 
The cold world scorn, the cruel smite in vain, 
And falsehood be remember'd no more, 
Tn that calm shelter : — and she might weep o'er 
Her faults and find forgiveness. Had not she 

To whom she knelt found pardon in the eyes 

Of Heaven, in offering for sacrifice 
A broken heart 1 And might not pardon be 
Also for her ] She look'd up to the face 

Of that pale saint ; and in that gentle brow, 
Which seem'd to hold communion with her 
thought, 

There was a smile which gave hope energy. 
She pray'd one deep, wild prayer, — that she might 

gain 
The home she hoped ; — then sought that home 
again. 

A flush of beauty is upon the sky — 
Eve's last warm blushes — like the crimson dye 
The maiden wears, when first her dark eyes 

meet 
The graceful lover's sighing at her feet. 
And there were sounds of music on the breeze, 
And perfume shaken from the citron trees ; 
V\ hile the dark chestnuts caught a golden ray 
On their green leaves, the last bright gift of day ; 
And peasants dancing gayly in the shade 
To the soft mandolin, whose light notes made 
An echo fit to the glad voices singing. 
The twilight spirit his sweet urn is flinging 
Of dew upon the lime and orange stems, 
And giving to the rose pearl diadems. 

There is a pilgrim by that old gray tree, 
With head Upon her hand bent mournfully ; 
And looking round upon each lovely thing, 
And breathing the sweet air, as they could bring- 
To her no beauty and no solacing. 
'Tis Rosalie ! Her prayer was not in vain, 
The truant-child has sought her home again ! 

It must be worth a life of toil and care, — 
Worth those dark chains the wearied one must 

Dear 
Who toils up fortune's steep, — all that can wring 
The worn-out bosom with lone suffering, — 
Worth restlessness, oppression, goading fears, 
And long-deferr'd hopes of many years, — 
To reach again that little quiet spot, 
So well loved once, and never quite forgot ; — 
To trace again the steps of infancy, 
And catch their freshness from their memory ! 
And it is triumph, sure, when fortune's sun 
Has shone upon us, and our task is done, 
To show our harvest to the eyes which were 
Once all the world to us ! Perhaps there are 
Some who bad presaged kindly of our youth ; 
Feel we not proud their prophecy was sooth 1 



But how felt Rosalie ? — The very air 

Seem'd as it brought reproach ! there was no 
eye 
To look delighted, welcome none was there ! 
She felt as feels an outcast wandering by 
Where every door is closed ! She look'd around ! — 
She heard some voices' sweet familiar sound. 
There were some changed, and some remember'd 

things ; 
There were girls, whom she left in their first 

springs, 
Now blush'd into full beauty. There was one 
Whom she loved tenderly in days now gone ! 
She was not dancing gayly with the rest ; 
A rose-cheek'd child within her arms was prest ; 
And it had twined its small hands in the hair 
That cluster'd o'er its mother's brow : as fair 
As buds in spring. She gave her laughing dove 
To one who clasp'd it with a father's love ; 
And if a painter's eye had sought a scene 
Of love in its most perfect loveliness- 
Of childhood, and of wedded happiness, — 
He would have painted the sweet Madeline ! 
But Rosalie shrank from them, and she stray'd 
Through a small grove of cypresses, whose shade 
Hung o'er a burying-ground, where the low stone 
And the gray cross recorded those now gone ! 
There was a grave just closed. Not one seem'd 

near, 
To pay the tribute of one long — last tear ! 
How very desolate must that one be 
Whose more than grave has not a memory ! 

Then Rosalie thought on her mother's age, — 
Just such her end would be with her away : 

No child the last cold death-pang to assuage — 
No child by her neglected tomb to pray ! 

She ask'd — and like a hope from heaven it 
came ! — 

To hear them answer with a stranger's name. 

She reach'd her mother's cottage ; by that gate 
She thought how her once lover wont to wait 
To tell her honey'd tales ; and then she thought 
On all the utter ruin he had wrought ! 
The moon shone brightly, as it used to do 
Ere youth, and hope, and love, had been untrue ; 
But it shone o'er the desolate ! The flowers 
Were dead; the faded jessamine, unbound, 
Trail'd, like a heavy weed, upon the ground ; 
And fell the moonlight vainly over trees, 
Which had not even one rose, — although the 

breeze, 
Almost as if in mockery, had brought 
Sweet tones it from the nightingale had caught ! 

She enter'd in the cottage. None were there ! 
The hearth was dark, — the walls look'd cold and 
bare! 



TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



25 



All — all spoke poverty and suffering ! 
All — all was changed ! and but one only thing 
Kept its old place ! Rosalie's mandolin 
Hung on the wall, where it had ever been. 
There was one other room, — and Rosalie 
Sought for her mother there. A heavy flame 
Gleam'd from a dying lamp ; a cold air came 
Damp from the broken casement. There one lay, 
Like marble seen but by the moonlight ray ! 
And Rosalie drew near. One wither'd hand 
"Was stretch'd, as it would reach a wretched stand 
Where some cold water stood ! And by the bed 
She knelt — and gazed — and saw her mother — 
dead ! 



ROLAND'S TOWER. 



A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. 



O, Heaven ! the deep fidelity of love ! 

Wiieiie, like a courser starting from the spur, 
Rushes the deep-blue current of the Rhine, 
A little island rests ; green cypresses 
Are its chief growth, bending their heavy boughs 
O'er gray stones marking long-forgotten graves. 
A convent once stood here ; and yet remain 
Relics of other times, pillars and walls, 
Worn away and discolour'd, yet so hung 
With wreaths of ivy that the work of rum 
Is scarcely visible. How like this is 
To the so false exterior of the world ! 
Outside all looks so fresh and beautiful ; 
But mildew, rot, and worm, work on beneath, 
Until the heart is utterly decay'd. 
There is one grave distinguish'd from the rest, 
But only by a natural monument : — 
A thousand deep-blue violets have grown 
Over the sod. — I do love violets : 
They tell the history of woman's love , 
They open with the earliest breath of spring ; 
Lead a sweet life of perfume, dew, and light ; 
And, if they perish, perish with a sigh 
Delicious as that life. On the hot June 
They shed no perfume : the flowers may remain, 
But the rich breathing of their leaves is past ; — 
Like woman, they have lost their loveliest gift, 
When yielding to the fiery hour of passion : 
The violet breath of love is purity. 

On the shore opposite, a tower stands 
In ruins, with a mourning-robe of moss 
Hung on the gray and shatter'd walls, which flinj 
A shadow on the waters : it comes o'er 



The waves, all bright with sunshine, like the 

gloom 
Adversity throws on the heart's young gladness 

I saw the river on a summer eve : 
The sun was setting over fields of corn, — 
'Twas like a golden sea ; — and on the left 
Were vineyards, whence the grapes shone forth 

like gems, 
Rubies, and lighted amber ; and thence spread 
A wide heath cover'd with thick furze, whose 

flowers, 
So bright, are like the pleasures of this world, 
Beautiful in the distance, but, once gain'd, 
Little worth, piercing through the thorns which 

grow 
Around them ever. Wilder and more steep 
The banks upon the river's other side : 
Tall pines rose up like warriors ; the wild rose 
Was there in all its luxury of bloom, 
Sown by the wind, nursed by the dew and sun : 
And on the steeps were crosses gray and old, 
Which told the fate of some poor traveller. 
The dells were fill'd with dwarfed oaks and firs ; 
And on the heights, which master'd all the rest, 
Were castles, tenented now by the owl, 
The spider's garrison : there is not one 
Without some strange old legend of the days 
When love was life and death, — when lady 'a 

glove 
Or sunny curl were banners of the battle. — 
My history is of the tower which looks 
Upon the little island. 

Lord Herbert sat him in his hall : thehearth 
Was blazing as it mock'd the storm without 
With its red cheerfulness : the dark hounds lay 
Around the fire ; and the old knight had doff 'd 
His hunting-cloak, and listen'd to the lute 
And song of the fair girl who at his knee 
Was seated. In the April hour of life, 
When showers are led by rainbows, and the heart 
Is all bloom and green leaves, was Isabelle: 
A band of pearls, white like the brow o'er which 
They past, kept the bright curls from off the fore- 
head ; thence 
They wander'd to her feet — a golden shower. 
She had that changing colour on the cheek 
Which speaks the heart so well ; those deep-blue 

eyes, 
Like summer's darkest sky, but not so glad- — 
They were too passionate for happiness. 
Light was within her eves, bloom on her cheek, 
Her song had raised the spirit of her race 
Upon her eloquent brow. She had just told 
Of the young Roland's deeds, — how he had stood 
Against a host and- conquer'd ; when there came 
A pilgrim to the hall — and never yet 
c 



26 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Had stranger ask'd for shelter and in vain ! 

The board was spread, the Rhenish flask was 

drain'd; 
Again they gather' d round the hearth, again 
The maiden raised her song ; and at its close, — 
" I would give worlds," said she, " to see this 

chief, 
This gallant Roland ! I could deem him all 
A man must honour and a woman love !" 
" Lady ! I'pray thee not recall those words, 
For I am Roland !" From his face he threw 
The hood and pilgrim's cloak, — and a young 

knight 
Knelt before Isaeelle ! 

They loved ; — they were beloved. 0, happiness ! 
I have said all that can be said of bliss, 
In saying that they loved. The young heart has 
Such store of wealth in its own fresh wild pulse ; 
And it is love that works the mind, and brings 
Its treasure to the light. I did love once — 
Loved as youth — woman — genius loves; though 

now 
My heart is chill'd and sear'd, and taught to wear 
That falsest of false things — a mask of smiles ; 
Yet every pulse throbs at the memory 
Of that which has been ! Love is like the glass 
That throws its own rich colour over all, 
And makes all beautiful. The morning looks 
Its very loveliest, when the fresh air 
Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad red ; 
And the hot noon flits by most rapidly, 
When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page 
Bearing the poet's words of love : and then 
The twilight walk, when the link'd arms can feel 
The beating of the heart ; upon the air 
There is a music never heard but once, — 
A light the eyes can never see again ; 
Each star has its own prophecy of hope, 
And every song and tale that breathe of love 
Seem echoes of the heart. 

And time past by — 
As time will ever pass, when Love has lent 
His rainbow plumes to aid his flight — and spring 
Had wedded with the summer, when a steed 
Stood at Lord Herbert's gate, — and Isabelle 
Had wept farewell to Roland, and had given 
Her blue scarf for his colours. He was gone 
To raise his vassals, for Lord Herbert's towers 
Were menaced with a siege ; and he had sworn 
By Isabelle's white hand that he would claim 
Its beauty only as a conqueror's prize. 
Autumn was on the woods, when the blue Rhine 
Grew red with blood: — Lord Herbert's banner 

flies, 
A.nd gallant is the bearing }f his ranks. 



But where is he who said that he would rde 

At his right hand to battle 1 — Roland ! where— 

! Where is Roland 1 

Isabelle has watch'd 
Day after day, night after night, in. vain, 
Till she has wept in hopelessness, and though 
Upon old histories, and said with them, 
" There is hope in man's fidelity !" 
Isabelle stood upon her lonely tower ; 
And, as the evening star rose up, she saw 
An arm'd train bearing her father's banner 
In triumph to the castle. Down she flew 
To greet the victors : — they had reach' d the hall 
Before herself. What saw the maiden there 1 
A bier ! — her father laid upon that bier ! 
Roland was kneeling by the side, his face 
Bow'd on his hands and hid ; — but Isabelle 
Knew the dark curling hair and stately form, 
And threw her on his breast. He shrank away 
As she were death, or sickness, or despair. 
" Isabelle ! it was I who slew thy father !" 
She fell almost a corpse upon the body. 
It was too true ! With all a lover's speed, 
Roland had sought the thickest of the fight ; 
He gain'd the field just as the crush began ; — 
Unwitting of his colours, he had slain 
The father cf his worshipp'd Isabelle I 

They met once more ; — and Isabelle was 

changed 
As much as if a lapse of years had past : 
She was so thin, so pale, and her dim eye 
Had wept away its luxury of blue. 
She had cut off her sunny hair, and wore 
A robe of black, with a white crucifix : — 
It told her destiny — her youth was vow'd 
To heaven. And in the convent of the isle 
That day she was to enter, Roland stood 
Like marble, cold, and pale, and motionless : 
The heavy sweat upon his brow was all 
His sign of life. At length he snatch'd the scarf 
That Isabelle had tied aroUnd his neck, 
And gave it her, — and pray'd that she would wave 
Its white folds from the lattice of her cell 
At each pale rising of the evening star, 
That he might know she lived. They parted- 

never 
Those lovers met again ! But Roland built 
A tower beside the Rhine, and there he dwelt. 
And every evening saw the white scarf waved, 
And heard the vesper hymn of Isabelle ♦ 
Float in deep sweetness o'er the silent river. 
One evening, and he did not see the scarf, — 
He watch'd and watch' d in vain ; at length hia 

hope 
Grew desperate, and he pray'd his Isabelle 
Might have forgotten him : — but midnight came. 



TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



37 



And with it came the convent's heavy bell, 
Tolling for a departed soul ; and then 
He knew that Isabelle was dead ! Next day 
They laid her In her grave ; — and the moon rose 
Upon a mourner wseping there : — that tomb 
Was Roland's death-bed ! 



THE GUERILLA CHIEF. 

But the war-storm came on the mountain gale, 

And man's heartbeat high, though his cheek was pale 

For blood and dust lay on the white hair, 

And the maiden wept o'er her last despair; 

The hearth was cold, and the child was prest 

A corpse to the murder 'd mother's breast ; 

And fear and guilt, and sorrow and shame, 

Darken'd wherever the war-fiend came. 

It stood beneath a large old chestnut tree, 

And had stood there for years : — the moonlight 

fell 
Over the white walls, which the vine had hung 
With its thick leaves and purple fruit : a pair 
Of pigeons, like the snow, were on the roof 
Nestled together ; and a plaining sound 
Came from a fountain murmuring through the 

wood, 
Less like the voice of sorrow than of love. 
Tali trees were gather'd round : — the dark green 

beech ; 
The sycamore, with scarlet colours on, 
The herald of the autumn ; dwarf rose trees, 
Cover'd with their last wealth ; the poplar tall, 
A silver spire ; olives with their pale leaves ; 
And some most graceful shrubs, amid whose 

boughs 
Were golden oranges ; and hollow oaks, 
Where the bees built their honey palaces. 
It was a silent and a lovely place, 
Where Peace might rest her white wings. But 

one came 
From out the cottage, — not as one who comes 
To gaze upon the beauty of the sky 
And fill his spirit with a calm delight ; 
But with a quick though noiseless step, as one 
Who fears the very echo of that step 
May raise a sceptre. W hen he reach'd the fount, 
He sat down by its side, and turn'd to gaze 
Upon the cottage : from his brow the sweat 
Pour'd down like summer rain ; there came no 

sound 
From his white lips, but you might hear his 

heart 
Beating in the deep silence. But at length 
A voice came to his sorrow — " Never — never 
Shall I look on their face again ! Farewell ! 
I cannot bear that word's reproach, nor look 



On pale lips breathing blessings which the tear 
Belie in speaking ! I have blighted all — 
All — all their hopes, and my own happiness !" 

" Leaxdro !" said a sweet and gentle voice •, 
And a soft hand press'd on his throbbing brow, 
And tears like twilight dew fell on his cheek. 
He look'd upon the maiden : — 'twas the one 
With whom his first pure love had dwelt, — the 

one 
Who was the sun and starlight of his youth ! 
She stood beside him, lovely as a saint 
Looking down pity upon penitence — 
Perhaps less bright in colour and in eye 
Than the companion of his infancy : — 
But was that cheek less fair because he knew 
That it had lost the beauty of its spring 
With passionate sorrowing for him 1 She stood 
One moment gazing on his face, as there 
Her destiny was written ; and then took 
A little crucifix of ebony, 
And placed it in his bosom from her own : — 
•' And this, Leandro ! — this shall be thy guide ! 
Thy youth has been a dream of passion ; guilt 
And evil has been round thee : — go thy way ! 
The showers of thy youth will clear to summer. 
My prayers be with thee !" — " Prayers ! — ! no- 
thing more 1 
Have I then lost thy love — thy precious love 1 
The only green leaf of my heart is wither'd !" 
She blush'd a deep-red blush ; her eloquent eyes 
Met his almost reproachfully, and her face 
Was the next moment hidden on his bosom. 
But there was happiness even in that farewell, 
Affection and deep confidence, 
Tenderness, hope, — for Love lights Hope — and 

tears, 
Delicious tears ! the heart's own dew. 

They parted. 
Leandro kept that little cross like life : 
And when beneath the sky of Mexico, — 
When earth and even heaven were strange to 

him, 
The trees, the flowers were of another growtn ; 
The birds wore other plumes ; the very stars 
Were not those he had look'd upon in boyhood. 

'Tis something, if in absence we can see 
The footsteps of the past : — it soothes the heart 
To breathe the air scented in other years 
By lips belov'd ; to wander through the groves 
Where once we were not lonely, — where the rose 
Reminds us of the hair we used to wreath 
With its fresh buds — where every hill and vale. 
And wood and fountain, speak of time gone by ;- 
And Hope springs up in joy from Memorv f « 
ashes. 



28 



MISS LAND ON 'S WORKS. 



Lean dro felt not these : — that crucifix 
Was all that wore the look of other days — 
*Twas as a dear companion. Parents, home, 
And more than all, Biakca, whose pure reign, 
Troubled by the wild passions of his youth, 
Had now regain'd its former influence, — 
All seem'd to hear the vows he made for her, 
To share his hopes, feel for his deep remorse, 
And bless him, and look forward. 

And at last 
Once more the white sail bore him o'er the sea, 
And he saw Spain again. But war was there- 
And his road lay through ruin'd villages. 
Though cold, the ashes still were red, for blood 
Had quench'd the flames ; and aged men sat down, 
And would not leave the embers, for they said 
They were too old to seek another home. 
Leandro met with one whom he had known 
In other days, and ask'd of his own valley ; — 
It yet was safe, unscath'd by the war-storm. 
He knelt down in deep thankfulness ; and then, 
Through death and danger, sought the grove once 
more. 

His way had been through a thick beechen 

wood ; 
The moon, athwart the boughs, had pour'd her 

light, 
Like hope, to guide him onwards. 
One more turn, and he should gaze upon his 

home ! 
He paused in his heart's overflowing bliss, 
And thought how he should wake them from their 

dreams — 
Perchance of him ! — of his Bianca's blush ! 
He heard the music of the fountain come — 
A sweet and welcome voice upon the wind — 
He bounded on with the light steps of hope, 
Of youth and happiness. He left the wood, 
And look'd upon — a heap of mingled blood 
And blacken'd ashes wet upon the ground ! 

He was awaken'd from his agony 
By the low accents of a woman's voice ; — 
He look'd, and knew Biakca. She was laid 
Beside the fountain, while her long black hair 
Hung like a veil down to her feet : her eyes, 
So large, so dark, so wild, shone through the 

gloom, 
Glaring like red insanity. She saw 
Her lover, shriek'd, and strove to fly — 
But fell : — her naked feet were gash'd with wounds. 
" And have I met thee but to see thee die !" 
Leandro cried, as he laid the pale face 
Upon his breast, and sobb'd like a young child. 
In vain he dash'd the cold stream on her face,— 
Still she lay like a corpse within his arms 
At length he thought him of a giant t:ee 



Whose hollow trunk, when children, they had ob 
Call'd home in playfulness. He bore her there ; 
And of fresh flowers and the dry leaves he made 
A bed for his pale love. She waked at last, 
But not to consciousness : her wandering eyes 
Fix'd upon him, and yet she knew him not !— 
Fever was on her lip and in her brain, 
And as Leandho watch' d, his heart grew sick 
To hear her rave of outrage, wrongs, and death , — 
How they were waken'd from their midnight 

sleep 
By gleaming steel — curses — and flaming root ! 
And then she groan'd and pray'd herself to die ! 

It was an evening when through the green 

leaves 
Of the old chestnut shot the golden light 
Of the rich sunset ; into the fresh air 
Leandro bore the maiden he had nurst 
As the young mother nurses her sick child. 
She laid her head upon his heart, and slept 
Her first sweet, quiet sleep : the evening star 
Gleam'd through the purple twilight when she 

waked 
Her memory aroused not to the full — 
0, that was mercy ! — but she knew her love ; 
And over her pale face a calm smile shone, — 
Fondly though faintly breathed and bless'd his 

name ! 
That night the moonlight shone upon Leandho, 
And in his arms — a corpse ! * * * * 

He lived in one deep feeling — in revenge : 
With men he mingled not but in the battle ; — 
His mingling there was deadly ! When the Gaul 
Was driven from the land which he had spoil'd, 
That dark chief sought Bianca's grave ! —A 

cross 
Marks the Guerilla and the Maiden's tomj* ! 



THE BAYADERE. 

AN INDIAN TALE. 



[" The Bayadere" was taken from some faint recollec 
tion of a tale I had either read or heard ; and meeting with 
the word " Bayadere" many years after, recalled it to my 
memory as a subject exquisitely poetical. I have been, 
since, told it was a poem of Goethe's. This poem has never 
been, to my knowledge, translated; and, being ignorant of 
the German language, I am unable to say whether the tale 
conforms to the original or not.] 



There were seventy pillars around the hall, 
Of wreath'd gold was each capital, 
And the roof was fretted with amber and gems ; 
Such as light kingly diadems ; 



TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



29 



^fhe floor was marble, white as the snow 

Kre its pureness is stain'd by its fall below : 

In the midst play'd a fountain, whose starry 

showers 
Fell, like beams, on the radiant flowers, 
Whose colours were gleaming, as every one 
Burnt from the kisses just caught from the sun ; 
And vases sent forth their silvery clouds, 
Like those which the face of the young moon 

shrouds. 
But sweet as the breath of the twilight hour 
When the dew awakens the rose's power. 
At the end of the hall was a sun-bright throne, 
Rich with every glorious stone ; 
And the purple canopy overhead 
Was like the shade o'er the dayfall shed ; 
And the couch beneath was of buds half blown, 
Hued with the blooms of the rainbow's zone ; 
And round, like festoons, a vine was roll'd, 
Whose leaf was of emerald, whose fruit was of 

gold. 
But though graced as for a festival, 
There was something sad in that stately hall : 
There floated the breath of the harp and flute, — 
But the sweetest of every music is mute : 
There are flowers of light, and spiced perfume, — 
But there wants the sweetest of breath and of 

bloom : 
And the hall is lone, and the hall is drear, 
For the smiling of woman shineth not here. 
With urns of odour o'er him weeping, 
Upon the couch a youth is sleeping : 
His radiant hair is bound with stars, 

Such as shine on the brow of night, 
Filling the dome with diamond rays, 

Only than his own curls less bright. 
And such a brow, and such an eye 
As fit a young divinity ; 
A brow like twilight's darkening line, 
An eye like morning's first sunshine, 
Now glancing through the veil of dreams 
As sudden light at daybreak streams. 
And richer than the mingled shade 
By gem, and gold, and purple made, 
His orient wings closed o'er his head ; 

Like that bird's, bright with every dye, 
Whose home, as Persian bards have said, 

Is fix'd in scented Araby. 
Some dream is passing o'er him now — 
A sudden flush is on his brow ; 
And from his lip come murmur'd words, 
Low, but sweet as the light lute chords 
When o'er its strings the night winds glide 
To woo the roses by its side. 
He, the fair bew-god, whose nest 
Is in the water-lily's breast ; 
He of the many-arrow'd bow, 
Of the joys that come and go 



Like the leaves, and of the sighs 
Like the winds of summer skies, 
Blushes like the birds of spring, 
Soon seen and soon vanishing ; 
He of hopes, and he of fears, 
He of smiles, and he of tears — 
Young CA?iDEo,he has brought 
A sweet dream of colour'd thought, 
One of love and woman's power, 
To Mandaxla's sleeping hour. 

Joyless and dark was his jcwell'd throne, 
When Mandalla awaken'd and found hint 

alone. 
He drank the perfume that around him swept, 
'Twas not sweet as the sigh he drank as he slept ; 
There was music, but where was the voice at 

whose thrill 
Every pulse in his veins was throbbing still ] 
And dim was the home of his native star 
While the light of woman and love was afar ; 
And lips of the rosebud, and violet eyes 
Are the sunniest flowers in Paradise. 
He veil'd the light of his glorious race 
In a mortal's form and a mortal's face, 
And 'mid earth's loveliest sought for one 
Who might dwell in his hall and share in his 

throne 

The loorie brought to his cinnamon nest 
The bee from the midst of its honey quest, 
And open the leaves of the lotus lay 
To welcome the noon of the summer day. 
It was glory, and light, and beauty all, 
When Mandalla closed his wing in Bengal. 
He stood in the midst of a stately square, 
As the waves of the sea roll'd the thousands 

there ; 
Their gathering was round the gorgeous car 
Where sat in his triumph the Subadar ; 
For his sabre was red with the blood of the slain, 
And his proudest foes were slaves in his chain ; 
And the sound of the trumpet, the sound of his 

name, 
Rose in shouts from the crowd as onwards he 

came. 
With gems and gold on each ataghan, 
A thousand warriors led the van, 
Mounted on steeds black as the night, 
But with foam and with stirrup gleaming ia 

light; 
And another thousand came in their rear, 
On white horses, arm'd with bow and spear, 
With quivers of gold on each shoulder laid, 
And with crimson belt for each crooked blade. 
Then follow'd the foot ranks, — their turbans 

show'd 
Like flashes of light from a mountain cloud 
c 2 



30 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



For white were the turbans as winter snow, 

And death-black the foreheads that darken'd below : 

Scarlet and white was each soldier's vest, 

And each bore a lion of gold on his breast, 

For this was the chosen band that bore 

The lion standard, — it floated o'er 

Their ranks like morning ; at every wave 

Of that purple banner, the trumpets gave 

A martial salute to the radiant fold 

That bore the lion king wrought in gold. 

And last the elephant came, whose tower 

Held the lord of this pomp and power : 

And round tbat chariot of his pride, 

Like chains of white sea-pearls, 
Or braids enwove of summer flowers, 

Glided fair dancing girls ; 
And as the rose leaves fall to earth, 

Their light feet touch'd the ground, — 
But for the zone of silver bells 

You had not heard a sound, 
As, scattering flowers o'er the way, 
Whirl' d round the beautiful array 
But there was one who 'mid them shone 
A planet lovely and alone, 
A rose, one flower amid many, 
But still the loveliest of any : 
Though fair her arm as the moonlight, 
Others might raise an arm. as white ; 
Though light her feet as music's fall, 
Others might be as musical ; 
But where were such dark eyes as hers 1 

So tender, yet withal so bright, 
As the dark orbs had in their smile 

Mingled the light of day and night. 
And where was that wild grace which shed 
A loveliness o'er every tread, 
A beauty shining through the whole, 
Something which spoke of heart and soul. 
The Almas had pass'd lightly on, 
The arm'd ranks, the crowd, were gone, 
Yet gazed Ma^halla on the square 
As she he sought still glided there, — 
O that fond look, whose eyeballs' strain, 
And will not know its look in vain ! 
At length he turn'd, — his silent mood 
Sought that impassion'd solitude, 
The Eden of young hearts, when first 
Love in its loneliness is nurst. 
He sat him by a little fount ; 

A tulip tree grew by its side, 
A lily with its silver towers 

Floated in silence on the tide ; 
And far round a banana tree 
Extended its green sanctuary ; 
And the long grass, which was his seat, 
With every motion grew mure sweet, 
Fielding a more voluptuous scent 
A.t every blade his pressure bent. 



And there he linger'd, till the sky 
Lost somewhat of its brilliancy, 
And crimson shadows roll'd on the west, 
And raised the moon her diamond crest, 
And came a freshness on the trees, 
Harbinger of the evening breeze, 
When a sweet far sound of song, 
Borne by the breath of flowers along, 
A mingling of the voice and lute, 

Such as the wind-harp, when it makes 
Its pleasant music to the gale 

Which kisses first the chords it breaks. 
He follow'd where the echo led, 

Till in a cypress-grove he found 
A funeral train, that round a grave 

Pour'd forth their sorrows' wailing sound , 
And by the tomb a choir of girls, 

With measured steps and mournful notes, 
And snow-white robes, while on the air, 
Unbound their wreaths, each dark curl floats, 
Paced round and sang to her who slept 
Calm, while their young eyes o'er her wept 
And she, that loveliest one, is here, 
The morning's radiant Bayadere : 
A darker light in her dark eyes, — 

For tears are there, — a paler brow 
Changed but to charm the morning's smile, 

Less sparkling, but more touching now. 
And first her sweet lip prest the flute, 

A nightingale waked by the rose, 
And when that honey breath was mute, 

Was heard her low song's plaintive close, 
Wailing for the young blossom's fall, 
The last, the most beloved of all. 
As died in gushing tears the lay, 
The band of mourners pass'd away : 
They left their wreaths upon the tomb, 
As fading leaves and long perfume 
Of her were emblems ; and unbound 
Many a cage's gilded round. 
And set the prisoners free, as none 
Were left to love now she was gone, 
And azure wings spread on the air, 

And songs, rejoicing songs, were heard ; 
But, pining as forgotten now, 

Linger'd one solitary bird . 
A beautiful and pearl-white dove, 
Alone in its remembering love. 
It was a strange and lovely thing 
To mark the drooping of its wing, 
And how into the grave it prest, 
Till soii'd the dark earth stain its breast ; 
And darker as the night-shades grew, 
Sadder became its wailing coo, 
As if it miss'd the hand that bore, 
As the cool twilight came, its store 
Of seeds and flowers. — There was one 
Who, like that dove, was lingering lone,— 



TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



31 



fhe Bayadere •■ her part had been 

Only the hired mourner's part 
But she had given what none might buy, — 

The precious sorrow of the heart. 
She woo'd the white dove to her breast, 
It sought at once its place of rest : 
Round it she threw her raven hair, — 
It seem'd to love the gentle snare, 
And its soft beak was raised to sip 
The honey-dew of her red lip. 
Her dark eyes fifl'd with tears, to feel 
The gentle creature closer steal 
Into her heart with soft caress, 
As it would thank her tenderness ; 
To her 'twas strange and sweet to be 
Beloved in such fond purity, 
And sigh'd M anballa to think that sin 
Could dwell so fair a shrine within. 
" O, grief to think that she is one 
Who like the breeze is woo'd and won ! 
Yet sure it were a task for love 
To come like dew of the night from above 
Upon her heart, and wash away, 
Like dust from the flowers, its stain of clay, 
And win her back in her tears to heaven 
Pure, loved, and humble, and forgiven : 
Yes ! freed from the soil of her earthly thrall 
Her smile shall light up my starry hall !" 

The moonlight is on a little bower, 
With wall and with roof of leaf and of flower, 
Built of that green and holy tree 
Which heeds not how rude the storm may be. 
Like a bridal canopy overhead 
The jasmines their slender wreathings spread, 
One with stars as ivory white, 
The other with clusters of amber light ; 
Rose trees four grew by the wall, 
Beautiful each, but different all : 
One with that pure but crimson flush 
That marks the maiden's first love-blush ; 
By its side grew another one, 
Pale as the snow of the funeral stone ; 
The next was rich with the damask dye 
Of a monarch's purple drapery ; 
And the last had leaves like those leaves of gold 
Work'd on that drapery's royal fold. 
And there were four vases, with blossoms fill'd, 
lake censers of incense, their fragrance distilPd ; 
iilies, heap'd like the pearls of the sea, 
Peep'd from their large leaves' security ; 
■fyacinths with their graceful bells, 
Where the -pirit of odour dwells 
Like the spirit of music in ocean shells ; 
And tulips, with every colour that shines 
In the radiant gems of Serendib's mines ; 
One tulip was found in every wreath, 
That cue most scorch'd by the summer's breath, 



Whose passionate leaves with their ruby glow 

Hide the heart that lies burning and black below 

And there, beneath the flower'd shade 

By a pink acacia made, 

Maxdalla lay, and by his side, 

With eye, and breath, and blush that vied 

With the star and with the flower 

In their own and loveliest hour, 

Was that fair Bayadere, the dove 

Yet nestling in her long black hair : 
She has now more than that to love, 

And the loved one sat by her there. 
And by the sweet acacia porch 
They drank the softness of the breeze.— 

more than lovely are love's dreams, 

'Mid lights and blooms and airs like these ! 
And sometimes she would leave his side, 
And like a spirit round him glide : 
A light shawl now wreath'd round her brow, 
Now waving from her hand of snow, 
Now zoned around her graceful waist, 
And now like fetters round her placed , 
And then, flung suddenly aside, 
Her many curls, instead, unbound, 
Waved in fantastic braids, till loosed, 
Her long dark tresses swept the ground : 
Then, changing from the soft slow step, 

Her white feet bounded on the wind 
Like gleaming silver, and her hair 

Like a dark banner swept behind ; 
Or with her sweet voice, sweet like a bird s 

When it pours forth its first song in spring, 
The one like an echo to the other, 

She answer'd the sigh of her soft lute-string, 
And with eyes that darken'd in gentlest tears, 

Like the dewy light in the dark-eyed dove, 
Would she sing those sorrowing songs that breathe 

Some history of unhappy love. 
" Yes, thou art mine !" Maxdalla said, — 
" I have lighted up love in thy youthful heart , 

1 taught thee its tenderness, now I must teach 

Its faith, its grief, and its gloomier part ; 
And then, from my earth stains purified, 
In my star and my hall shalt thou reign my 
bride." 

It was an evening soft and fair, 
As surely those in Eden are, 
When, bearing spoils of leaf and flower, 
Enter'd the Bayadere her bower: 
Her love lay sleeping, as she thought. 
And playfully a bunch sho caught 
Of azure hyacinth bells, and o'er 

His face she let the blossoms fall : 
" Why I am jealous of thy dreams, 

Awaken at thy Aza's call." 
No answer came from him whose tone 
Had been the echo of her own. 



32 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



She spoke again, — no words came forth ; 

She clasp'd his hand, — she raised his head,- 
One wild, loud scream, she sank beside, 

As pale, as cold, almost as dead ! 

By the Ganges raised, for the morning sun 
To shed his earliest beams upon, 
Is a funeral pile, — around it stand 
Priests and the hired mourners' band. 
But who is she that so wildly prays 
To share the couch and light the blaze 1 
Maxdalza's love, while scornful eye 
And chilling jeers mock her agony: 
An Alma girl ! O shame, deep shame, 
To Brahma's race and Brahma's name ! 
Unmark'd, unpitied, she turn'd aside, 
For a moment, her bursting tears to hide. 
None thought of the Bayadere, till the fire 
Blazed redly and fiercely the funeral pyre • 
Then like a thought she darted by, 
And sprang on the burning pile to die ! 

" Now thou art mine ! away, away 
To my own bright star, to my home of day !" 
A dear voice sigh'd, as he bore her along 
Gently as spring breezes bear the song, 
" Thy love and thy faith have won for thee 
The breath of immortality. 
Maid of earth, Mandaxla is free to call 
Azi the queen of his heart and hall!" 



ST.GEOEGE'S HOSPITAL. 

HYDE-PARK CORNER. 

These are familiar things, and yet how few 
Think of this misery !— 

I left the crowded street and the fresh day, 
And enter'd the dark dwelling, where Death was 
A daily visitant — where sickness shed 
Its weary languor o'er each fever'd couch. 
There was a sickly light, whose glimmer show'd 
Many a shape of misery : there lay 
The victims of disease, writhing with pain ; 
And low faint groans, and breathings short and 

deep, 
Each gasp a heartfelt agony, were all 
That broke the stillness. — There was one, whose 

brow 
Dark with hot climates, and gash'd o'er with scars, 
Told of the toiling march, the battle-rush, 
Where sabres flash'd, the red shots flew, and not 
One ball or blow but did Destruction's work : 
iJut then his heart was high, and his pulse beat 



Proudly and fearlessly : — now he was worn 
With many a long day's suffering, — and death's 
A fearful thing when we must count its steps ! 
And was this, then, the end of those sweet dreams 
Of home, of happiness, of quiet years 
Spent in the little valley which had been 
So long his land of promise 1 Farewell all 
Gentle remembrances and cherish'd hopes ! 
His race was run, but its goal was the grave.- • 
I look'd upon another, wasted, pale, 
With eyes all heavy in the sleep. of death; 
Yet she was lovely still, — the cold damps hung 
Upon a brow like marble, and her eyes, 
Though dim, had yet their beautiful blue tinge. 
Neglected as it was, her long fair hair 
Was like the plumage of the dove, and spread 
Its waving curls like gold upon her pillow ; 
Her face was a sweet ruin. She had loved, 
Trusted, and been betray 'd ! In other days, 
Had but her cheek look'd pale, how tenderly 
Fond hearts had watch'd it ! They were far away, — 
She was a stranger in her loneliness, 
And sinking to the grave of that worst ill, 
A broken heart. — And there was one whose cheek 
Was flush'd with fever — 'twas a face that seem'd 
Familiar to my memory, 'twas one . 
Whom I had loved in youth. In days long past, 
How many glorious structures we had raised 
Upon Hope's sandy basis ! Genius gave 
To him its golden treasures : he could pour 
His own impassion'd soul upon the lyre ; 
Or, with a painter's skill, create such shapes 
Of loveliness, they were more like the hues 
Of the rich evening shadows, than the work 
Of human touch. But he was wayward, wild ; 
And hopes that in his heart's warm summer clim© 
Flourish'd, were quickly wither'd in the cold 
And dull realities of life ; ... he was 
Too proud, too visionary for this world : 
And feelings which, like waters unconfined, 
Had carried with them freshness and green beauty, 
Thrown back upon themselves, spread desolation 
On their own banks. He was a sacrifice, 
And sank beneath neglect ; his glowing thoughts 
Were fires that prey'd upon himself. Perhaps, 
For he has left some high memorials, Fame 
Will pour its sunlight o'er the picture, when 
The artist's hand is mouldering in the dust, 
And fling the laurel o'er a harp, whose chords 
Are dumb forever. But his eyes he raised 
Mutely to mine — he knew my voice again, 
And every vision of his boyhood rush'd 
Over his soul ; his lip was deadly pale, 
But pride was yet upon its haughty curve ; 
He raised one hand contemptuously, and seem'd 
As he would bid me mark his fallen state, 
And that it was unheeded. So he died 
Without one struggle, and his brow in death 
Wore its pale marble look of cold defiance. 



TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



33 



THE DESERTER. 

Alas, for the bright promise of our 7011th ! 

How soon the golden chords of hope are broken, 
How soon we find that dreams we trusted most 
Are very shadows 1 

Twas a sweet summer morn, the lark had just 
Sprung from the clover bower around her nest, 
And pour'd her blithe song to the clouds : the sun 
Shed his first crimson o'er the dark gray walls 
Of the old church, and stain'd the sparkling panes 
Of ivy-cover'd windows. The damp grass, 
That waved in wild luxuriance round the graves, 
Was white with dew, but early steps had been 
A-nd left a fresh green trace round yonder tomb : 
Twas a plain stone, but graven with a name 
That many stopp'd to read — a soldier's name — 
And two were kneeling by it, one who had 
Been weeping ; she was widow to the brave 
Upon whose quiet bed her tears were falling. 
From oif her cheek the rose of youth had fled, 
But beauty still was there, that soften'd grief, 
Whose bitterness is gone, but which was felt 
Too deeply for forgctfulness ; her look, 
Fraught with high feelings and intelligence, 
And such as might beseem the Roman dame 
Whose children died for liberty, was made 
More soft and touching by the patient smile 
Which piety had given the unearthly brow, 
Which Guido draws when he would form a saint 
Whose hopes are fix'd on Heaven, but who has 

yet 
Some earthly feelings binding them to life. 
Her arm was leant upon a graceful youth, 
The hope, the comfort of her widowhood ; 
He was departing from her, and she led 
The youthful soldier to his father's tomb — 
As in the visible presence of the dead 
She gave her farewell blessing ; and her voice 
Lost its so tremulous accents as she bade 
Her child tread in that father's steps, and told 
How brave, how honour'd he had been. But 

when 
She did entreat him to remember all 
Her hopes were centred in him,, that he was 
The stay of her declining years, that he 
Might be the happiness of her okl age, 
Or bring her down with sorrow to the grave, 
Her words grew inarticulate, and sobs 
Alone found utterance ; and he, whose cheek 
Was flush'd with eagerness, whose ardent eye 
Gave animated promise of the fame 
That would be his. whose ear already rang 
With the loud trumpet's war-song, felt these 

dreams 
Fade for a moment, and almost renounced 
The fields he panted for, since they must cost 
(5) 



Such tears as these. The churchyard left, they 

v pass'd 
Down by a hawthorn hedge, where the sweet 

May 
Had shower' d its white luxuriance, intermix d 
With crimson clusters of the wilding rose, 
And link'd with honeysuckle. O'er the path 
Many an ancient oak and stately elm 
Spread its green canopy. How Ed w Aim's eye 
Linger'd on each familiar sight, as if 
Even to things inanimate he would bid 
A last farewell ! They rcach'd the cottage gate 
His horse stood ready ; many, too, were there, 
Who came to say good-by, and kindly wish 
To the young soldier health and happiness. 
It is a sweet, albeit most painful, feeling 
To know we are regretted. " Farewell" said 
And oft repeated, one last wild embrace 
Given to his pale mother, who stood there, 
Her cold hands press'd upon a brow as cold, 
In all the bursting heart's full agony — 
One last, last kiss, — he sprang upon his horse, 
And urged his utmost speed with spur and rein. 
He is past . . . out of sight. . -. 

The muffled drum is rolling, and the low 
Notes of the death-march float upon the wind, 
And stately steps are pacing round that square 
With slow and measured tread ; but every brow 
Is darken' d with emotion, and stern eyes, 
That look'd unshrinking on the face of death, 
When met in battle, are now moist with tears. 
The silent ring is form'd, and in the midst 
Stands the deserter ! Can this be the same, 
The young, the gallant Edward ? and are these 
The laurels promised in his early dreams ! 
Those fetter'd hands, this doom of open shame 1 
Alas ! for young and passionate spirits ! Soon 
False lights will dazzle. He had madly join'd 
The rebel banner ! O 'twas pride to link 
His fate with Erin's patriot few, to fight 
For liberty or the grave ! But he was now 
A prisoner ; yet there he stood, as firm 
As though his feet were not upon the tomb : 
His cheek was pale as marble, and as cold ; 
But his lip trembled not, and his dark eyes 
Glanced proudly round. But when they bared hia 

breast 
For the death-shot, and took a portrait thence, 
He clench'd his hands, and gasp'd, and one deep 

sob 
Of agony burst from him ; and he hid 
His face awhile — his mother's look was there. 
He could not steel his soul when he recall'd 
The bitterness of her despair. It pass'd — 
That moment of wild anguish ; he knelt down ; 
That sunbeam shed its glory over one, 
Young, proud, and brave, nerved in deep energy , 
The next fell over cold and bloody clay 



34 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



There is a deep voiced sound from yonder vale, 
Which ill accords with the sweet music made 
By the light birds nestling by those green elms ; 
And, a strange contrast to the blossom'd thorns, 
Dark plumes are waving, and a silent hearse 
Is winding through that lane. They told it bore 
A widow, who died of a broken heart : 
Her child, her soul's last treasure, — he had been 
Shot for desertion ! 



GLADESMUIR. 



" There is no home like the home of our infancy, no re- 
membrances like those of our youth ; the old trees whose 
topmost boughs we have climbed, the hedge containingthat 
prize a bird's nest, the fairy tale we heard by the fireside, 
are things of deep and serious interest in maturity. The 
heart, crushed or hardened by its intercourse with the 
world, turns with affectionate delight to its early dreams. 
How I pity those whose childhood has been unhappy ! to 
them one of the sweetest springs of feeling has been utterly 
denied, the most green and beautiful part of life laid waste. 
But to those whose spring has been what spring should ever 
be, fresh, buoyant, and gladsome, whose cup has not been 
poisoned at the first draught, how delicious is recollection ! 
they truly know the pleasures of memory. " 



There is not 
A valley of more quiet happiness, 
Bosom'd in greener trees, or with a river 
Clearer than thine, Gladesmuiii ! There are 

huge hills 
Like barriers by thy side, where the tall pine 
Stands stately as a warrior in his prime, 
Mix'd with low gnarled oaks, whose yellow leaves 
Are bound with ruby tendrils, emerald shoots, 
And the wild blossoms of the honeysuckle ; 
And even more impervious grows the brier, 
Cover'd with thorns and roses, mingled like 
Pleasures and pains, but shedding richly forth 
Its fragrance on the air ; and by its side 
The wilding broom as sweet, which gracefully 
Flings its long tresses like a maiden's hair 
Waving in yellow beauty. The red deer 
Crouches in safety in its secret lair ; 
The sapphire, bird's-eye, and blue violets, 
Mix with white daisies in the grass beneath ; 
And in the boughs above thewoodlark builds, 
And makes sweet music to the morning ; while 
All lay the stock-dove's melancholy notes 
Wail plaintively — the only sounds beside 
The hum of the wild bees around some trunk 
Of an old moss-clad oak. in which is rear'd 
Their honey palace. Where the forest ends, 
Stretches a wide brown heath, till the blue sky 
Becomes its boundary ; there the only growth 



Are straggling thickets of the white flower'd 

thorn 
And yellow furze : beyond are the grass-fields, 
And of yet fresher verdure the young wheat ; 
These border round the village. The bright river 
Bounds like an arrow by, buoyant as youth 
Rejoicing in its strength. On the left side, 
Half hidden by the aged trees that time 
Has spared as honouring their sanctity, 
The old gray church is seen : its mossy walls 
And ivy-cover'd windows tell how long 
It has been sacred. There is a lone path 
Winding beside yon hill : no neighbouring height 
Commands so wild a view ; the ancient spire, 
The cottages, their gardens, and the heath, 
Spread far beyond, are in the prospect seen 
By glimpses as the greenwood screen gives way 
One is now tracing it, who gazes round 
As each look were his last. The anxious gasp 
That drinks the air as every breath brought 

health ; 
The hurried step, yet lingering at times, 
As fearful all it felt were but a dream — 
How much they tell of deep and inward feeling ! 
That stranger is worn down with toil and pain, 
His sinewy frame is wasted, and his brow 
Is darken'd with long suffering ; yet he is 
O more than happy ! — he has reach'd his home, 
And Roland is a wanderer no more. 
How often in that fair romantic land 
Where he had been a soldier, he had turn'd 
From the rich groves of Spain, to think upon 
The oak and pine ; turn'd from the spicy air, 
To sicken for his own fresh mountain breeze ; 
And loved the night, for then familiar things, 
The moon and stars, were visible, and look'd 
As they had always done, and shed sweet tears 
To think that he might see them shine again 
Over his own Gladesmuir ! That silver moon, 
In all her perfect beauty, is now rising ; 
The purple billows of the west have yet 
A shadowy glory ; all beside is calm, 
And tender and serene — a quiet light, 
Which suited well the melancholy joy 
Of Roland's heart. At every step the light 
Play'd o'er some old remembrance ; now the ray 
Dimpled the crystal river ; now the church 
Had all its windows glittering from beneath 
The curtaining ivy. Near and more near he 

drew — 
His heart beat quick, for the next step will be 
Upon his father's threshold ! But he paused — 
He heard a sweet and sacred sound — they join'd 
In the accustom'd psalm, and then they said 
The words of God, and, last cf all, a prayer 
More solemn, and more touching. He could heai 
Low sobs as it was utter d. They did pray 
His safety, his return, his happiness ; 



TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



35 



And ere they ended he was in their arms ! 
The wind rose up, and o'er the calm blue sky 
The tempest gathered, and the heavy rain 
Beat on the casement; but they prcss'd them 

round 
The blazing hearth, and sat while Roar aid spoke 
Of the fierce battle ; and all answer'd him 
With wonder, and with telling how they wept 
During his absence, how they number'd o'er 
The days for his return. Thrice hallow'd shrine 
Of the heart's intercourse, our own fireside ! 
I do remember in my early youth 
I parted from its circle ; how I pined 
With happy recollections — they to me 
Were sickness and deep sorrow : how I thought 
Of the strange tale, the laugh, the gentle smile 
Breathing of love, that wiled the night away. 
The hour of absence past, I was again 
With those who loved me. What a beauty dwelt 
In each.accustom'd face ! what music hung 
On each familiar voice ! We circled in 
Our meeting ring of happiness. If e'er 
This life has bliss, I knew and felt it then ! 

But there was one RoxAEn remember'd not 
Yet 'twas a creature beautiful as Hope, 
With eyes blue as the harebell when the dew 
Sparkles upon its azure leaves ; a cheek 
Fresh as a mountain rose, but delicate 
As rainbow colours, and as changeful too. 
" The orphan Eleex, have you then forgot 
Your laughing playmate V Roxaed would have 

clasp'd 
The maiden to his heart, but she shrank back : 
A crimson blush and tearful lids belied 
Her light tone, as she bade him not forget 
So soon his former friends. But the next morn 
Were othei tears than those sweet ones that 

come 
Of the full heart's o'erflowings. He was given, 
The loved, the wanderer, to their prayers at last ; 
But he was now so changed, there was no trace 
Left of his former self; the glow of health, 
Of youth, was gone, and in his sallow cheek 
And faded eye decay sat visible ; — 
All felt that he was sinking to the grave. 
He wander'd like a ghost around ; would lean, 
For hours, and watch the river ; or would lie 
Beneath some aged tree, and hear the birds 
Singing so cheerfully ; and with faint step 
Would sometimes try the mountain side. He 

loved 
To look upon the setting sun, and mark 
The twilight's dim approach. He said he was 
Most happy that all through his life one wish 
Had still been present to his soul — the wish 
That he might breathe his native air again ; — - 
That prayer was granted, for he died at home. 



One wept for him when other eyes wero dry, 
Treasured his name in silence and in tears, 
Till her young heart's impassion'd solitude 
Was fill'd but with his image. She had soothed 
And watch'd his few last hours — but he was gone : 
The grave to her was now the goal of hope ! 
She pass'd, but gently as the rose leaves fall 
Scatter'd by the spring gales. Two months had 

fled 
Since Ronald died ; they threw the summer 

flowers 
Upon his sod, and ere those leaves were tinged 
With autumn's yellow colours, they were twined 
For the poor Ellex's death-wreaths ! . . . 
They made her grave by Ronald's. 



THE MINSTREL OF PORTUGAL. 



Their path had been a troubled one. each step 
Had trod 'mid thorns and springs of bitterness; 
But they had fled away from the cold world, 
And found, in a fair valley, solitude 
And happiness in themselves. They oft would rove 
Through the dark forests when the golden light 
Of evening was upon the oak, or catch 
The first wild breath of morning on the hill, 
And in the hot noon seek some greenwood shade, 
Fill'd with the music of the birds, the leaves, 
Or the descending waters' distant song. 
And that young maiden hung delightedly 
Upon her minstrel lover's words, when he 
Breathed some old melancholy verse, or told 
Love's ever-varying histories; and her smile 
Thank'd him so tenderly, that he forgot 
Or thought of but to scorn the flatteries 
He was so proud of once. I need not say 
How happy his sweet mistress was. — 0, all 
Know love ia woman's happiness ! 



Coxe, love ! we'll rest us from our wanderings • 
The violets are fresh among the moss, 
The dew is not yet on their purple leaves, 
Warm with the sun's last kiss — sit here, tl^su 

love ! 
This chestnut be our canopy. Look up 
Towards the beautiful heaven ; the fair moon 
Is shining timidly, like a young queen 
Who fears to claim her full authority : 
The stars shine in her presence ; o"cr the sky 
A few light clouds are wandering, like the fejw» 
That even happy love must know ; the air 
Is full of perfume and most music?!. 
Although no other sounds are on the fale 
Than the soft falling of the mountain rill, 
Or waving of the leaves. 'Tis just the iiroa 
For legend of romance, and, dearest ! now 
I have one framed for thee ; it is of love, 
Most perfect love, and of a faithful heart 
That was a sacrifice upen + he shrine 



36 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Itself had rear'd ! I will begin it now, 

Like an old tale : — There was a princess once, 

More beautiful than spring, when the warm look 

Of summer calls the blush upon her cheek, 

The matchless Isabel of Portugal. 

She moved in beauty, and where'er she went 

Some heart di 1 homage to her loveliness. 

But there was one — a youth of lowly birth — 

Who worshipp'd her ! — I have heard many say 

Love lives on hope ; they knew not what they 

said ; 
Hope is Love's happiness, but not its life ; — 
How many hearts have nourished a vain flame 
In silence and in secret, though they knew 
They fed the scorching fire that would consume 

them ! 
Young Juax loved in veriest hopelessness ! — 
He saw the lady once at matin time, — 
Saw her when bent in meek humility 
Before the altar ; she was then unveil'd, 
And JuAif gazed upon the face which was 
Thenceforth the v» r orld to him ! Awhile he look'd 
Upon the white hands clasp'd gracefully ; 
The rose-bud lips, moving in silent prayer ; 
The raven hair, that hung as a dark cloud 
On the white brow of morning ! She arose, 
And as she moved, her slender figure waved 
Like the light cypress, when the breeze of spring 
Wakes music in its boughs. As Jua^ knelt 
It chanced her eyes met his, and all his soul 
Madden'd in that slight glance ! She left the 

place ; 
Yet still her shape seem'd visible, and still 
He felt the light through the long eyelash steal 
And melt within his heart ! . . . . 
From that time life was one impassion'd dream : 
He linger'd on the spot which she had made 
So sacred by her presence, and he thought 
It happiness to only breathe the air 
Her sigh had perfumed — but to press the floor 
Her faery step had hallow'd. He renounced 
All projects of ambition, joy'd no more 
In pleasures of his age, but like a ghost, 
Confined to one peculiar spot, he stray'd 
Where first he saw the princess ; and the court 
Through which she pass'd to matins, now became 
To him a home ; and either he recall'd 
Fondly her every look, or else embalm'd 

Her name in wild, sweet song 

His love grew blazed abroad — a poet's love 
Is immortality ! The heart whose beat 
Is echo'd by the lyre, will have its griefs, 
Its tenderness, remember'd, when each pulse 
Has long been cold and still. Some pitied him, 
And others marvell'd, half in mockery ; 
They little knew what pride love ever has 
In self-devotedness. The princess heard 
Of her pale lover ; but none ever knew 



Her secret thoughts : she heard it silently. 
It could not be but woman's heart must feel 
Such fond and faithful homage ! — But soma 

deem'd 
Even such timid worship was not meet 
For royalty. They bade the youth depait, 
And the king sent him gold ; he turn'd away, 
And would not look upon the glittering treasure — 
And then they banish'd him ! He heard them 

say 
He was an exile with a ghastly smile, 
And murmur'd not — but rose and left the city. 
He went on silently, until he came 
To where a little hill rose, cover'd o'er 
With lemon shrubs and golden oranges i 
The windows of the palace where she dwelt— 
His so loved Isabel — o'erlook'd the place. 
There was some gorgeous fete there, for the light 
Stream'd through the lattices, and a far sound 
Of lute, and dance, and song, oame echoing. 
The wanderer hid his face; but from his brow 
His hands fell powerless ! Some gather' d round 
And rais'd him from the ground : his eyes were 

closed, 
His lip and cheek were colourless ; — they told 
His heart was broken ! . . . . 

His princess never knew an earthly love : 
She vow'd herself to Heaven, and she died young I 
The evening of her death, a strange, sweet sound 
Of music came, delicious as a dream : 
With that her spirit parted from this earth, 
Many remember'd that it was the hour 
Her humble lover perish'd ! 



THE BASQUE GIRL AND HENRI 
QUATRE. 



Love ! summer flower, how soon thou art decay'd 
Opening amid a paradise of sweets, 
Dying with wither'd leaves and canker'd stem! 
The very memory of thy happiness 
Departed with thy beauty; breath and bloom 
Gone, and the trusting heart which thou hadst mada 
So green, so lovely, for thy dwelling-place, 
Left but a desolation. 



'Twas one of those sweet spots which seem 
just made 
For lovers' meeting, or for minstrel naunt ; 
The maiden's blush would look so leautiful 
By those white roses, and the poet's dream 
Would be so soothing, lull'd by the low notes 
The birds sing to the leaves, whose soft reply 
Is murmur'd by the wind : the grass beneath 



TALES AND MISCE 

Is full of wild flowers, and the c) T prcs3 boughs 
Have twined o'er head, graceful and close as love. 
The sun is shining cheerfully, though scarce 
His rays may pierce through the dim shade, yet 

still 
Some golden hues are glancing o'er the trees, 
And the blue flood is gliding by, as bright 
As Hope's first smile. All, lingering, stay'd to 

gaze 
Upon this Eden of the painter's art, 
And, looking on its loveliness, forgot 
The crowded world around them ! — But a spell 
Stronger than the green landscape fix'd the eye — 
The spell of woman's beauty ! — By a beech 
Whose long dark shadow fell upon the stream, 
There stood a radiant girl ! — her chestnut hair — 
One bright gold tint was on it — loosely fell 
In large rich curls upon a neck whose snow 
And grace were like the swan's ; she wore the 

garb 
Of her own village, and her small white feet 
And slender ancles, delicate as carved 
From Indian ivory, were bare, — the turf 
Seem'd scarce to feel their pressure. There she 

stood ! 
Her head leant on her arm, the beech's trunk 
Supporting her slight figure, and one hand 
Prest to her heart, as if to still its throbs ! — 
Yet never might forget that face, — so young, 
So fair, yet traced with such deep characters 
Of inward wretchedness ! The eyes were dim, 
With tears on the dark lashes ; still the lip 
Could not quite lose its own accustom'd smile, 
Even by that pale cheek it kept its arch 
And tender playfulness : you look'd and said, 
What can have shadow'd such a sunny brow 1 
There is so much of natural happiness 
In that bright countenance, it seems but form'd 
For spring's light sunbeams, or yet lighter dews. 
You turn'd away — then came — and look'd again, 
Watching the pale and silent loveliness, 
Till even sleep was haunted by that image. 
There was a sever'd chain upon the ground — 
Ah ! love is even more fragile than its gifts ! 
A tress of raven hair : — ! only those 
Whose souls have felt this one idolatry, 
Can tell how precious is the slightest thing 
Affection gives and hallows ! A dead flower 
Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks 
That made each leaf a treasure. And the tree 
Had two slight words graven upon its stem— 
The broken heart's last record of its faith — 
" Adiec, Henri !" .... 
... I learnt the history of the lovely picture : 
It was a peasant girl's, whose soul was given 
To one as far above her as the pine 
Towers o'er the lowly violet : yet still 
She loved, and was beloved again — ere yet 



LLANEOUS POEMS. 



37 



The many trammels of the world were flung 
Around a heart whose first and latest pulse 
Throbb'd but for beauty : him, the young, tha 

brave, 
Chivalrous prince, whose name in after-years 
A nation was to worship — that young heart 
Beat with its first wild passion — that pure feeling 
Life only once may know. I will not dwell 
On how Affection's bark was launch'd and lost:- 
Love, thou hast hopes like summers short and 

bright, 
Moments of ecstasy, and maddening dreams, 
Intense, delicious throbs ! But happiness 
Is not for thee. If ever thou hast known 
Quiet, yet deep enjoyment, 'tis or ere 
Thy presence is confess'd ; but, once reveal'd, 
We bow us down in passionate devotion 
Vow'd to thy altar, then the serpents wake 
That coil around thy votaries — hopes that make 
Fears burning arrows — lingering jealousy, 
x\nd last, worst poison of thy cup — neglect ! . 
. . . It matters little how she was forgotten, 
Or what she felt — a woman can but weep. 
She pray'd her lover but to say farewell — 
To meet her by the river where such hours 
Of happiness had pass'd, and said she knew 
How much she was beneath him ; but she pray'd 
That he would look upon her face once more ! 
. . . He sought the spot — upon the beeches 

tree 
" Adieu, Henri !" was graven, and his heart 
Felt cold within him ! He turn'd to the wave, 
And there the beautiful peasant floated — Death 
Had seal'd Love's sacrifice ! 



THE SAILOR. 



O ! gloriously upon the deep 

The gallant vessel rides, 
And she is mistress of the winds, 

And mistress of the tides. 

And never but for her tall ships 

Had England been so proud ; 
Or before the might of the island Queen 

The kings of the earth had bow'd. 

But, alas ! for the widow and orphan's tear, 
When the death-flag sweeps the wave 

Alas ' that the laurel of victory- 
Must grow but upon the grave 



As" aged widow with one only child, 
And even he was far away at sea : 
Narrow and mean the street wherein she dwelt. 
And low and small the room ; but stdl it had 
A. look of comfort ; on the whitewash'd walk 
d 



S8 



MISS LAN DON'S WORKS. 



Were ranged her many ocean treasures — shells, 
Some like the snow, and some pink, with a blush 
Caught from the sunset on the waters ; plumes 
From the bright pinions of the Indian birds ; 
Long dark sea-weeds, and black and crimson 

berries, 
Were treasured with the treasuring of the heart. 
Her sailor brought them, when from his first 

voyage 
He came so sunburnt and so tall, she scarce 
Knew her fair stripling in that manly youth. 
Like a memorial of far better days, 
The large old Bible, with its silver clasps, 
Lay on the table ; and a fragrant air 
Came from the window : there stood a rose tree- 
Lonely, but of luxuriant growth, and rich 
With thousand buds and beautifully blown 

flowers : 
It was a slip from that which grew beside 
The cottage, once her own, which ever drew 
Praise from each passer down the shadowy lone 
"Where her home stood — the home where yet she 

thought 
To end her days in peace : that was the hope 
That made life pleasant, and it had been fed 
By the so ardent spirits of her boy, . 
Who said that Goo would bless the efforts made 
For his old mother. — Like a holiday 
Each Sunday came, for then her patient way 
She took to the white church of her own village, 
A long five miles ; and many marvell'd, one 
So aged, so feeble, still should seek that church. 
They knew not how delicious the fresh air, 
How fair the green leaves and the fields, how 

glad 
The sunshine of the country, to the eyes 
That look'd so seldom on them. She would sit 
Long after service on a grave, and watch 
The cattle as they grazed, the yellow corn, 
The lane where yet her home might be ; and then 
Return with lighten'd heart to her dull street, 
Refresh' d with hope and pleasant memories, — 
Listen with anxious ear to the conch shell, 
Wherein they say the rolling of the sea 
Is heard distinct, pray for her absent child, 
Bless him, then drearrl of him. . . . 

A shout awoke the sleeping town, the night 
Rang with the fleet's return and victory ! 
Men that were slumbering quietly rose up 
And join'd the shout : the windows gleam'd with 

lights, 
The bells rang forth rejoicingly, the paths 
Were fill'd with people : even the lone street, 
Where the poor widow dwelt, was roused, and 

sleep 



Was thought upon no more that night. Next 

day — 
A bright and sunny day it was — high flags 
Waved from each steeple, and green boughs wera 

hung 
In the gay market place ; music was heard, 
Bands that struck up in triumph ; and the sea 
Was cover' d with proud vessels ; and the boats 
Went to and fro the shore, and waving hands 
Beckon'd from crowded decks to the glad strand 
Where the wife waited for her husband, — maids 
Threw the bright curls back from their glistening 

eyes 
And look'd their best, and as the splashing oar 
Brought dear ones to the land, how every voice 
Grew musical with happiness ! And there 
Stood that old widow woman with the rest, 
Watching the ship wherein had saiPd her son. 
A boat came from that vessel, — heavily 
It toil'd upon the waters, and the oars 
Were dipp'd in slowly. As it near'd the beach, 
A moaning sound came from it, and a groan 
Burst from the lips of all the anxious there, 
When they look'd on each ghastly countenance 
For that lone boat was fill'd with wounded men, 
Bearing them to the hospital, — and then 
That aged woman saw her son. She pray'd 
And gain'd her prayer, that she might be his nurse, 
And take him home. He lived for many days. 
It soothed him so to hear his mother's voice, 
To breathe the fragrant air sent from the roses — 
The roses that were gather'd one by one 
For him by his fond parent nurse ; the last 
Was placed upon his pillow, and that night, 
That very night, he died ! And he was laid 
In the same churchyard where his father lay, — 
Through which his mother as a bride had pass'd. 
The grave was closed; but still the widow sat 
Upon a sod beside, and silently 
(Hers was not grief that words had comfort for) 
The funeral train pass'd on, and she was left 
Alone amid the tombs ; — but once she look'd 
Towards the shadowy lane, then turn'd again, 
As desolate and sick at heart, to where 
Her help, her hope, her child, lay dead together ! 
She went home to her lonely room. Next morn 
Some enter'd it, and there she sat, 
Her white hair hanging o'er the wither'd hands 
On which her pale face leant ; the Bible lay 
Open beside, but blister'd were the leaves 
With two or three large tears, which had dried in 
0, happy she had not survived her child ! 
And many pitied her, for she had spent 
Her little savings, and she had no friends ; 
But strangers made her grave in that churchyard. 
And where her sailor slept, there slept his mother 



TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



39 



THE COVENANTERS. 



Mine home is but a blacken'd heap 

In the midst of a lonesome wild, 
And the owl and the bat may their night-watch keep, 

Where human faces smiled. 

I rock'd the cradle of seven fair sons, 

And I work'd for their infancy ; 
But, when like a child in mine own old age, 

There are none to work for me ! 



Neyi:h ! I will not know another home. 
1 A summers have past on, with their blue skies 
G <wm leaves, and singing birds, and sun-kiss'd 

fruit, 
Sue here I first took up my last abode, — 
Ai*ii here my bones shall rest. You say it is 
A Lmjae for beasts, and not for humankind, 
This bU-ak shed and bare rock, and that the vale 
Below is beautiful. I know the time 
When it look'd very beautiful to me ! 
Do you see that bare spot, where one old oak 
Stands black and leafless, as if scorch'd by fire, 
While round it the ground seems as if a curse 
Were laid upon the soil 1 Once by that tree, 
Then cover'd with its leaves and acorn crop, 
A little cottage stood : 'twas very small, 
But had an air of health and peace. The roof 
Was every morning vocal with the song 
Of the rejoicing swallows, whose warm nest 
Was built in safety underneath the thatch ; 
A honeysuckle on the sunny side 
Hung round the lattices its fragrant trumpets. 
Around was a small garden : fruit and herbs 
Were there in comely plenty : and some flowers, 
Heath from the mountains, and the wilding bush 
Gemm'd with red roses, and white apple blossoms, 
Were food for the two hives, whence all day long 
There came a music like the pleasant sound 
Of lulling waters. And at eventide 
It was a goodly sight to see around 
Bright eyes, and faces lighted up with health, 
And youth, and happiness ; these were my 

children, 
That cottage was mine home. . 

There came a shadow o'er the land, and men 
Were haunted by their fellow-men like beasts, 
And the sweet feelings of humanity 
Were utterly forgotten ; the white head, 
Darken'd with blood and dust, was often laid 
Upon the murder'd infant, for the sword 
Of pride and cruelty was sent to slay 
Those who in age would not forgo the faith 
They had grown up in. I was one of these : 
How could I close the Bible I had read 
Beside my dying mother, which had given 



To mc and mine such comfort 1 But the hand 
Of the oppressor smote us. There were shrieks, 
And naked swords, and faces dark as guilt, 
A rush of feet, a bursting forth of flame, 
Curses, and crashing boards, and infant words 
Praying for mercy, and then childish screams 
Of fear and pain. There were these the last night 
The white walls of my cottage stood ; they bound 
And flung me down beside the oak, to watch 
How the red fire gather'd, like that of hell. 
There sprang one to the lattice, and leant forth, 
Gasping for the fresh air, — my own fair girl ! 
My only one ! The vision haunts mc still : 
The white arms raised to Heaven, and the long 

hair, 
Bright as the light beside it, stiff on the head 
Upright, from terror. In th' accursed glare 
We knew each other ; and I heard a cry 
Half tenderness, half agony, — a crush, — 
The roof fell in, — I saw my child no more ! 
A cloud closed round me, a deep thunder-cloud, 
Half darkness and half fire. At length sens* 

came 
With a remembering, like that which a dream 
Leaves, of vague horrors ; but the heavy chain, 
The loathsome straw which was mine only bed, 
The sickly light through the dim bars, 
The silence, were realities ; and then 
I lay on the cold stones, and wept aloud, 
And pray'd the fever to return again, 
And bring death with it. Yet did I escape, — 
Again I drank the fresh blue air of heaven, 
And felt the sunshine laugh upon my brow ; 
I thought then I would seek my desolate home, 
And die where it had been. I reach'd the place 
The ground was bare and scorch'd, and in tne 

midst 
Was a black heap of ashes. Frantickly 
I groped amid them, ever and anon 
Meeting some human fragment, skulls and bones 
Shapeless and cinders, till I drew a curl, 
A long and beautiful curl of sunny hair, 
Stainless and golden, as but then just sever'd, 
A love-gift from the head : — I knew the hair — 
It was my daughter's ! There I stood, and howl'd 
Curses upon that night. There came a voice, 
There came a gentle step ; — even on that heap 
Of blood and ashes did I kneel, and pour 
To the great God my gratitude ! That curl 
Was wet with tears of happiness ; that step, 
That voice, were sweet familiar ones, — one child. 
My eldest son, was sent me from the grave ! 
That night he had escaped. . . . 

We left the desolate valley, and we went 
Together to the mountains and the woods, 
And there inhabited in love and peace. 
Till a strong spirit came upon men's hearts. 



40 



MISS LAN DON'S WORKS. 



And roused them to avenge their many wrongs. 

Yet stood they not in battle, and the arm 

Of the oppressor was at first too mighty. 

Albeit I have lived to see their bonds 

Kent like burnt flax, yet much of blood was spilt 

Or ever the deliverance was accomplish'd, 

We fled in the dark night. At length the moon 

Rose on the midnight, — when I saw the face 



Of my last child was ghastly white, and set 
In the death-agony, and from his side 
The lifeblood came like tears : and then I pray d 
That he would rest, and let me stanch the w mnd. 
He motion'd me to fly, and then lay down 
Upon the rock and died ! This is his grave, 
His home and mine. Ask ye now why I dwell 
Upon the rock, and loathe the vale beneath ? 



FRAGMENTS. 



WRITTEN UNDER 
ING 



LINES 

A PICTURE OF A 
A LOVE LETTER. 



GIRL BURN- 



The lines were fill'd with many a tender tiling, 
All the impassion'd heart's fond communing. 



I took the scroll : I could not brook, 

An eye to gaze on it save mine ; 
I could not bear another's look 

Should dwell upon one thought of thine. 
My lamp was burning by my side, 

I held thy letter to the flame, 
I mark'd the blaze swift o'er it glide, 

It did not even spare thy name. 
Soon the light from the embers past, 

I felt so sad to see it die, 
So bright at first, so dark at last, 

I fear'd it was love's history. 



THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. 

And the muffled drum roll'd on the air, 
Warriors with stately step were there ; 
On every arm was the black crape bound, 
Every carbine was turn'd to the ground ; 
Solemn the sound of their measured tread, 
As silent and slow they follow'd the dead. 
The riderless horse was led in the rear, 
There were white plumes waving over the bier : 
Heimet and sword were laid on the pall 
Tor it was a soldier's funeral. 

That soldier had stood on the battle-plain, 
Where every step was over the slain : 
But the brand and the ball had pass'dhim by, 
And he came to his native land to die. 



'Twas hard to come to that native land, 

And not clasp one familiar hand ! 

'Twas hard to be number'd amid the dead, 

Or ere he could hear his welcome said ! 

But 'twas something to see its cliffs once more, 

And to lay his bones on his own loved shore ; 

To think that the friends of his youth might w r eep 

O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep. 

The bugles ceased their wailing sound 
As the coffin was lower'd into the ground ; 
A volley was fired, a blessing said, 
One moment's pause — and they left the dead ! — 
I saw a poor and an aged man, 
His step was feeble, his lip was wan : 
He knelt him down on the new raised mound, 
His face was bow'd on the cold damp ground, 
He raised his head, his tears were done, — 
The father had pray'd o'er his only son ! 



ARION. 



The winds are high, the clouds are dark, 
But stay not thou for storm, my bark ; 
What is the song of love to me, 
Unheard, my sweet Egl;e, by thee 1 
Fair lips may smile, and eyes may shine ; 
But lip nor eye will be like thine, 
And every blush that mantles here 
But images one more bright and more deai 
My spirit of song is languid and dead, 
If not at thine altar of beauty fed. 
Again I must listen thy gentle tone, 
And make its echo of music my own ; 
Again I must look on thy smile divine, 
As;ain I must see the red flowers twine 



FRAGMENTS. 



11 



Around my harp, enwrcath'd by thine hand, 

And waken its chords at my love's command. — 

I have dwelt in a distant but lovely place, 

And worshipp'd many a radiant face ; 

And sipp'd the flowers from the purple wine. 

But they were not so sweet as one kiss of thine. 

I have wander'd o'er land, I have wander'd o'er 

sea, 
But my heart has ne'er wander'd, Eglje, from 

thee. — 
And, Greece, my own, my glorious land ! 
I will take no laurel but from thy hand. 
What is the light of a poet's name, 
If it is not his country that hallows his fame ! 
Where may he look for guerdon so fair 
As the honour and praise that await him there 1 
His name will be lost and his grave forgot, 
If the tears of his country preserve them not ! . . 
... He laid him on the deck to sleep, 
And pleasant was his rest, and deep ; 
He heard familiar voices speak, 
He felt his love's breath on his cheek : 
He look'd upon his own blue skies, 
He saw his native temples rise : 
Even in dreams he wept to see 
What he had loved so tenderly. 
The sailors look'd within the hold, 
And envied him his shining gold ; 
They waked him, bade him mark the wave 
*\nd said 'twas for Arion's grave ! 
He watch'd each dark face that appear'd, 
And saw each heart with gold was sear'd, 
Then roused his spirit's energy, 
And stood prepared in pride to die ! 
He cast one look upon his lyre — 
He felt his heart and hand on fire, 
And pray'd the slaves to let him pour 
His spirit in its song once more ! 
He sung, — the notes at first were low, 
Like the whispers of love, or the breathings of 

wo : 
The waters were hush'd, and the winds were 

stay'd, 
As he sang his farewell to his Lesbian maid ! 
Even his murderers paused and wept, 
But look'd on the gold and their purpose kept. 
More proudly he swept the chords along, 
'Twas the stirring burst of a battle song — 
And with the last close of his martial strain 
He plunged with his lyre in the deep blue main ! 
. . . The tempest has burst from its blacken'd 

dwelling, 
The lightning is flashing, the waters are swelling 
In mountains crested with foam and with froth, 
And the wind has rush'd like a giant forth ; 
The deck is all spray, the mast is shatter'd, 
The sails, like the leaves in the autumn, are 

scatter'd 

(6) 



The mariners pale with fear, for a grave 

Is in the dark bosom of every wave. 

The billows rush'd — one fearful cry 

Is heard of human agony ! 

Another swell — no trace is seen 

Of what upon its breast has been ! . . . 

But who is he, who o'er the sea 

Rides like a god, triumphantly, 

Upon a dolphin ? All is calm 

Around, the air he breathes is balm, 

And quiet as beneath the sky 

Of his own flowery Arcady ; 

And all grows peaceful, as he rides 

His dolphin through the glassy tides ; 

And ever as he music drew 

From his sweet harp, a brightening hue, 

Like rainbow tints, a gentle bound, 

Told how the creature loved the sound. 

Ariox, some god has watch'd over thee, 

And saved thee alike from man and the sea. 

The night came on, a summer night, 

With snowy clouds and soft starlight ; 

And glancing meteors, like the flash 

Sent from a Greek girl's dark eyelash 

O'er a sky as blue as her own blue eyes, 

Borne by winds as perfumed and light as ha 

sighs. 
The zenith moon was shedding her light 
In the silence and glory of deep midnight, 
When the voice of singing was heard from afa», 
Like the music that echoes a falling star ; 
And presently came gliding by 
The Spirit of the melody : 
A radiant shape, her long gold hair 
Flew like a banner on the air, 
Save one or two bright curls that fell 
Like gems upon a neck whose swell 
Rose like the dove's, when its mate's caress 
Is smoothing the soft plumes in tenderness ; 
And one arm, white as the sea-spray, 
Amid the chords of music lay. 
She swept the strings, and fix'd the while 
Her dark eye's wild luxuriant smile 
Upon Arion ; and her lip, 
Like the first spring rose that the bee can sip 
Curl'd half in the pride of its loveliness, 
And half with a love-sigh's voluptuousness. 

There is a voice of music swells 

In the ocean's coral groves ; 
Sweet is the harp in the pearly cells, 

Where the step of the sea-maid roves. 
The angry storm when it rolls above, 

At war with the foaming wave, 
Is soft and low as the voice of love, 

Ere it reach her sparry cave. 
When the sun seeks his glorious rest. 

And his beams o'er ocean fall 
d2 



42 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



The gold and the crimson, spread on the west, 

Brighten her crystal hall. 
The sands of amber breathe perfume, 

Gemm'd with pearls like tears of snow, 
Around in wreaths the white sea-flowers bloom, 

The waves in music flow. 
Child of the lyre ! is not this a spot 

Ihat would suit the minstrel well 1 
Then haste thee and share the sea-maid's lot, 

Her love, and her spar built cell. 

Arion scarcely heard the strain, 
Her song was lost, her smile was vain, 
He had a charm, all charms above, 
To guard his heart — the charm of love. 
He floated on. The morning came, 
With lip of dew and cheek of flame : 
He look'd upon his native shore, 
His voyage, his perilous voyage is o'er. 
There stood a temple by the sea, 
Raised to its queen, Amphitrite : 
Arion enter' J, and kneeling there 
He saw a girl, like spring-day fair, 
Feeding with incense the sacred flame, 
And he heard her hymn, and it breathed his 

name. 
O, Love ! a whole life is not worth this bliss — 
Egl;e has met her Arios's kiss ! — 
They raised an altar upon the seashore, 
And every spring they cover'd it o'er 
With fruits of the wood and flowers of the field, 
And the richest perfumes that the East could 

yield ; 
And as the waves roll'd, they knelt by the side, 
And pour'd their hymn to the Queen of the 

Tide. 



MANMADIN, THE INDIAN CUPID, 

FLOATING DOWN THE GANGES.* 

There is a darkness on the sky, 
And the troubled waves run high, 
And the lightning flash is breaking, 
And the thunder peal is waking ; 
Reddening meteors, strange and bright, 
Cross the rainbow's timid light, 
As if mingled hope and fear, 
Storm and sunshine, shook the sphere. 

* Camdeo, or Manmadin, the Indian Cupid, is pictured 
In Ackermann's pretty work on Hindosian in another form. 
He is riding a green parrot, his bow of sugarcane, the cord 
of bees, and his arrows all sorts of flowers: but one alone 
Is neaded, and the head covered with honey-comb 



Tempest winds rush fierce along, 
Bearing yet a sound of song, 
"-Music's on the tempest's wing, 
Wafting thee young Manjiadin ! 
Pillow'd on a lotus flower 
Gather'd in a summer hour, 
Rides he o'er the mountain wave 
Which would be a tall ship's grave ! 
At his back his bow is slung, 
Sugar-cane, with wild bees strung, — 
Bees born with the buds of spring, 
Yet with each a deadly sting ; 
Grasping in his in%it hand. 
Arrows in their silken band, 
Each made of a signal flower, 
Emblem of its varied power ; 
Some form'd of the silver leaf 
Of the almond, bright and brief, 
Just a frail and lovely thing, 
For but one hour's flourishing ; 
Others, on whose shaft there glows 
The red beauty of the rose ; 
Some in spring's half-folded bloom, 
Some in summer's full perfume ; 
Some with wither'd leaves and sere, 
Falling with the falling year ; 
Some bright with the rainbow dyes 
Of the tulip's vanities ; 
Some, bound with the lily's bell, 
Breathe of love that dares not tell 
Its sweet feelings ; the dark leaves 
Of the esignum, which grieves 
Droopingly, round some were bound 
Others were with tendrils wound 
Of the green and laughing vine, — 
And the barb was dipp'd in wine. 
But all these are summer ills, 
Like the tree whose stem distils 
Balm beneath its pleasant shade 
In the wounds its thorns have made. 
Though the flowers may fade and die, 
'Tis but a light penalty. 
All these bloom-clad darts are meant 
But for a shortlived content ! 
Yet one arrow has a power 
Lasting till life's latest hour — 
Weary day and sleepless night, 
Lightning gleams of fierce delight, 
Fragrant and yet poison'd sighs, 
Agonies and ecstasies ; 
Hopes, like fires amid the gloom, 
Lighting only to consume ! 
Happiness one hasty draught, 
And the lip has venom quaff' d. 
Doubt, despairing, crime, and craft ; 
Are upon that honey'd shaft ! 
It has made the crowned king 
Crouch beneath his suffering ; 



FRAGMENTS. 



43 



Made the beauty's cheek more pale 
Than the foldings of her veil ; 
Like a child the soldier kneel 
Who had mock'd at flame or steel ; 
Bade the fires of genius turn 
On their own breasts, and there burn ; 
A wound, a blight, a curse, a doom, 
Bowing young hearts to the tomb ! 
Well may storm be on the sky, 
And the waters roll on high, 
When Manmadin passes by. 
Earth below, and heaven above, 
Well may bend to thee, Love ! 



THE FEMALE CONVICT* 

Sue shrank from all, and her silent mood 
Made her wish only for solitude : 
Her eye sought the ground, as it could not brook, 
For innermost shame, on another's to look ; 
And the cheerings of comfort fell on her ear 
Like deadliest words, that were curses to hear ! — 
She still was young, and she had been fair ; 
But weather stains, hunger, toil, and care, 
That frost and fever that wear the heart, 
Had made the colours of youth depart 
From the sallow cheek, save over it came 
The burning flush of the spirit's shame. 

They were sailing o'er the salt sea-foam, 
Far from her country, far from her home ; 
And all she had left for her friends to keep 
Was a name to hide, and a memory to weep ! 
And her future held forth but the felon's lot, 
To live forsaken — to die forgot ! 
She could not weep, and she could not pray, 
But she wasted and wither'd from day to day, 
Till you might have counted each sunken vein 
When her wrist was prest by the iron chain ; 
And sometimes I thought her large dark eye 
Had the glisten of red insanity. 

She call'd me once to her sleeping place ; 
A strange, wild look was upon her face, 
Her eye flash'd over her cheek so white, 
Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight, 
And she spoke in a low, unearthly tone — 
The sound from mine ear hath never gone ! 
" I had last night the loveliest dream : 
My own land shone in the summer beam, 
I saw the fields of the golden grain, 
I heard the reaper's harvest strain ; 

* Suggested by the interesting description in the Me- 
moirs of John Nicol, mariner, quoted in the Review of the 
Literary G^zett^, 



There stood on the hills the green pine tree, 

And the thrush and the lark sang merrily. 

A long and a weary way I had come ; 

But I stopp'd, methought, by mine own sweet 

home. 
I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there 
With pale, thin face, and snow-white hair ! 
The Bible lay open upon his knee, 
But he closed the book to welcome me. 
He led me next where my mother lay, 
And together we knelt by her grave to pray, 
And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear, 
For it echo'd one to my young days dear. 
This dream has waked feelings long, long since 

fled; 
And hopes which I deem'd in my heart were 

dead! 
— We have not spoken, but still I have hung 
On the northern accents that dwell on thy tongue , 
To me they are music, to me they recall 
The things long hidden by Memory's pall ! 
Take this long curl of yellow hair, 
And give it my father, and tell him my prayer, 
My dying prayer, was for him." . . . 

Next day 
Upon the deck a coffin lay ; 
They raised it up, and like a dirge 
The heavy gale swept o'er the surge ; 
The corpse was cast to the wind and wave — 
The convict has found in the green sea a grave. 



THE PAINTER'S LOVE. 

Your skies are blue, your sun is bright ; 
But sky nor sun has that sweet light 
Which gleam'd upon the summer sky 
Of my own lovely Italy ! 
'Tis long since I have breathed the air, 
Which, fill'd with odours, floated there, — 
Sometimes in sleep a gale sweeps by, 
Rich with the rose and myrtle's sigh ; — 
'Tis long since I have seen the vine 
With Autumn's topaz clusters shine ; 
And watch'd the laden branches bending, 
And heard the vintage songs ascending ; 
'Tis very long since I have seen 
The ivy's death wreath, cold and green, 
Hung round the old and broken stone 
Raised by the hands now dead and gone! 
I do remember one lone spot, 
By most unnoticed or forgot — 
Would that I too recall'd it not ! 
It was a little temple, gray 
With half its pillars worn away, 



44 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



No roof left, but one cypress tree 

Flinging its branches mournfully : 

In ancient days this was a shrine 

For goddess or for nymph divine. 

And sometimes I have dream'd I heard 

A step soft as a lover's word, 

And caught a perfume on the air, 

And saw a shadow gliding fair, 

Dim, sad as if it came to sigh 

O'er thoughts, and things, and time pass'd by ! 

On one side of the temple stood 

A deep and solitary wood, 

Where chestnuts rear'd their giant length, 

And mock'd the falbn columns strength; 

It was the lone wocd-pigeon's home, 

And flocks of them would ofttimes come 

And, lighting on the temple, pour 

A cooing dirge to days no more ! 

And by its side there was a lake 

With only snow-white swans to break, 

With ebon feet and silver wing, 

The quiet waters' glittering. 

And when sometimes, as eve closed in, 

I waked my lonely mandolin, 

The gentle birds came gliding near, 

As if they loved that song to hear. 

'Tis past, 'tis past, my happiness 
Was all too pure and passionless ! 
I waked from calm and pleasant dreams 
To watch the morning's earliest gleams, 
Wandering with light feet 'mid the dew, 
Till my cheek caught its rosy hue ; 
And when uprose the bright-eyed moon, 
I sorrow'd day was done so soon ; 
Save that I loved the sweet starlight, 
The soft, the happy sleep of night ! 

Time has changed since, and I have wept 
The day away ; and when I slept, 
My sleeping eyes ceased not their tears ; 
And jealousies, griefs, hopes, and fears, 
Even in slumber held their reign, 
And gnaw'd my heart, and rack'd my brain ! 
much, — most withering 'tis to feel 
The hours like guilty creatures steal, 
To wish the weary day was past, 
And yet to have no hope at last ! 
All's in that curse, aught else above, 
That fell on me — betrayed love ! 

There was a stranger sought our land, 
A youth, who with a painter's hand 
Traced our sweet valleys and our vines, 
The moonlight on the ruin'd shrines, 
And now and then the brow of pearl 
And black eyes of the peasant girl : 
We met and loved — ah ! even now 
My pulse tb obs to recall that vow 



Our first kiss seal'd, we stood beneath 

The cypress tree's funereal wreath, 

That temple's roof. But what thought I 

Of aught like evil augury ! 

I only felt his burning sighs, 

I only look'd within his eyes, 

I saw no dooming star above, 

There is such happiness in love ! 

I left, with him, my native shore, 

Not as a bride who passes o'er 

Her father's threshold with his blessing, 

With flowers strewn and friends caressing, 

Kind words, and purest hopes to cheer 

The bashfulness of maiden fear ; 

But I — I fled as culprits fly, 

By night, watch'd only by one eye, 

Whose look was all the world to me, 

And it met mine so tenderly, 

I thought not of the da}^s to come, 

I thought not of my own sweet home, 

Nor of mine aged father's sorrow, — 

Wild love takes no thought for to-morrow. 

I left my home, and I was left 

A stranger in his land, bereft 

Of even hope ; there was not one 

Familiar face to look upon. — 

Their speech was strange. This penalty 

Was meet ; but surely not from thee, 

False love ! — 'twas not for thee to break 

The heart but sullied for thy sake ! — 

I could have wish'd once more to see 
Thy green hills, loveliest Italy ! 
I could have wish'd yet to have hung 
Upon the music of thy tongue ; 
I could have wish'd thy flowers to bloom—' 
Thy cypress planted by the tomb ! 
This wish is vain, my grave must be 
Far distant from my own country ! 
I must rest here. — O lay me then 
By the white church in yonder glen , 
Amid the darkening elms, it seems, 
Thus silver'd over by the beams 
Of the pale moon, a very shrine 
For wounded hearts — it shall be mine ! 
There is one corner, green and lone, 
A dark yew over it has thrown 
Long, nightlike boughs ; 'tis thickly set 
With primrose and with violet. 
Their bloom's now past ; but in the spring 
They will be sweet and glistening. 
There is a bird, too, of your clime, 
That sings there in the winter time 
My funeral hymn his song will be, 
Which there are none to chant, save he 
And let there be memorial none, 
No name upon the cold white stone . 
The only heart where I would be 
Remember'd, is now dead to me ! 



FRAGMENTS. 



45 



I would not even have him weep 

O'er his Italian love's last sleep. 

O, tears are a most worthless token 

When hearts they would have soothed are broken 



INEZ. 



Alas ! that clouds should ever steal 

O'er Love's delicious sky ; 
That ever Love's sweet lip should feel 

Aught but the gentlest sigh ! 

Love is a pearl of purest hue, 
But stormy waves are round it ; 

And dearly may a woman rue 
The hour that first she found it. 



The lips that breathed this song were fair 
As those the rose-touched Houries wear, 
And dimpled by a smile, whose spell 
Not even sighs could quite dispel ; 
And eyes of that dark azure light 
Seen only at the deep midnight ; 
A cheek, whose crimson hues seem'd caught 
From the first tint by April brought 
To the peach bud ; and clouds of curl 
Over a brow of blue-vein'd pearl, 
Falling like sunlight, just one shade 
Of chestnut on its golden braid. 
Is she not all too fair to weep ] 
Those young eyes should be closed in sleep, 
Dreaming those dreams the moonlight brings, 
When the dew falls and the nightingale sings 
Dreams of a word, of a look, of a sigh, 
Till the cheek burns and the heart beats high. 
But Inez sits and weeps in her bower, 
Pale as the gleam on the white orange-flower, 
And counting the wearying moments o'er 
For his return, who returns no more ! 

There was a time — a time of bliss, — 
When to have met his Inez' kiss, 
To but look in her deep-blue eye, 
To breathe the air sweet with her sigh, 
Young Juan would have urged his steed 
With the lightning of a lover's speed, — 
Ere she should have shed one single tear, 
He had courted danger, and smiled at fear ; 
But he had parted in high disdain, 
And sworn to dash from his heart the chain 
Of one who, he said, was too light to be 
Holy and pure in her constancy. 
Alas ! that woman, not content 
With her peculiar element 
Of gentle love, should ever try 
The meteor spells of vanity ! 



Her world should be of love alone, 

Of one fond heart, and only one. 

For heartless flattery, and sighs 

And looks false as the rainbow's dyes, 

Are very worthless. And that morn 

Had Juan from his Inez borne 

All woman's pettiness of scorn ; 

Had watch'd for her averted eye 

In vain, — had seen a rival nigh 

And smiled upon : he wildly swore 

To look on the false one no more, 

Who thus could trifle, thus could break 

A fond heart for the triumph's sake. — 

And yet she loved him,: — ! how well, 

Let woman's own fond spirit tell. 

When the warriors met in their high career, 

Went not her heart along with his spear ? 

The dance seem'd sad, and the festival dim, 

If her hand was unclaim'd by him ; 

Waked she her lute, if it breathed not his name ? 

Lay she in dreams, but some thought of him 

came 1 
No flowers, no smiles, were on life's dull tide, 
When Juan was not by his Inez' side 
And yet they parted ! Still there clings 
An earth-stain to the fairest things ; 
And love, that most delicious gift 
Upon life's shrine of sorrow left, 
Has its own share of suffering : 
A shade falls from its radiant wing, 
A spot steals o'er its sunny brow, 
Fades the rose-lip's witching glow. 
'Tis well, — for earth were too like heaven, 
If length of life to love were given. 
He has left the land of the chestnut and lira* 
For the cedar and rose of a southern clime. 
With a pilgrim's vow and a soldier's brand. 
To fight in the wars of the Holy Land. 
No colours are placed on his helm beside, 
No lady's scarf o'er his neck is tied, 
A dark plume alone does young Juan wear * 

Look where warriors are thickest, that plum **-UJ 
be there. 

But what has fame to do with one 

Whose light and hope of fame are gone 1 

0, fame is as the moon above, 

Whose sun of light and life is love. 

There is more in the smile of one gentle eye 

Than the thousand pages of history ; 

There is more in the spell of one sligbt gaze, 

Than the loudest plaudits the crowd can raise 

Take the gems in glory's coronal, 

And one smile of beauty is worth them all. 

He was not lonely quite, — a shade, 
A dream, a fancy, round him play'd ; 
Sometimes low, at the twilight hour, 
He heard a voice like that whose power 



46 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Was on his heart : it sang a strain 

Of those whose love was fond, yet vain : 

Sweet like a dream, — yet none might say 

Whose was the voice, or whose the lay. 

And once, when worn with toil and care, 

All that the soldier has to bear, 

With none to soothe and none to bless 

His hour of sickly loneliness, 

When, waked to consciousness again, 

The fire gone from his heart and brain, 

He could remember some fair thing 

Around his pillow hovering ; 

Of white arms in whose clasp he slept ; 

Of young blue eyes that o'er him wept ; 

How, when on the parched lip and brow 

Burnt the red fever's hottest glow, 

Some one had brought dew of the spring, 

With woman's own kind solacing 

And he had heard a voice, whose thrill 

Was echo'd by his bosom still. 

It was not hers — it could but be 

A dream, the fever's fantasie. . . . 

Deadly has been the fight to-day ; 
But now the infidels give way, 
And cimeter and turban'd band 
Scatter before the foeman's hand ; 
And in the rear, with sword and spur 
Follows the Christian conqueror. 
And one dark chief rides first of all— 
A warrior at his festival — 
Chasing his prey, till none are near 
To aid the single soldier's spear, 
Save one slight boy. Of those who flew, 
Three turn, the combat to renew : 
They fly, but death is on the field — 
That page's breast was Juan's shield. 
He bore the boy where, in the shade 
Of the green palm, a fountain made 
Its pleasant music ; tenderly 
He laid his head upon his knee, 
And from the dented helm unroll'd 
The blood-stain'd curls of summer gold. 
Knew he not then those deep-blue eyes, 
That lip of rose, and smiles, and sighs 1 
His Inez ! — his ! — could this be her, — 
Thus for his sake a wanderer ! — 
He spoke not, moved not, but sate there, 
A statue in his cold despair, 
Watching the lip and cheek decay, 
As faded life's last hue away, 
While she lay sweet and motionless, 
As only faint with happiness. 
At length she spoke, in that sweet tone 
Woman and love have for their own : 
" This is what I have pray'd might be — 
Has death not seal'd my truth to thee 1" 



A cypress springs by yonder grave, 
And music from the fountain wave 
Sings its low dirge to the pale rose 
That, near, in lonely beauty blows. 
Two lovers sleep beneath. O, sweet, 
Even in the grave, it is to meet ; 
Sweet even the death-couch of stone, 
When shared with some beloved one ; 
And sweeter than life the silent rest 
Of Inez on her Juan's breast. 



THE OAK. 

. . . It is the last survivor of a race 
Strong in their forest-pride when I was young 
I can remember when, for miles around, 
In place of those smooth meadows and corn 

fields, 
There stood ten thousand tall and stately trees, 
Such as had braved the winds of March, the bolt 
Sent by the summer lightning, and the snow 
Heaping for weeks their boughs. Even in the 

depth 
Of hot July the glades were cool ; the grass, 
Yellow and parch'd elsewhere, grew long and 

fresh. 
Shading wild strawberries and violets, 
Or the lark's nest ; and overhead the dove 
Had her lone dwelling, paying for her home 
With melancholy songs ; and scarce a beech 
Was there without a honeysuckle link'd 
Around, with its red tendrils and pink flowers ; 
Or girdled by a brier rose, whose buds 
Yield fragrant harvest for the honey bee. 
There dwelt the last red deer, those antler'd 

kings. . . 
But this is as a dream, — the plough has pass'd 
Where the stag bounded, and the day has look'd 
On the green twilight of the forest trees. 
This oak has no companion ! . . 



THE VIOLET. 

Violets ! — deep-blue violets ! 
April's loveliest coronets ! 
There are no flowers grow in the vale, 
Kiss'd by the dew, woo'd by the gale, — 
None by the dew of the twilight wet, 
So sweet as the deep-blue violet ; 
I do remember how sweet a brea,.i 
Came with the azure lirfit of a wreath 



FRAGMENTS. 



4? 



That hung round the wild harp's golden chords, 

Which rang to my dark-eyed lover's words. 

I have seen that dear harp roll'd 

With gems of the East and bands of gold ; 

But it never was sweeter than when set 

With leaves of the deep-blue violet ! 

And when the grave shall open for me, — 

I care not how soon that time may be, — 

Never a rose shall grow on that tomb, 

It breathes too much of hope and of bloom ; 

But there be that flower's meek regret, 

The bending and deep-blue violet ! 



CHANGE. 

Axd this is what is left of youth ! . . . 
There were two boys, who were bred up together, 
Shared the same bed, and fed at the same board ; 
Each tried the other's sport, from their first chase, 
Young hunters of the butterfly and bee, 
To when they folio w'd the fleet hare, and tried 
The swiftness of the bird. They lay beside 
The silver trout stream, watching as the sun 
Play'd on the bubbles : shared each in the store 
Of cither's garden : and together read 
Of him, the master of the desert isle, 
Till a low hut, a gun, and a canoe, 
Bounded their wishes. Or if ever came 
A thought of future days, 'twas but to say 
That they would share each other's lot, and do 
Wonders, no doubt. But this was vain : they 

parted 
With promises of long remembrance, words 
Whose kindness was the heart's, and those warm 

tears, 
Hidden like shame by the young eyes which shed 

them, 
But which are thought upon in after years 
As what, we would give worlds to shed once more. 

They met again, — but different from themselves, 
At least what each remember'd of themselves : 
The one proud as a soldier of his rank, 
And of his many battles : and the other 
Proud of his Indian wealth, and of the skill 
And toil which gather'd it ; each with a brow 
And heart alike darken'd by years and care. 
They met with cold words, and yet colder looks : 
Each was changed in himself, and yet each 

thought 
The other only changed, himself the same. 
And coldness bred dislike, and rivalry 
Came like the pestilence o'er some sweet thoughts 
That linger'd yet, healthy and beautiful, 



Amid dark and unkindly ones. And they, 
Whose boyhood had not known one jarring word 
Were strangers in their age: if their eyes met, 
'Twas but to look contempt, and when they spoko, 
Their speech was wormwood ! . . . . 
. . . . And this, this is life ! 



THE GRAY CROSS. 

A gray cross stands beneath yon old beech 
tree; 
It marks a soldier's and a maiden's grave : 
Around it is a grove of orange trees, 
With silver blossoms and with golden fruit. 
It was a Spaniard, whom he saved from death, 
Raised that cross o'er the gallant Englishman. 

He left home a young soldier, full of hope 
And enterprise ! — he fell in his first field ! 
There came a lovely pilgrim to his tomb, 
The blue-eyed girl, his own betroth'd bride, — 
Pale, delicate, — one looking as the gale 
That bow'd the rose could sweep her from the 

earth. 
Yet she had left her home, where every look 
Had been watch'd, O, so tenderly ! — and miles, 
Long weary miles, had wander'd. When she 

came 
To the dim shadow of the aged beech, 
She was worn to a shadow ; colourless 
The cheek once dyed by her own mountain rose 
She reach'd the grave and died upon the sod ' 
They laid her by her lover : — and her tale 
Is often on the songs that the guitar 
Echoes in the lime valleys of Castile ! 



CRESCENTIUS. 

Ilook'd upon his brow, — no sign 

Of guilt or fear was there ; 
He stood as proud by that death-shrine 

As even o'er Despair 
He had a power ; in his eye 
There was a quenchless energy, 

A spirit that could dare 
The deadliest form that Death could cake. 
And dare it for the daring's sake. 

He stood, the fetters on his hand, — 

He raised them haughtily ,• 
And had that grasp been on the brand. 

It could not wave on high 



48 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



With freer pnde than it waved now. 
Around he look'd with changeless brow 

On many a torture nigh : 
The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, 
And, worst of all, his own red steel. 

[ saw him once before ; he rode 

Upon a coal-black steed, 
And tens of thousands throng'd the road 

And bade their warrior speed. 
His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, 
And graved with many a dent that told 

Of many a soldier's deed ; 
The sun shone on his sparkling mail, 
And danced his snow-plume on the gale. 

Bu* now he stood chain'd and alone, 

The headsman by his side, 
The plume, the helm, the charger, gone 

The sword which had defied 
The mightiest, lay broken near ; 
And yet no sign or sound of fear 

Came from that lip of pride ; 
And never king or conqueror's brow 
Wore higher look than his did now. 

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke 

With an uncover'd eye ; 
A wild shout from the numbers broke 

Who throng'd to see him die. 
It was a people's loud acclaim, 
The voice of anger and of shame, 

A nation's funeral cry, 
Rome's wail above her only son, 
Her patriot and her latest one. 



ON A STAR. 

Beautiful star that art wandering through 
The midnight ocean's waves of blue ! 
I have watch'd since thy first pale ray 
Rose on the farewell of summer's day, — 
From thy first sweet shrine on the twilight hour, 
To thy present blaze of beauty and power ! 
Would I could read my destiny, 
Lovely and glorious star, in thee ! 
Yet why should I wish 1 — I know too well 
Why thy tablet of light would tell ! 
What, O ! what could I read there, 
But the depths of Love's despair, — 
Blighted feelings, like leaves that fall 
The first from April's coronal, — 
Hopes like meteors that shine and depart — 
A.n early grave, and a broken heart ! 



Farewell ! — and never think of me 

In lighted hall or lady's bower ! 
Farewell ! — and never think of me 

In spring sunshine or summer hour !- 
But when you see a lonely grave, 

Just where a broken heart might be, 
With not one mourner by its sod, 

Then — and then only — thixk of me 



HOME. 

I left my home ; — 'twas in a little vale 
Shelter"d from snow-storms by the stately pines , 
A small clear river wander'd quietly, 
Its smooth waves only cut by the light barks 
Of fishers, and but darken'd by the shade 
The willows flung, when to the southern wind 
They threw their long green tresses. On the 

slope 
Were five or six white cottages, whose roofs 
Reach'd not to the laburnum's height, whose 

boughs 
Shook over them bright showers of golden bloom 
Sweet silence reign'd around : — no other sound 
Came on the air, than when the shepherd made 
The reed-pipe rudely musical, or notes 
From the wild birds, or children in their play 
Sending forth shouts of laughter. Strangers 

come 
Rarely or never near the lonely place. . . . 
I went into far countries. Years past by, 
But still that vale in silent beauty dwelt 
Within my memory. Home I came at last. 
I stood upon a mountain height, and look'd 
Into the vale below ; and smoke arose, 
And heavy sounds ; and through the thick dim air 
Shot blacken'd turrets, and brick walls, and roofs 
Of the red tile. I enter'd in the streets : 
There were ten thousand hurrying to and fro ; 
And masted vessels stood upon the river, 
And barges sullied the once dew-clear stream. 
Where were the willows, where the cottages 1 
I sought my home ; I sought, and found a city, 
Alas ! for the green valley ! 



THE EMERALD RING. 

A SUPERSTITION. 

It is a gem which hath the power to show 
If plighted lovers keep their faith or no : 



FRAGMENTS. 



V* 



If faithful, it is like the leaves of spring ; 

If faithless, like those leaves when withering. 

Take back again your emerald gem, 
There is no colour in the stone ; 

It might have graced a diadem, 

But now its hue and light are gone ! 
Take back your gift, and give me mine — 

The kiss that seaFd our last love-vow ; 
Ah, other lips have been on thine, — 

My kiss is lost and sullied now ! 
The gem is pale, the kiss forgot, 

And, more than either, you are changed ; 
But my true love has alter" d not, 

My heart is broken — not estranged ! 



LOVE. 



Sue prest her slight hand to her brow, or pain 
Or bitter thoughts were passing there. The room 
Had no light but that from the fireside, 
Which show'd, then hid her face. How very 

pale 
It look'd, when over it the glimmer shone ! 
Is not the rose companion of the spring 1 
Then wherefore has the red-leaved flower for- 
gotten 
Her cheek 1 The tears stood in her large dark 

eyes — 
Her beautiful dark eyes — like hyacinth stars, 
When shines their shadowy glory through the 

dew 
That summer nights have wept; — she felt them 

not, 
Her heart was far away ! Her fragile form, 
Like the young willow when for the first time 
The wind sweeps o'er it rudely, had not lost 
Its own peculiar grace ; but it was bow'd 
By sickness, or by worse than sickness — sorrow ! 
And this is Love ! — ! why should woman love ; 
Wasting her dearest feelings, till health, hope, 
Happiness, are but things of which henceforth 
She'll only know the name 1 Her heart is sear'd : 
A sweet light has been thrown upon its life, 
To make its darkness the more terrible. 
And this is Love ! 



LOVE, HOPE, AND BEAUTY 

Love may be increased by fears, 
May be fann'd with sighs, 

Nurst by fancies, fed by doubts ; 
But without Hope it dies ! 



As in the far Indian isles 

Dies the young cocoa tree, 
Unless within the pleasant shade 

Of the parent plant it be : 
So Love may spring up at first 

Lighted at Beauty's eyes ; — ■ 
But Beauty is not all its life, 

For without Hope it dies. 



THE CRUSADER. 

He is come from the land of the sword and shrine, 
From the sainted battles of Palestine ; 
The snow plumes wave o'er his victor crest, 
Like a glory the red cross hangs at his breast ; 
His courser is black as black can be, 
Save the brow star white as the foam of the sea, 
And he wears a scarf of broidery rare, 
The last love-gift of his lady fair : 
It bore for device a cross and a dove, 
And the w r ords, " I am vow'd to my God and my 

love !" 
He comes not back the same that he went, 
For his sword has been tried, and his strength has 

been spent ; 
His golden hair has a deeper brown, 
And his brow has caught a darker frown, 
And its lip hath lost its boyish red, 
And the shade of the south o'er his cheek is 

spread ; 
But stately his step, and his bearing high, 
x\nd wild the light of his fiery eye ; 
And proud in the lists were the maiden bright 
Who might claim the Knight of the Cross for her 

knight. 
But he rides for the home he has pined to see 
In the court, in the camp, in captivity. 

He reach'd the castle, — the gate w T as thrown 
Open and wide, but he stood there alone ; 
He enter'd the door, — his own step was all 
That echo'd within the deserted hall ; 
He stood on the roof of the ancient tower, 
And for banner there waved one pale wall-flower ; 
And for sound of the trumpet and sound of the 

horn, 
Came the scream of the owl on the night-wind 

borne ; 
And the turrets w r ere falling, the vassals were 

flown, 
And the bat ruled the halls he had thought his 

own. 
His heart throbb'd high : O, never again 
Might he soothe with sweet thoughts his spkit 8 

pain ; 



50 



MISS LANDOIS'S WORKS. 



He never might think on his boyish years 

Till his eyes grew dim with those sweet warm 

tears 
Which Hope and Memory shed when they meet. 
The grave of his kindred was at his feet : 
He stood alone, the last of his race, 
With the cold, wide world for his dwelling-place. 
The home of his fathers gone to decay, — 
All but their memory was pass'd away ; 
No one to welcome, no one to share, 
The laurel he no more was proud to wear : 
He carne in the pride of his war success 
But to weep over every desolateness. 
They pointed him to a barren plain 
Where his father, his brothers, his kinsmen were 

slain; 
They show'd him the lowly grave, where slept 
The maiden whose scarf he so truly had kept ; 
But they could not show him one living thing 
To which his wither'd heart could cling. . . . 

Amid the warriors of Palestine 
Is one, the first in the battle-line ; 
ft is not for glory he seeks the field, 
For a blasted tree is upon his shield, 
And the motto he bears is, " I fight for a grave :" 
He found it — that warrior has died with the brave ! 



THE WARRIOR. 



A SKETCH. 



The warrior went forth in the morning light, — 
Waved like a meteor his plume of white, 
Scarce might his gauntleted hand restrain 
The steed that snorted beneath the rein : 
Yet curb'd he its pride, for upon him there 
Gazed the dark eye of his ladye fair. 
She stood on the tower to watch him ride, — 
The maiden whose hand on his bosom had tied 
The scarf she had work'd ; — she saw him depart' 
With a tearless eye, though a beating heart ; 
But when the knight of her love was gone, 
She went to her bower to weep alone. 
The warrior past, — but first he took 
At the castle-wall one parting look, 
And thought of the evening when he should bring 
His lady his battle offering ; 
Then like a thought he dash'd o'er the plain, 
And with banner and brand came his vassal train, 
It was a thrilling sound to hear 
The bugle's welcome of warlike cheer ; 
It was a thrilling sight to see 
The ranks of that gallant company : 



Many were there stately and tall, 

But Edith's knight was the first of all. — 

The day is past, and the moonbeams weep 

O'er the many that rest in their last cold sleep ; 

Near to the gash'd and nerveless hand 

Is the pointless spear and the broken brand ; 

The archer lies like an arrow spent, 

His shafts all loose and his bow unbent ; 

Many a white plume torn and red, 

Bright curls rent from the graceful head, 

Helmet and breastplate scatter'd around, 

Lie a fearful show on the well-fought ground ; 

While the crow and the raven flock over head 

To feed on the hearts of the helpless dead, 

Save when scared by the glaring eye 

Of some wretch in his last death agony. 

Lighted up is that castle-wall, 
And twenty harpers wait in the hall ; 
On the board is mantling the purple wine, 
And wreaths of white flowers the maidens twine; 
For distant and faint is heard the swell 
Of bugles and voices from yonder dell, 
The victors are coming : and by the tower 
Had Edith watch'd for the midnight hour. 

0, that lone sickness of the heart, 
Which bids the weary moments depart, 
Yet dreads their departing ; the cross she held fast. 
And kiss'd off the tears — they are come at last ! 
But has not the bugle a plaining wail, 
As the notes of its sadness come on the gale ; 
Why comes there no shout of the victor's pride, 
As red from the battle they homewards ride 1 
Yet high o'er their ranks is their white banner 

borne, 
While beneath droops the foeman's, blood-stain'd 

and torn. 
Said not that young warrior thus it should be, 
When he talk'd to his Edith of victory] 
Yet, maiden, weep o'er thy loneliness. 
Is not yon dark horse riderless ] 
She flew to the gate, — she stood there alone,— 
Where was he who to meet her had flown 1 
The dirge grew plain as the troop came near, — 
They bear the young chieftain cold on his bier ! 



APOLOGUE : 

THE THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY A SPANISH SAYING 
" AIR FIRE WATER SHAME." 

WATER. 

Seek for me in the Arab maid's bower 
Where the fountain plays over the jasmine flower 



BALLADS. 



51 



Seek for me in the light cascade 
The minstrel lists in the greenwood shade ; 
Seek me at morn 'mid the violet's dyes : 
Seek me where rainbows paint April skies : » 
In the blue rush of rivers, the depths of the sea. 
If we should sever, there seek for me. 



Seek for me where the war-shots meet, 
Where the soldier's cloak is his windingsheet ; 
Seek for me where the lava wave 
Bursts from Etna's secret cave ; 
Seek for me where Christmas mirth 
Brightens the circle of love round your hearth ; • 
Where meteor-flames glance, where the stars are 

bright ; 
Where the beacon flashes at the dead midnight ; 



Where the lightning scathes the tall oak tree, 
If we should sever, there seek for me. 



Seek for me where the Spanish maid 
Hearkens at eve to the serenade : 
Seek for me where the clouds are dark, 
Where the billows foam round the sinking bark ; 
Where the aspen-leaf floats on the summer's 

gale, 
Where the rose bends low at the nightingale's 

tale: 
Where the windharp wakens in melody, 
If we should sever, there seek for me. 



Seek not me, if we should sever : 
Parted once, we part forever. 



BALLADS. 



THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE. 

There's a white stone placed upon yonder tomb, 

Beneath is a soldier lying : 
The death wound came amid sword and plume, 

When banner and ball were flying. 

Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast, 

By wot wild flowers surrounded ; 
The church shadow falls o'er his place of rest, 

Where the steps of his childhood bounded. 

^here were tears that fell from manly eyes, 
There was woman's gentler weeping, 

\.nd the wailing of age and infant cries, 
O'er the grave where he lies sleeping. 

He had left his home in his spirit's pride, 
With his father's sword and blessing ; 

He stood with the valiant side by side, 
His country's wrongs redressing. 

He came again in the light of his fame, 
When the red campaign was over : 

One heart that in secret had kept his name, 
Was claim'd by the soldier lover. 

But the cloud of strife came upon the sky ; 

He left his sweet home for battle : 
And his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry, 

And the cartnon's long death-rattle. 



He came again, — but an alter'd man : 
The path of the grave was before him, 

And the smile that he wore was cold and wan, 
For the shadow of death hung o'er hirr. 

He spoke of victory, — spoke of cheer : 
These are words that are vainly spoken 

To the childless mother or orphan's ear, 
Or the widow whose heart is broken. 

A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone, 

Half hidden by yonder willow ; 
There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won, 

But who died on his own home-pillow ! 



SONG OF THE HUNTER'S BRIDE. 

Another day — another day 

And yet he comes not nigh ; 
I look amid the dim blue hills, 

Yet nothing meets mine eye. 

I hear the rush of mountain streams 

Upon the echoes borne ; 
I hear the singing of the birds, 

But not my hunter's horn. 

The eagle sails in darkness past, 
The watchful chamois bounds ; 

But what I look for comes not near,-- 
My Ulric's hawk and hounds. 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Three times I thus have watch'd the snow 

Grow crimson with the stain, 
The setting sun threw o'er the rock, 

And I have watch'd in vain. 

I love to see the graceful bow 

Across hid shoulder slung, — 
I love to see the golden horn 

Beside his baldric hung. 

I love his dark hounds, and I love 

His falcon's sweeping flight ; 
I love to see his manly cheek 

With mountain colours bright. 

I've waited patiently, but now 
Would that the chase were o'er : 

Well may he love the hunter's toil, 
But he should love me more. 

Why stays he thus 1 — he would be here 

If his love equall'd mine ; — 
Mefhinks had I one fond caged dove, 

I would not let it pine. 

But, hark ! what are those ringing steps 

That up the valley come 1 
I see his hounds, — I see himself, — 

My Ulbic, welcome home ! 



WHEN SHOULD LOVERS 
BREATHE THEIR VOWS 1 

When should lovers breathe their vows 1 

When should ladies hear them 1 
W T hen the dew is on the boughs, 

When none else are near them ; 
When the moon shines cold and pale, 

When the birds are sleeping, 
When no voice is on the gale, 

When the rose is weeping ; 
When the stars are bright on high, 

Like hopes in young Love's dreaming, 
And glancing round the light clouds fly, 

Like soft fears to shade their beaming 
The fairest smiles are those that live 

On the brow by starlight wreathing , 
And the lips their richest incense give 

When the sigh is at midnight breathing. 
0, softest is the cheek's love-ray 

When seen by moonlight hours, 
Other roses seek the day, 

But blushes are night flowers. 
0, when the moon and stars are bright, 

When the dew-drops glisten, 
Then their vows should lovers plight, 

Then should ladies listen ! 



THE TROUBADOUR; 

CATALOGUE OF PICTURES AND HISTORICAL SKETCHES 



53 



ADVERTISEMENT 



The poem of The Troubadour is 
founded upon an ancient custom of Pro- 
vence, according to which a festival was 
held, and the minstrel who bore away 
the prize from his competitors was re- 
warded, by the lady chosen to preside, 



with a Golden Violet. It is hardly ne 
cessary to say, that this makes only the 
conclusion of the tale, — all the earlier 
parts being given to chivalrous adventure, 
and to description characteristic of the 
age. L. E. L 






THE TROUBADOUR, 



CANTO I. 

Calx to mind your loveliest dream, — 
When your sleep is lull'd by a mountain stream, 
When your pillow is made of the violet, 
And over your head the branches are met 
Of a lime tree cover'd with bloom and bees, 
When the roses' breath is on the breeze, 
When odours and light on your eyelids press , 
With summer's delicious idleness; 
And upon you some shadowy likeness may glance 
Of the faery banks of the bright Durance ; 
Just where at first its current flows 
'Mid willows and its own white rose, — 
Its clear and early tide, or ere 
A shade, save trees, its waters bear. 

The sun, like an Indian king, has left 
To that fair river a royal gift 
Of gold and purple ; no longer shines 
His broad red disk o'er that forest of pines 
Sweeping beneath the burning sky 
Like a death-black ocean, whose billows lie 
Dreaming dark dreams of storm in their sleep 
W T hile the wings of the tempest shall over them 

sweep. 
—And with its towers cleaving the red 
Of the sunset clouds, and its shadow spread 
Like a cloak before it, darkening the ranks 
Of the light young trees on the river's banks, 
And ending there, as the waters shone 
Too bright for shadows to rest upon, 
A castle stands ; whose windows gleam 
Like the golden flash of a noonlit stream 
Seen 'through the lily and water-flags' screen : 
Just so shine those panes through the ivy green, 
A curtain to shut out sun and air, 
Which the work of years has woven there. 
— But not in the lighted pomp of the west 
Looks the evening its loveliest ; 
Enter yon turret, and round you gaze 
On what the twilight east displays : 
One star, pure, clear, as if it shed 
The dew on each young flower's head ; 
And, like a beauty of southern clime, 
Her veil thrown back for the first time, 
Pale, timid as she fear'd to own 
Her claim upon the midnight throne, 



Shows the fair moon her crescent sign. 

— Beneath, in many a serpentine, 

The river wanders ; chestnut trees 

Spread their old boughs o'er cottages 

Where the low roofs and porticoes 

Are cover'd with the Provence rose. 

And there are vineyards : none might view 

The fruit o'er which the foliage weaves • 
And olive groves, pale as the dew 

Crusted its silver o'er the leaves. 
And there the castle garden lay 
With tints in beautiful array : 
Its dark green walks, its fountains falling, 
Its tame birds to each other calling ; 
The peacock with its orient rings, 
The silver pheasant's gleaming wings ; 
And on the breeze rich odours sent 
Sweet messages, as if they meant 
To rouse each sleeping sense to all 
The loveliness of evening's fall. — 
That lonely turret, is it not 
A minstrel's own peculiar spot 1 
Thus with the light of shadowy giay 
To dream the pleasant hours away. 

Slight columns were around the hall 
With wreath'd and fluted pedestal 
Of green Italian marble made, 
In likeness of the palm trees' shade 
And o'er the ceiling starry showers 
Mingled with many-colour'd flowers, 
With crimson roses o'er her weeping, 
There lay that royal maiden sleeping — 
Dan ae, she whom gold could move — 
How could it move her heart to love 1 
Between the pillars the rich fold 
Of tapestry fell, inwrought with gold, 
And many-colour'd silks which gave, 
Strange legends of the fair and brave. 
And there the terrace cover'd o'er 
With summer's fair and scented store ; 
As grateful for the gentle care 
That had such pride to keep it fair. 

And, gazing, as if heart and eye 
Were mingled with that lovely sky, 
There stood a youth, slight as not yet 
With manhood's strength and firmness e-et, 

55 



56 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



But on his cold, pale check were caught 
The traces of some deeper thought, 
A something seen of pride and gloom, 
Not like youth's hoar of light and bloom : 
A brow of pride, a lip of scorn, — 

Yet beautiful in scorn and pride — 
A conscious pride, as if he own'd 

Gems hidden from the world beside ; 
And scorn, as he cared not to learn 
Should others prize those gems or spurn. 
He was the last of a proud race 

Who left him but his sword and name, 
And boyhood past in restless dreams 

Of future deeds and future fame. 
But there were other dearer dreams 
Than the lightning flash of these war gleams 
That fill'd the depths of Raymond's heart ; 
For his was now the loveliest part 
Of the young poet's life, when first, 
In solitude and silence nurst, 
His genius rises like a spring 
Unnoticed in its wandering ; 
Ere winter cloud or summer ray 
Have chill'd, or wasted it away, 
When thoughts with their own beauty fill'd 

Shed their own richness over all, 
As waters from sweet woods distilfd 

Breathe perfume out where'er they fall. 
I know not whether love can fling 
A deeper witchery from his wing 
Than falls sweet power of song from thine. 
Yet, ah ! the wreath that binds thy shrine, 
Though seemingly all bloom and light, 
Hides thorn and canker, worm and blight. 
Planet of wayward destinies 
Thy victims are thy votaries ! 
Alas ! for him whose youthful fire 
Is vow'd and wasted on the lyre, — 
Alas ! for him who shall essay, 
The laurel's long and dreary way ! 
Mocking will greet, neglect will chill 
His spirit's gush, his bosom's thrill ; 
And, worst of all, that heartless praise 
Echo'd from what another says. 
He dreams a dream of life and light, 

And grasps the rainbow that appears 
Afar all beautiful and bright, 

And finds it only form'd of tears. 
Ay, let him reach the goal, let fame 
Pour glory's sunlight on his name, 
Let his songs be on every tongue, 
Ana wealth an» nonours round him flung: 
Then let him show his secret thought, 
Will it not, own them dearly bought 1 
See him in weariness fling down 
The golden harp, the violet crown , 
And sigh for all the toil, the care, 
The wrong that he has had tc bear ; 



Then wish the treasures of his lute 
Had been, like his own feelings, mute, 
And curse the hour when that he gave 
To sight that wealth, his lord and slave. 

But Raymond was in the first stage 
Of life's enchanted pilgrimage : 
'Tis not for spring to think on all 
The sear and waste of autumn's fall : — 
Enough for him to watch beside 
The bursting of the mountain tide, 
To wander through the twilight shade 
By the dark, arching pine-boughs made, 
And at the evening's starlit hour 
To seek for some less shadowy bower, 
Where dewy leaf, and flower pale 
Made the home of the nightingale. 
Or he would seek the turret hall, 
And there, unheard, unseen of all, 
When even the night winds were mute, 
His rich tones answer'd to the lute ; 
And in his pleasant solitude 
He would forget his wayward mood, 
And pour his spirit forth when none 
Broke on his solitude, save one. 

There is a light step passing by 
Like the distant sound of music's sigh ; 
It is that fair and gentle child, 
Whose sweetness has so oft beguiled, 
Like sunlight on a stormy day, 
His almost sullenness away. 

They said she was not of mortal birth, 
And her face was fairer than face of earth : 
What is the thing to liken it to 1 
A lily just dipp'd in the summer dew — 
Parian marble — snow's first fall ? — 
Her brow was fairer than each and all. 
And so delicate was each vein's soft blue, 
'Twas not like blood that wander'd through. 
Rarely upon that cheek was shed, 
By health or by youth, one tinge of red ; 
And never closest look could descry, 
In shine, or in shade, the hue of her eye 
But as it were made of light, it changed, 
With every sunbeam that over it ranged ; 
And that eye could look through the long dark lash, 
With the moon's dewy smile, or the lightning's 

flash. 
Her silken tresses, so bright and so fair, 
Stream'd like a banner of light on the air, 
And seldom its sunny wealth around 
Was chaplet of flowers or riband bound ; 
But amid the gold of its thousand curls 
Was twisted a braid of snow-white pearls, — 
They said 'twas a charmed spell ; that before, 
This braid her nameless mother wore ; 



THE TROUBADOUR. 



57 



And many were the stories wild 
Whispcr'd of the neglected child 

Lord Amirald, (thus the tale was told,) 
The former lord of the castle hold, — 
Lord Amirald had follow'd the chase, 
Till he was first and last in the race ; 
The blood-dyed sweat hung on his steed, 
Each breath was a gasp, yet he stay'd not his 

speed. 
Twxce the dust and foam had been wash'd 
By the mountain torrent that over them dash'd ; 
But still the stag was held on his way, 
Till a forest of pine trees before them lay, 
And bounding and crashing boughs declare 
The stag and the hunter have enter'd there. 
On, on they went, till a greenwood screen 
Lay Am i ralt) and his prey between : 
He has heard the creature sink on the ground, 
And the branches give way at his courser's bound. 

The spent stag on the grass is laid ; 
But over him is leant a maid, 
Her arms and fair hair glistening 
With the bright waters of the spring ; 
And Amirald paused, and gazed, as seeing 
Were grown the sole sense of his being. 

At first she heard him not, but bent 
Upon her pitying task intent ; 
The summer clouds of hair that hung 
Over her brow were backwards flung, 
She saw him ! Her first words were prayer 
Her gasping favourite's life to spare ; 
But her next tones were soft and low, 
And on her cheek a mantling glow 
Play'd like a rainbow ; and the eye 
That raised in pleasing energy, 
Shed, starlike, its deep beauty round, 
Scem'd now as if to earth spell-bound. — 
They parted : but each one that night 
Thought on the meeting at twilight. 

It matters not, how, day by day, 
Love made his sure but secret way. 
0, where is there the heart but knows 
Love's first steps are upon the rose ! 
And here were all which still should be 
Nurses to Love's sweet infancy, — 
Hope, mystery, absence : — then each thought 
A something holy with it brought. 
Their sighs were breathed, their vows were given 
Before the face of the high Heaven, 
Link'd not with courtly vanities, 
But birds and blossoms, leaves and trees : — 
Love was not made for palace pride, 
For halls and domes — they met beside 
A marble fountain, overgrown 
With mots, that made it nature's own, 
(8) 



Though through the green shone veir of snow. 
Like the small Fairy's paved ways, 

As if a relic left to show 

The luxury of departed days, 

And show its nothingness. The wave 

That princely brows was wont to lave 

Was left now for the wild bird's bill, 

And the red deer to drink their fill. 

Yet still it was as fair a spot 

As in its once more splendid lot : 

Around, the dark sweep of the pine 

Guarded it like a wood-nymph's shrine, 

And the gold-spotted moss was set 

With crowds of the white violet. 

One only oak grew by the spring, 

The forest's patriarch and king ; 

A nightingale had built her nest 

In the green shadow of its rest ; 

And in its hollow trunk the bees 

Dwelt in their honey palaces ; 

And underneath its shelter stood, 

Leant like a beauty o'er the flood 

Watching each tender bud unclose, 

A beautiful white Provence rose ; — 

Yet wan and pale as that it knew 

What changing skies and sun could do ; 

As that it knew, and, knowing, sigh'd ; 

The vanity of summer pride ; 

As watching could put off the hour 

When falls the leaf and fades the flower. 

Alas ! that every lovely thing 

Lives only but for withering, — 

That spring rainbows and summer shine 

End but in autumn's pale decline. 

And here the lovers met, what hour 
The bee departed from the flower, 
And droop 'd the bud at being left, 
Or as ashamed of each sweet theft, 
What hour the soft wind bore along 
The nightingale's moonlighted song. 

And Amirald heard her father's name, 
He whose it was, was link'd with fame : 
Though driven from his heritage, 
A hunted exile in his age, 
For that he would not bend the knee, 
And draw the sword at Rome's decree. 

She led him to the lonely cot, 
And almost Amirald wish'd his lot 
Had been cast in that humbler life, 
Over whose peace the hour of strife 
Passes but like the storm at sea 
That wakes not earth's tranquillity. 

In secret were they wed, not then 
Had Amirald power to fling again 



&8 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



The banner of defiance wide 

To priestly pomp and priestly pride ; 

But day bv day more strong his hand, 

And more his friends, and soon the brand 

That in its wrongs and silence slept 

Had from its blood-stain 1 d scabbard leapt. 

But here are told such varying tales 

That none may know where truth prevails; 

For there were hints of murder done, 

And deeds of blood that well might shun 

All knowledge ; but the wildest one 

Was most believed : 'twas whisper' d round 

Lord Ami u alb in hunting found 

An evil spirit, but array'd 

In semblance of a human maid ; 

That 'twas some holy word whose force 

Broke off their sinful intercourse. 

But this is sure, one evening late 

Lord Amirald reach'd his castle gate, 

And blood was on his spurs of gold, 

And blood was on his mantle's fold, — 

He flung it back, and on his arm 

A fair young child lay pillow'd warm 1 

It stretch'd its little hands and smiled, 

And Amirald said it was his child, 

And bade the train their aid afford 

Suiting the daughter of their lord. 

Then sought his brother, bat alone 

Yet there were some who heard a tone 

Of stifled agony, a prayer 

His child .should meet a father's care ; 

And as he past the hall again 

He call'd around his vassal train, 

And bade them own his brother's sway, 

Then past himself like a dream away, — 

And from that hour none heard his name, 

No tale, no tidings of him came, 

Save a vague murmur, that he fell 

In fighting with the Infidel. 

But his fair child grew like a flower 
Springing in March's earlier hour, 
'Mid storm and chill, yet loveliest — 
Though somewhat paler than the rest. 

Perhaps it was her orphan'd state, 
So young, so fair, so desolate, — 
Somewhat of likeness in their fate 
Made Raymond s neart lor ner confess 
Its hidden depths of tenderness. 
Neglected both ; and those that pine 
In love's despair and hope's decline, 
Can lovo the most when some sweet spell 
Breaks the seal on affection's well, 
And bids its waters flow like light 
Returning to the darken'd sight. 
And while his fallen fortunes taught 
Raymond's proud solitude of thought, 



His spirit's cold, stern haughtiness 
In her was gentle mournfulness. 
The cold north wind which bows to earth 
The lightness of the willow's birth 
Bends not the mountain cedar trees ; 
Folding their branches from the breeze, 
They stand as if they could defy 
The utmost rage of storm and sky. 
And she, she would have thought it sin 
To harbour one sweet thought within, 
In whose delight he had no part,- 1 — 
He was the world of her young heart. 
A childish fondness, yet revealing 
Somewhat of woman's deeper feeling, — 
Else wherefore is that crimson blush, 
As her cheek felt her bosom's rush 
Upon her face, while pausing now 
Her eyes are raised to Raymond's brow, 
Who lute-waked to a ballad old, 
A legend of the fair and bold. 



He raised the golden cup from the board, 
It sparkled with purple wealth, 

He kiss'd the brim her lip had prest 
And drank to his ladye's health. 

Ladye, to-night I pledge thy name, 
To-morrow thou shalt pledgp mine ; 

Ever the smile of beauty should light 
The victor's blood-red wine. 

There are some flowers of brightest bloom 

Amid thy beautiful hair, 
Give me those roses, they shall be 

The favour I will wear. 

For ere their colour is wholly gone, 
Or the breath of their sweetness fled, 

They shall be placed in thy curls again, 
But dyed of a deeper red. 

The warrior rode forth in the morning fight, 
And beside his snow-white plume 

Were the roses wet with the sparkling dew- 
Like pearls on their crimson bloom. 

The maiden stood on her highest tower, 
And watch'd her knight depart ; 

She dash'd the tear aside, but her hand 
Might not still her beating heart. 

All day she watch'd the distant clouds 

Float on the distant air, 
A crucifix upon her neck, 

And on her lips a prayer. 



THE TROUBADOUR. 



59 



The sun went down, and twilight came 

With her banner of pcarlin gray, 
And then afar she saw a band 

Wind down the vale their way. 

They came like victors, for high o'er their ranks 
Were their crimson colours borne ; 

And a stranger penon droop'd beneath, 
But that was bow'd and torn : 

Bu'. she saw no white steed first in the ranks, 

No rider that spurr'd before ; 
But the evening shadows were closing fast, 

And she could see no more. 

She turn'd from. her watch on the lonely tower 

In haste to reach the hall, 
And as she sprang down the winding stair 

She heard the drawbridge fall. 

A hundred harps their welcome rung, ♦ 

Then paused as if in fear ; 
The ladye enter'd the hall, and saw 

Her true knight stretch'd en his bier ! 



The song ceased, yet not with its tone 
Is the minstrels vision wholly flown ; 
But there he stood as if he had sent 
His spirit to rove on the element. 
But Eva broke on his trance, and the while 
Play'd o'er her lip a sigh and a smile : — 
" Now turn thee from that evening sky, 
And the dreaming thoughts that are passing by, 
And give me these buds thou hast pluck'd away 
The leaves of the rose round which they lay ; 
Yet still the boon thrice fair will be, 
And give them for my tidings to me. 
A herald waits in the court to claim 
Aid in the Lady of Clarin's name ; 
And well you know the fair Clotiede 
Will have her utmost prayer fulfill'd. 
Go to the hall at once, and ask 
That thine may be the glorious task 
To spread the banner to the day 
And lead the vassals to the fray." — 

He rush'd to the crowded hall, and there 
He heard the herald's words declare 
The inroad on her lands, the wrong 
The lonely Countess suffer'd long 
And now Sin Her be tit's arm'd array 
Before her very castle lay ; 
But surely there was many a knight 
Whose sword would strike for lady's right ; 
And surely many a lover's hand 
In such a cause would draw the brand. 



And rush'd the blood, and flash'd the light 
To Raymond's cheek, from Raymond's eye 

When he stood forth and claim'd the fight, 
And spoke of death and victory. 

Those words that thrill the heart when first 

Forth the young warrior's soul has burst. 

And smiled the castle lord to sec 

His ward's impetuous energy. 

" Well ! get thy sword, the dawning day 
Shall see thee lead thy best array; 
Suits its young warrior well to fight 
For lady's cause and lady's right 1 
'Tis just a field for knight to win 
His maiden spurs and honours in." 

And Raymond felt as if a gush 
Of thousand waters in one rush 
Were on his heart, as if the dreams 
Of what, alas ! life only seems, 
Wild thoughts and noontide revelries, 
Were turn'd into realities. 
Impatient, restless, first his steed 
Was hurried to its utmost speed : 
And next his falchion's edge was tried, 
Then waved the helmet's plume of pride, 
Then wandering through the courts and hall 
He paused in none yet pass'd through all. 

But there was one whose gentle heart 
Could ill take its accustom'd part 
In Raymond's feelings, one who deem'd 
That almost unkind Raymond seenvd : — 
If thus the very name of war, 

Could fill so utterly each thought, 
How durst she hope, that when afar 

Eva would be to memory brought. 
O, she had yet the task to learn 
How often woman's heart must turn 
To feed upon its own excess 
Of deep yet passionate tenderness ! 
How much of grief the heart must prove 
That yields a sanctuary to love ! 

And ever since the crimson day 
Had faded into twilight gray, 
She had been in the gallery, where 
Hung pictured, knight and lady fair, 
Where haughty brow and lovely face, 
Show'd youth and maiden of her race 

With both it was a favourite spot, 
And names and histories which have not 
A record save in the dim light 
Tradition throws on memory's night 
To them were treasures ; they could teD 
What from the first crusade befell. 



00 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



1 here could not be a solitude 
Mere fitted for a pensive mood 
Than this old gallery, — the light 
Of the full moon came coldly bright — 
A silvery stream, save where a stain 
Fell from the pictured window pane, — 
A ruby flush, a purple dye. 
Like the last sun-streak on the sky, 
And lighted lip, and cheek of bloom 
Almost in mockery of the tomb. 
How sad, how strange to think the shade, 
The copy faint of beauty made, 
Should be the only wreck that death 
Shall leave of so much bloom and breath. 
The cheek, long since the earth-worm's prey, 
Beside the lovely of to-day 
Here smiles as bright, as fresh, as fair, 
As if of the same hour it were. 

There pass'd a step along the hall, 
And Eva started as if all 
Her treasures, secret until now, 
Burnt in the blush upon her brow. 
There was a something in their meeting, 
A conscious trembling in her greeting, 
As coldness from his eye might hide 
The struggle of her love and pride ; 
Then fears of all too much revealing 
Vanish'd with a reproachful feeling. 

What, coldness ! when another day 
And Raymond would be far away, 
When that to-morrow's rising sun 
Might be the last he look'd upon ! 

" Come, Eva, dear ! by the moonlight 
We'll visit all our haunts to night. 
I could not lay me down to rest, 
For, like the feathers in my crest, 
My thoughts are waving to and fro. 
Come, Eva, dear ! I could not go 
Without a pilgrimage to all 
Of garden, nook, and waterfall, — 
Where, amid birds, and leaves, and flowers, 
And gales that cool'd the sunny hours, 
With legend old, and plaining song, 
We found not summer's day too long." 

Through many a shadowy spot they past, 
Iiooking its loveliest and its last, 
Until they paused beneath the shade 
Of cypress and of roses made, — 
The one so sad, the one so fair, 
Just blent as love and sorrow are. 
And Raymond pray'd the maiden gather, 
And twine in a red wreath together 
The roses. " No," she sigh'd, " not these 
Sweot children of the sun and breeze, 



Born for the beauty of a day, 
Dying as all fair things decay 
When loveliest, — these may not be, 
Raymond, my parting gift to thee. 
From next her heart, where it had lain, 
She took an amber scented chain, 
To which a cross of gold was hung, 
And round the warrior's neck she flung 
The relique, while he kiss'd away 
The warm tears that upon it lay. 
And mark'd they not the pale, dim sky 
Had lost its moonlit brilliancy, 
When suddenly a bugle rang, — 
Forth at its summons Raymond sprang, 
But turn'd again to say farewell 
To her whose gushing teardrops fell 
Like summer rain, — but he is gone ! 
And Eva weeps, and weeps alone. 

Dark was the shade of that old tower 
In the gray light of morning's hour ; 
And cold and pale the maiden leant 
Over the heavy battlement, 
And look'd upon the armed show 
That hurrying throng'd the court below: 
With her white robe and long bright hair, 
A golden veil flung on the air, 
Like Peace prepared from earth to fly. 
Yet pausing, ere she wing'd on high. 
In pity for the rage and crime 
That forced her to some fairer clime. 
When suddenly her pale cheek burn'd, 
For Raymond's eye to her's was turn'd 
But like a meteor past its flame — 
She was too sad for maiden shame. 
She heard the heavy drawbridge fall, 
And Raymond rode the first of all ; 
But when he came to the green height 
Which hid the castle from his sight, 
With useless spur and slackened rein, 
He was the laggard of the train. 
They paused upon the steep ascent, 
And spear, and shield, and breast-plate sent 
A light, as if the rising day 
Upon a mirror flash'd its ray. 
They pass on, Eva only sees 
A chance plume waving in the breeze, 
And then can see no more — but borne 
Upon the echo, came the horn ; 
At last nor sight nor sound declare 
Aught of what pass'd that morning there. 
Sweet sang the birds, light swept the breeze, 
And play'd the sunlight o'er the trees, 
And roll'd the river's depths of blue 
Quiet as they were wont to do. 
And Eva felt as if of all 
Her heart were sole memorial. 



THE TROUBADOUR. 



61 



CANTO II. 



The first, the very first ; ! none 
Can feel again as they have clone ; 
In love, in war, in pride, in all 
The planets of life's coronal, 
However beautiful or bright — 
What can be like their first sweet light 1 

When will the youth feel as he felt, 
When first at beauty's feet he knelt 1 
As if her least smile could confer 
A kingdom on its worshipper ; 
3r ever care, or ever fear 
Had cross'd love's morning hemisphere. 
And the young bard, the first time praise 
Sheds its spring sunlight o'er his lays, 
Though loftier laurel, higher name, 
May crown the minstrel's noontide fame, 
They will not bring the deep content 
Of his lute's first encouragement. 
And where the glory that will yield 
The flush and glow of his first field 
To the young chief? Will Raymond ever 
Feel as he now is feeling ? — Never. 

The sun went down or ere they gain'd 
The glen where the chief band remain'd. 
It was a lone and secret shade, 
As nature form'd an ambuscade 
For the bird's nest and the deer's lair, 
Though now less quiet guests were there. 
On one side like a fortress stood 
A mingled pine and chestnut wood ; 
Autumn was falling, but the pine 
Seem'd as it mock'd all change ; no sign 
Of season on its leaf was seen, 
The same dark gloom of changeless green. 
But like the gorgeous Persian bands 
'Mid the stern race of northern lands, 
The chestnut boughs were bright with all 
That gilds and mocks the autumn's fall. 

Like stragglers from an army's rear 
Gradual they grew, near and less near, 
Till ample space was left to raise, 
Amid the trees, the watch-fire's blaze ; 
And there, wrapt in their cloaks around, 
The soldiers scatter'd o'er the ground. 

One was more crowded than the rest, 
And to that one was Raymond prest; — 
There sat the chief: kind greetings came 
At the first sound of Raymond's name. 
" Am I not proud that this should be, 
Thy first field to be fought with me : 
Years since thy father's sword and mine 
Together dimm'd their maiden shine. 



We were sworn brothers ; when he fell 
'Twas mine to hear his last farewell : 
And how revenged I need not say, 
Though few were left to tell that day. — 
Thy brow is his, and thou wilt wield 
A sword like his in battle-field. 
Let the day break, and thou shalt ride 
Another Raymond by my side ; 
And thou shalt win and I confer, 
To-morrow, knightly brand and spur," 

With thoughts of pride, and thoughts of grief 
Sat Raymond by that stranger chief, 
So proud to hear his father's fame 
So sad to hear that father's name, 
And then to think that he had known 
That father by his name alone ; 
And ay his heart within him burn'd 
When his eye to De Valence turn'd, 
Mark'd his high step, his warlike mien, 
" And such my father would have been !" 

A few words of years past away, 
A few words of the coming day, 

They parted, not that night for sleep ; 

Raymond had thoughts that well might keep 

Rest from his pillow, — memory, hope, 

In youth's horizon had full scope 

To blend and part each varied line 

Of cloud and clear, of shade and shine. 

— He rose and wander'd round, the light 

Of the full moon fell o'er each height ; 

Leaving the wood behind in shade, 

O'er rock, and glen, and rill it play'd. 

He follow'd a small stream whose tide 

Was bank'd by lilies on each side, 

And there, as if secure of rest, 

A swan had built her lonely nest ; 

And spread out was each lifted wing, 

Like snow or silver glittering. 

Wild flowers grew around the dale, 

Sweet children of the sun and gale ; 

From every crag the wild wine fell, 

To all else inaccessible ; 

And where a dark rock rose behind, 
Their shelter from the northern wind, 
Grew myrtles with their fragrant leaves, 
Veil'd with the web the gossamer weaves 
So pearly fair, so light, so frail, 
Like beauty's self more than her veil.- 
And first to gaze upon the scene, 
Quiet as there had never been 
Heavier step than village maid 
With flowers for her nuptial braid, t 
Or louder sound than hermit's prayer, 
To crush its grass or load its air. 
Then to look on the arm'd train, 
The watch fire on the wooded plain. 
/ 



62 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



And think how with the morrow's dawn, 
Would banner wave and blade be drawn ; 
How clash of steel and trumpet's swell, 
Would wake the echoes of each dell. 
■ — And thus it ever is with life, 
Peace sleeps upon the breast of Strife, 
But to be waken'd from its rest, 
Till comes that sleep the last and best. 

And Raymond paused at last, and laid 
Himself beneath a chestnut's shade, 
A little way apart from all, 
That he might catch the water fail, 
Whose current swept like music round, — 
When suddenly another sound 
Came on the ear ; it was a tone, 

Rather a murmur than a song", 
As he who breathed deem'd all unknown 

The words, thoughts, echo bore along. 
Parting the boughs which hung between, 
Close, thick, as if a tapestried screen, 
Raymond caught sight of a white plume 
Waving o'er brow and cheek of bloom 
And yet the song was sad and low, 
As if the chords it waked were wo. 



SONG OF THE YOUNG KNIGHT, 

Your scarf is bound upon my breast, 
Your colours dance upon my crest, — 
They have been soil'd by dust and rain, 
And they must wear a darker stain. 

I mark'd thy tears as fast they fell, 
I saw but heard not thy farewell, 
I gave my steed the spur and rein, — 
I dared not look on thee again. 

My cheek is pale, but not with fears, 
And I have dash'd aside my tears ; 
This woman's softness of my breast 
Will vanish when my spear's in rest. 

I know that farewell was our last, 
That life and love from me are past ; 
For I have heard the fated sign 
That speaks the downfall of our line 

I slept the soldier's tired sleep ; 
But yet I heard the music sweep, 
Dim, faint, as when I stood beside 
The bed whereon my father died. 

Farewell, sweet love ! never again 
Will thine ear listen to the strain 
With which so oft at midnight's hour 
I've waked the silence of thy bower. 



Farewell ! I would not tears should stain 
Thy fair cheek with their burning rain : 
Tears, sweet ! would an ill offering be 
To one whose death was worthy thee. 



Raymond thought on that song next day 
When bleeding that young warrior lay, 
While his hand, in its death-pang, prest 
A bright curl to his wounded breast. 



And waning stars, and brightening sky, 
And on the clouds a crimson dye, 
And fresher breeze, and opening flowers, 
Tell the approach of morning hours. 
O, how can breath, and light, and bloom, 
Herald a day of death and doom ! 
With knightly pennons, which were spread 
Like mirrors for the morning's red, 
Gather the ranks, while shout and horn 
Are o'er the distant mountains borne. 

? Twas a fair sight, that arm'd array 
Winding through the deep vale their way, 
Helmet and breast-plate gleaming in gold, 
Banners waving theii crimson fold, 
Like clouds of the day -break : hark to the peal 
Of the war-cry, answer'd by clanging steel ! 
The young chief strokes his courser's neck, 
The ire himself had provoked to check, 
Impatient for that battle plain 
He may reach but never leave again ; 
And with flashing eye and sudden start, 

He hears the trumpet's stately tone, 
Like the echo of his beating heart, 

And meant to rouse his ear alone. 
And by his side the warrior gray, 
With hair as white as the plumes that play 
Over his head, yet spurs he as proud, 
As keen as the youngest knight of the crowd 
And glad and glorious on they ride 
In strength and beauty, power and pride, 
And such the morning, but let day 
Close on that gallant fair array, 
The moon will see another sight 
Than that which met the dawning light. — 
Look on that field, — 'tis the battle field ! 
Look on what harvest victory will yield ! 
There the steed and his rider o'erthrown, 
Crouch together, their warfare is done : 
The bolt is undrawn, the bow is unbent, 
And the archer lies like his arrow spent. 
Deep is the banner of crimson dyed, 
But not with the red of its morning pride; 
Torn and trampled with soil and stain, 
When will it float on the breeze again , — 



THE TROUBADOUR 



63 



And over the ghastly plain are spread, 
Pillow'd together the dying and dead. 

There lay one with an unclosed eye 
Set in bright, cold vacancy, 
While on its fix'd gaze the moonbeam shone, 
Light mocking the eye whose light was gone ; 
And by his side another lay, 
The lifeblood ebbing fast away, 
But calm his cheek and calm his eye, 
As if leant on his mother's bosom to die. 
Too weak to move, he feebly eyed 
A wolf and a vulture close to his side, 
Watching and waiting, himself the prey, 
While each one kept the other away. 

Little of this the young warrior deems 
When, with heart and head all hopes and dreams, 
He hastes for the battle : — The trumpet's call 
Waken'd Raymond the first of all ; 
His the first step that to stirrup sprung, 
His the first banner upwards flung ; 
And brow and cheek with his spirit glow'd, 
When first at De Valence's side he rode. 

The quiet glen is left behind, 

The dark wood lost in the blue sky ; 

When other sounds came on the wind, 
And other pennons float on high. 

With snow-white plumes and glancing crest, 

And standard raised, and spear in rest, , 

On a small river's farther banks 

W T ait their approach Sir Herbert's ranks. — 

One silent gaze, as if each band 

Could slaughter both with eye and hand. 

Then peals the war-cry ! then the dash 

Amid the waters ! and the crash 

Of spears, — the falchion's iron ring, — 

The arrow hissing from the string, 

Tell they have met. Thus from the height 

The torrent rushes in its might. 

With the lightning's speed, the thunder's peal, 

Flashes the lance, and strikes the steel. 

Many a steed to the earth is borne, 

Many a banner trampled and torn ; 

Or ever its brand could strike a blow, 

Many a gallant arm lies low ; — 

Many a scarf, many a crest, 

Float with the leaves on the river's breast; 

And strange it is to see how around 

Buds and flowers strew the ground, 

For the banks were cover'd with wild rose trees, 

O ! what should they do amid scenes like these. 

In the blue stream, as it hover'd o'er, 
A hawk was mirror'd, and before 
Its wings could reach yon pine, which stands 
A bow-shot off from the struggling bands, 



The stain of death was on the flood, 

And the red waters roll'd dark with blood. — 

Raymond's spear was the first that flew, 

He the first who dash'd the deep river through ; 

His step the first on the hostile strand, 

And the first that fell was borne down by his hand. 

The fight is ended : — the same sun 
Has seen the battle lost and won ; 
The field is cover'd with dying and dead, 
With the valiant who stood, and the coward who 

fled. 
And a gallant salute the trumpets sound, 
As the warriors gather from victory around. 

On a hill that skirted the purple flood, 
With his peers around, De Valence stood, 
And with bended knee, and forehead bare, 
Save its cloud of raven hair, 
And beautiful as some wild star 
Come in its glory and light from afar, 
With his dark eyes flashing stern and bright, 
And his cheek o'erflooded with crimson light 
And the foeman's banner over his head, 
His first field's trophy proudly spread, 
Knelt Raymond down his boon to name, — 
The knightly spurs he so well might claim ; 
And a softness stole to De Valence's eyes, 
As he bade the new-made knight arise.— 
From his own belt he took the brand, 
And gave it into Raymond's hand, 
And said it might a memory yield 
Of his father's friend, and his own first field. 

Pleasant through the darkening night, 
Shines from Clarin's towers the light. 
Home from the battle the warriors ride, 
In the soldiers' triumph, and soldiers' pride : 
The drawbridge is lower'd, and in they pour, 
Like the sudden rush of a summer shower, 
While the red torch-light bursts through the glooat 
Over banner and breast-plate, helm, and plume. 

Sudden a flood of lustre play'd 
Over a lofty balustrade, 
Music and perfume swept the air, 
Messengers sweet for the spring to prepare ; 
And like a sunny vision sent 
For worship and astonishment, 
Aside a radiant ladye flung 
The veil that o'er her beauty hung. 
With stately grace to those below, 
She bent her gem encircled brow, 
And bade them welcome in the name 
Of her they saved, the castle's dame. 
Who had not let another pay 
Thanks, greeting to their brave array,- 



64 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



But she had vow'd the battle night 
To fasting, prayer, and holy rite. 

On the air the last tones of the music die, 
The odour passes away like a sigh, 
The torches flash a parting glearn, 
And she vanishes as she came, like a dream. 
Bat many an eye dwelt on the shade, 
Till fancy again her form display'd, 
And still again seem'd many an ear 
The softness of her voice to hear. 
And many a heart had a vision that night, 
Which future years never banish'd quite. 

And sign and sound of festival 
Are ringing through that castle hall ; 
Tapers, whose flame send a perfumed cloud, 
Flash their light o'er a gorgeous crowd ; 
With a thousand colours the tapestry falls 
Over the carved and gilded walls, 
And, between, the polish'd oak pannels bear, 
Like dark mirrors, the image of each one there. 
At one end the piled up hearth is spread 
With sparkling embers of glowing red : 
Above the branching antlers have place, 
Sign of many a hard won chase ; 
And beneath, in many a polish'd line, 
The arms of the hunter and warrior shine ; 
And around the fire, like a laurell'd arch, 
Raised from some victor's triumphal march, 
The wood is fretted with tracery fair, 
And green boughs and flowers are waving there. 
Lamps, like faery planets shine, 
O'er massive cups of the genial wine, 
And shed a ray more soft and fair 
Than the broad red gleam of the torch's glare ; 
And, flitting like a rainbow, plays 
In beautiful and changing rays, 
When from the pictured windows fall 
The colour'd shadows o'er the hall ; 
As every pane some bright hue lent 
To vary the lighted element. 

The ladye of the festive board 
Was ward to the castle's absent lord ; 
The Ladye Adeline, — the same 
Bright vision that with their greeting came 
Maidens four stood behind her chair, 
Each one was young, and each one fair; 
Yet they were but as the stars at night 
When the moon shines forth in her fullness of 

light 
On the knot of her wreathed hair was set 
A blood-red ruby coronet ; 
But among the midnight cloud of curls 
That hung o'er her brow were eastern pearls, 
As if to tell their wealth of snow, 
How white her forehead could look below. 



Around her floated a veil of white, 

Like the silvery rack round the star of twilight \ 

And down to the ground her mantle's fold 

Spread its length of purple and gold ; 

And sparkling gems were around her arm, 

That shone like marble, only warm, 

With the blue veins wandering tide, 

And the hand with its crimson blush inside. 

A zone of precious stones embraced 

The graceful circle of her waist, 

Sparkling as if they were proud 

Of the clasp to them allow'd. 

But yet there was 'mid this excess 

Of soft and dazzling loveliness, 

A something in the eye, and hand, 

And forehead, speaking of command : 

An eye whose dark flash seem'd allied 

To even more than beauty's pride, — 

A hand as only used to wave 

Its sign to worshipper and slave, — 

A forehead, but that was too fair 

To read of aught but beauty there ! 

And Raymond had the place of pride. 
The place so envied by her side, — 
The victor's seat, — and overhead 
The banner he had won was spread. 
His health was pledged ! — he only heard 
The murmur of one silver word ; 
The pageant seem'd to fade away, 
Vanish'd the board and glad array, 
The gorgeous hall around grew dim, 
There shone one only light for him, 
That radiant form, whose brightness fell 
In power upon him like a spell, 
Laid in its strength by Love to reign 
Despotic over heart and brain. 
Silent he stood amid the mirth, 
Oh, love is timid in its birth ! 
Watching her lightest look or stir, 
As he but look'd and breathed with her. 
Gay words were passing, but he leant 
In silence ; yet, one quick glance sent, — • 
His secret is no more his own, 
When has woman her power not known 1 

The feast broke up : — that midnight shade 
Heard many a gentle serenade 
Beneath the ladye's lattice. One 
Breathed after all the rest were gone. 



Sleep, ladye ! for the moonlit hour, 
Like peace, is shining on thy bower ; 
It is so late, the nightingale 
Has ended even his love tale. 



THE TROUBADOUR. 



0:3 



Sleep, ladye ! 'neath thy turret grows, 
Cover'd with flowers, one pale white rose 
I envy its sweet sighs, they steep 
The perfumed airs that, lull thy sleep. 

Perchance, around thy chamber floats 
The music of my lone lute notes, — 
Oh, may they on thine eyelids fall, 
And make thy slumbers musical ! 

Sleep, ladye ! to thy rest be given 
The gleamings of thy native heaven, 
And thoughts of early paradise, 
The treasures of thy sleeping eyes. 



I xeed not say whose was the song 
The sighing night winds bore along, 
Raymond hod left the maiden's side 
And was too dizzy with the tide 
To breast the stream, or strive, or shrink, 
Enough for him to feel, not think ; 
Enough for him the dim sweet fear, 
The twilight of the heart, or ere 
Awakening hope lias named the name 
Of love, or blown its spark to flame. 
Restlessness, but as the winds range 

From leaf to leaf, from flower to flower ; 
Changefulness, but as rainbows change, 

From colour'd sky to sunlit hour. 
Ay, well indeed may minstrel sing, — 
What have the heart and year like spring 1 

Her vow was done : the castle dame 
Next day to join the revellers came ; 
And never had a dame more gay 
O'er hall or festival held sway. 
And youthful knight, and ladye fair, 
And juggler quaint, and minstrel rare, 
And mirth, and crowds, and music, all 
Of pleasure gather'd at her call. 

And Raymond moved as in a dream 
Of song and odour, bloom and beam, 
As he dwelt in a magic bower, 
Charm'd from all by fairy power. 
— And Adeline rode out that mom, 
With hunting train, and hawk, and horn ; 
And broider'd rein, and curb of gold, 
And housings with their purple fold 
Deck'd the white steed o'er which she leant 
Graceful as a young cypress, bent 
By the first summer wind : she wore 
A cap the heron plume waved o'er, 
And round her wrist a golden band, 
Which held the falcon on her hand. 
The bird's full eye, so clear, so bright, 
latch' d not her own's dark flashing light. 
(9) 



And Raymond, as he watch'd the dyes 

Of her cheek rich with exercise, 

Could almost deem her beauty's fCTAfr 

Was now in its most potent hour ; 

But when at night he saw her glance 

The gayest of the meteor dance, 

The jewels in her braided hair, 

Her neck, her arms of ivory bare, 

The silver veil, the broider'd vest, — 

Look'd she not then her loveliest 1 

Ah, every change of beauty's face 

And beauty's shape has its own grace ! 

That night his heart throbb'd when her hant 

Met his touch in the saraband : 

That night her smile first bade love live 

On the sweet life that hope can give. — 

Beautiful, but thrice wayward wild, 

Capricious as a petted child, 

She was all chance, all change ; but now 

A smile is on her radiant brow, — 

A moment and that smile is fled, 

Coldness and scorn are there instead. 

Ended the dance, and Adeline 
Flung herself, like an eastern queen, 
Upon the cushions which were laid 

Amid a niche of that gay hall, 
Hid from the lamps ; around it play'd 

The softness of the moonlight fall. 
And there the gorgeous shapes past by 
But like a distant pageantry, 
In which you have yourself no share, 
For all its pride, and pomp, and care. 

She pass'd her hand across the chords 
Of a lute near, and with soft words 
Answer'd ; then said, " No, thou shalt sing 
Some legend of the fair and brave." 
To Raymond's hand the lute she gave, 
Whose very soul within him burn'd 
When her dark eye on his was turn'd : 
One moment's pause, it slept not long, — 
His spirit pour'd itself in song. 



The lady sits in her lone bower, 
With cheek wan as the white rose flower 
That blooms beside, 'tis pale and wet 
As that rose with its dew pearls set. 
Her cheek burns with a redder dye, . 
Flashes light from her tearful eye ; 
She has heard pinions beat the air, 
She sees her white dove floating there ; 
And well she knows its faithful wing, 
The treasure of her heart will bring ; 
And takes the gentle bird its stand 
Accustom'd on the maiden's hand, 
/2 



£6 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



With glancing eye and throbbing breast, 
As if rejoicing in its rest. 
She read the scroll, — dear love, to-night 
By the lake, all is there for flight 
What time the moon is down ; — 0, then 
My own life shall we meet again !" 
One upward look of thankfulness, 
One pause of joy, one fond caress 
Of her soft lips, as to reward 
The messenger of Eginhakd. 



That night in her proud father's hall 
She shone the fairest one of all ; 
For like the cloud of evening came 
Over her cheek the sudden flame, 
And varying as each moment brought 
Some hasty change of secret thought ; 
As if its colour would confess 
The conscious heart's inmost recess. 
And the clear depths of her dark eye 
Were bright with troubled brilliancy, 
Yet the lips droop'd as with the tear 
Which might oppress but not appear. 
And flatteries, and smile and sigh 
Loaded the air as she past by. 
It sparkled, but her jewell'd vest 
Was crost above a troubled breast : 
Her curls, with all their sunny glow, 
Were braided o'er an aching brow : 
But well she knew how many sought 
To gaze upon her secret thought ; — 
And Love is proud, — she might not brook 
That other's on her heart should look. 
But there she sate, cold, pale, and high, 
Beneath her purple canopy ; 
And there was many a mutter'd word, 
And one low whisper'd name was heard, — 
The name of Egisthart), — that name 
Like some forbidden secret came. 

The theme went, that he dared to love 
One like a star his state above ; 
Here to the princess turn'd each eye, — 
And it was said, he did not sigh 
With love that pales the pining cheek, 
And leaves the slighted heart to break. 
And then a varying tale was told, 
How a page had betray'd for gold ; 
But all was rumour light and vain, 
That all might hear, but none explain. 

Like one that seeks a festival, 
Early the princess left the hall ; 
Yet said she, sleep dwelt on her eyes, 
Ttiat she was worn with revelries. 
And hastily her maidens' care 
Unbinds the jewels from her hair. 



Odours are round her chamber strown 
And Ele^ore is left alone. 

With throbbing heart, whose pulses beat 
Louder than fall her ivory feet, 
She rises from her couch of down ; 
And, hurriedly, a robe is thrown 
Around her form, and her own hand 
Lets down her tresses golden band. 
Another moment she has shred 
Those graceful tresses from her head. 
There stands a plate of polish'd steel, 
She folds her cloak as to conceal 
Her strange attire, for she is drest 
As a young page in dark green vest. 
Softly she steps the balustrade, 
Where myrtle, rose, and hyacinth made 
A passage to the garden shade. 

It was a lovely summer night, 
The air was incense fill'd, the light 
Was dim and tremulous, a gleam, 
When a star, mirror'd on the stream, 
Sent a ray round just to reveal 
How gales from flower to flower steai. 
" It was on such a night as this, 
When even a single breath is bliss, 
Such a soft air, such a mild heaven, 
My vows to Egisharb were given. 
Sigh'd Ele:s t ore, " O, might it be 
A hope, a happy augury !" 

She reach'd the lake, — a blush, a smile, 
Contended on her face the while ; 
And safely in a little cove, 
Shelter'd by willow trees above, 
An ambuscade from all secured, 
Her lover's little boat lay moor'd. — 
One greeting word, with muffled oar 
And silent lip, they left that shore. 

It was most like a phantom dream 
To see that boat flit o'er the stream, 
So still, that but yet less and less 
It grew, it had seem'd motionless. 
And then the silent lake, the trees 
Visible only when the breeze 
Aside the shadowy branches threw, 
And let one single star shine through, 
While the faint glimmer scarcely gave 
To view the wanderers of the wave. 

The breeze has borne the clouds away 
That veil'd the blushes of young day ; 
The lark has sung his morning song ; 
Surely the princess slumbers long. 
And now it is the accustom'd hour 
Her royal father seeks her bower. 






THE TROUBADOUR. 



6/ 



When her soft voice and gentle lute, 
The snowfall cf her fairy foot, 
The flowers she has ciill'd, with dew 
Yet moist upon each rainbow hue ; 
The fruits with bloom upon their cheek, 
Fresh as the morning's first sun streak ; 
Each, all conspired to wile away 
The weariness of royal sway. 

But she is gone : there hangs her lute, 
And there it may hang lone and mute : 
The flowers may fade, for who is there 
To triumph now if they are fair : 
There are her gems, — O, let them twine 
An offering round some sainted shrine ! 
For she* who wore them may not wear 
Again those jewels in her hair. 

At first the monarch's rage was wild ; 
But soon the image of his child, 
In tenderness rose on his heart, 
How could he bear from it to part 1 
And anger turn'd to grief: in vain 
Ambition had destroy'd the chain 
With which love had bound happiness. 
In vain remorse, in vain redress, — 
Fruitless all search. And years past o'er, 
To tidings came of Elexore, 
Although the king would have laid down 
His golden sceptre, purple crown, 
His pomp, his power, but to have prest 
His child one moment to his breast. 

And where was Elexore 1 her home 
Was now beneath the forest dome ; — 
A hundred knights had watch'd her hall, 
Her guards were now the pine trees tall : 
For harps waked with the minstrel tale, 
Sang to her sleep the nightingale : 
For silver vases, where were blent 
Rich perfumes from Arabia sent, 
Were odours when the wild thyme flower 
Wafted its sweats on gale and shower : 
For carpets of the purple loom 
The violets spread their cloud of bloom, 
Starr'd with primroses ; and around 
Boughs like green tapestry swept the ground. 
— And there they dwelt apart from all 
That gilds and mocks ambition's thrall ; 
Apart from cities, crowds, and care, 
Hopes that deceive, and toils that wear ; 
For they had made themselves a world 
Like that or ever man was hurl'd 
From his sweet Eden, to begin 
His bitter course of grief and sin. — 
And they were happy ; Egixiiaud 
Had won the prize for which he dared 



Dungeon and death ; but what is thevc 

That the young lovei will not dare 1 

And she, though nurtured as a flower, 

The favourite bud of a spring bower, 

Daughter of palaces, yet made 

Her dwelling place in the green shade : 

Happy, as she remembcr'd not, 

Her royal in her peasant lot, — 

With gentle cares, and smiling eyes 

As love could fed no sacrifice. 

Happy her ivory brow to lave 

Without a mirror but the wave, 

As one whose sweetness could dispense 

With all save its own excellence ; — 

A fair but gentle creature, meant 

For heart, and hearth, and home content. 

It was at night the chase was over, 
And Elexohe sat by her lover, — 
Her lover still, though years had fled 
Since their first word of love was said, — 
When one sought, at that darksome hour, 
The refuge of their lonely bower, 
A hunter, who, amid the shade, 
Had from his own companions stray'd. 
And Elexore gazed on his face, 
And knew her father ! In the chase 
Often the royal mourner sought 
A refuge from his one sad thought. 
He knew her not,— the lowly mien, 
The simple garb of forest green, 
The darken'd brow, which told the spoil 
The sun stole from her daily toil, 
The cheek where woodland health had shed 
The freshness of its morning red, — 
All was so changed. She spread the board, 
Her hand the sparkling wine cup pour'd ; 
And then around the hearth they drew, 
And cheerfully the woodfire threw 
Its light around. — Bent o'er her wheel 
Scarcely dared Eeexore to steal 
A look, half tenderness, half fear, 
Yet seem'd he as he loved to hear 
Her voice, as if it had a tone 
Breathing of days and feelings gone. 

" Ah ! surely," thought she, " Heaven has 
My father here, as that it meant 
Our years of absence ended now !" 
She gazed upon his soften'd brow ; 
And the next moment, all revealing 
Elexore at his feet is kneeling ! — 

Need I relate that, reconciled, 
The father bless'd his truant child. 



Where is the heart that has not bow'd 
A slave, eternal Love, to thee : 



68 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Look on the cold, the gay, the proud, 
And is there one among them free 7 
The cold, the proud, — O ! Love has turn'd 
The marble till with fire it burn d ; 
The gay, the young, — alas that they 
Should ever bend beneath thy sway ! 
Look on the cheek the rose might own, 
The smile around like sunshine thrown ; 
The rose, the smile, alike are thine, 
To fade and darken at thy shrine. 
And what must love be in a heart 

All passion's fiery depths concealing, 
Which has in its minutest part 

More than another's whole of feeling. 

And Raymond's heart ; love's morning sun 
On fitter altar never shone ; 
Loving with all the snow-white truth, 
That is found but in early youth ; 
Freshness of feeling as of flower, 
That lives not more than spring's first hour ; 
And loving with that wild devotion, 
That deep and passionate emotion, 
With which the minstrel soul is thrown 
On all that it would make its own. 

And Riraoiri) loved ; the veriest slave 
That e'er his life to passion gave : 
Upon his ear no murmur came 
That seem'd not echoing her name ; 
The lightest colour on her cheek 
Was lovelier than the morning break. 
He gazed upon her as he took 
His sense of being from her look : — 
Sometimes it was idolatry, 

Like homage to some lovely star, 
Whose beauty though for hope too high, 

He yet might worship from afar. 
At other times his heart would swell 
With tenderness unutterable : 
He would have borne her to an isle 
Where May and June had left their smile ; 
And there, heard but by the lone gale, 
He would have whisper'd his love tale ; 
And without change, or cloud, or care, 
Have kept his bosom's treasure there. 
And then, with all a lover's pride, 
He thought it shame such gem to hide : 
A nd imaged he a courtly scene 
Of which she was the jewell'd queen, — 
The one on whom each glance was bent 
The beauty of the tournament, 
The magnet of the festival, 
The grace, the joy, the life of all. — 
But she, alas for her false smile ! 
Adeline loved him not the while. 

And it is thus that woman's heart 
Can trifle with its dearest part, 



Its own pure sympathies 7 — can fling 

The poison'd arrow from the string 

In utter heartlessness around, 

And mock, or think not of the wound 7 

And thus can woman barter all 

That makes and gilds her gentle thrall,- - 

The blush which should be like the one 

White violets hide from the sun, — 

The soft, low sighs, like those which brea'r.a 

In secret from a twilight wreath, — 

The smile like a bright lamp, whose shin* 

Is vow'd but only to one shrine ; 

All these sweet spells, — and can they be 

Weapons of reckless vanity 7 

And woman, in whose gentle heart 

From all save its sweet self apart, 

Love should dwell with that purity 

Which but in woman's love can be : 

A sacred fire, whose flame was given 

To shed on earth the light of heaven, — 

That she can fling her wealth aside 

In carelessness, or sport, or pride ! 

It was not form'd for length of bliss, 
A dream so fond, so false as this ; 
Enough for Adeline to win 
The heart she had no pleasure in, — 
Enough that bright eyes turn'd in vain 
On him who bow'd beneath her chain 
Then came the careless word and look* 
All the fond soul so ill can brook, 
The jealous doubt, the burning pain, 
That rack the lover's heart and brain ; 
The fear that will not own it fear, 
The hope that cannot disappear ; 
Faith clinging to its visions past, 
And trust confiding to the last. 
And thus it is : ay, let Love throw 
Aside his arrows and his bow ; 
Cut let him not with zne spell part, 
The veil that binds his eyes and heart. 
Wo for Love when his eyes shall be 
Open'd upon reality ! 

One day a neighbouring baron gave 
A revel to the fair and brave, — 
And knights upon their gallant steeds, 

And ladies on their palfreys gray, 
All shining in their gayest weeds, 

Held for the festival their way. 
A wanderer on far distant shores, 
That baron had brought richest stores 
To his own hall, and much of rare 
And foreign luxury was there : 
Pages, with colour'd feathers, fann'd 
The odours of Arabia's land ; 
The carpets strewn around each room 
Were all of Persia's purple loom ; 



THE TROUBADOUR. 



69 



And dark slaves waited on his guests, 
Each habited in Moorish vests, 
With turbann'd brows, and bands of gold 
Around their arms and ancles roll'd. 
And gazed the guests o'er many a hoard, 
Like Sinbad's, from his travel stored. 
They look'd upon the net work dome, 
Where found the stranger birds a home, 
With rainbow wings and gleaming eyes, 
Seen only beneath Indian skies. 
At length they stood around the ring, 
Where stalk'd, unchain'd, the forest king, 
With eyes of fire and mane erect, 
As if by human power uncheck'd. 

Full ill had Raymond's spirit borne 
The wayward mood, the careless scorn, 
With which his mistress had that day 
Trifled his happiness away. — 
His very soul within him burn'd, 
When, as in chance, her dark eye turn'd 
On him, she spoke in reckless glee, — 
" Is there a knight who, for love of me, 
Into the court below will spring, 
And bear from the lion the glove I fling 1" 

A shriek ! — a pause, — then loud acclaim 
Rose to the skies with Raymond's name. 
0, worthy of a lady's love ! 
Raymond has borne away the glove. 
He laid the prize at the maiden's feet, 
Then turn'd from the smile he dared not meet : 
A moment more he is on the steed, 
The spur has urged to its utmost speed, 
As that he could fly from himself, and all 
The misery of his spirit's thrall. 

The horse sank down, and Raymond then 
Started to see the foaming rein, 
The drops that hung on the courser's hide, 
And the rowel's red trace on its panting side ; 
And deep shame, mingled with remorse, 
As he brought the cool stream to his fallen horse. 

The spot where he paused was a little nook, 
Like a secret page in nature's book, — 
Around were steeps where the wild vine 
Hung, wreath'd in many a serpentine, 
Wearing each, the colour'd sign 
Of the autumn's pale decline. 
Like a lake in the midst was spread 

A grassy sweep of softest green, 
Smooth, flower-dropt, as no human tread 

Upon its growth had ever been. 
Limes rose around, but lost each leaf, 
Like hopes luxuriant but brief; 
And by their side the sycamore 
Grew prouder of its scarlet store : 
The air was of that cold clear light 
That heralds in an autumn night, — 



The amber west had just a surge 
Of crimson on its utmost verge ; 
And on the east were piled up banks 
Where darkness gather'd with her ranks 
Of clouds, and in the midst a zone 
Of white with transient brightness shone 
From the young moon, who scarcely yet 
Had donn'd her lighted coronet. 

With look turn'd to the closing day, 
As he watch'd eveiy hue decay, 
Sat Raymond ; and a passer by 
Had envied him his revery ; — 
But nearer look had scann'd his trow, 
And started at its fiery glow, 
As if the temples' burning swell 
Had made their pulses visible. 
Too glazed, too fix'd, his large eyes shone 
To see aught that they gazed upon. 
Not his the paleness that may streak 
The lover's or the minstrel's cheek, 
As it had its wan colour caught 
From moods of melancholy thought ; 
'Twas that cold, dark, unearthly shade, 
But from a corpse's death-look made ; 
Speaking that desperateness of pain, 
As one more pang, and the rack'd brain 
Would turn to madness; one more grief 
And the swoln heart breaks for relief. 

O, misery ! to see the tomb 
Close over all our world of bloom ; 
To look our last in the dear e} r es 
Which made our light of paradise ; 
To know that silent is the tone 
Whose tenderness was all our own 5 
To kiss the cheek which once had burn'd 
At the least glance, and find it turn'd 
To marble ; and then think of all 
Of hope, that memory can recall. 
Yes, misery ! but even here 
There is a somewhat left to cheer, 
A gentle treasuring of sweet things 

Remembrance gathers from the past, 
The pride of faithfulness, which clings 

To love kept sacred to the last. 
And even if another's love 
Has touch'd the heart to us above 
The treasures of the east, yet still 
There is a solace for the ill. 
Those who have known love's utmost spell 
Can feel for those who love as well; 
Can half forget their own distress, 
To share the loved one's happiness 
0, but to know our heart has been, 
Like the toy of an Indian queen, 
Torn, trampled, without thought or care, — 
Where is despair like this despair ! — 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



All night beneath an oak he lay, 
Till nature blush'd bright into day ; 
When, at a trumpet's sudden sound, 
Started his courser from the ground : 
And his loud neigh waked Raymond's dream, 
And, gazing round, he saw the gleam 
Of arms upon a neigbouring height, 
Where helm and cuirass stream'd in light. 
As Raysiond rose from his unrest 
He knew De Valence's falcon crest; 
And the red cross that shone like a glory afar, 
Told the warrior was vow'd to the holy war. 

" Ay, this," thought Raymond, " is the strife 
To make my sacrifice of life ; 
What is it now to me that fame 
Shall brighten over Raymond's name ; 
There is no gentle heart to bound, 
No cheek to mantle at the sound : 
Lady's favour no more I wear, — 
My heart, my helm — ! what are there 1 
A blighted hope, a wither'd rose. 
Surely this warfare is for those 
Who only of the victory crave 
A holy but a nameless grave." 

Short greeting past, De Vaeence read 
All that the pale lip left unsaid ; 
On the wan brow, in the dimm'd eye, 
The whole of youth's despondency, 
Which at the first shock it has known 
Deems its whole world of hope o'erthrown. 
And it was fix'd, that at Marseilles, 
Where the fleet waited favouring gales, 
Raymond should join the warrior train, 
Leagued 'gainst the infidels of Spain. 

They parted : — Over Raymond's thought 
Came sadness mingled too with shame ; 

When suddenly his memory brought 
The long forgotten Eva's name. 
! Love is like the mountain tide, 
Sweeping away all things beside, 
Till not another trace appears 
But its own joys, and griefs, and fears. 
He took her cross, he took her chain 
From the heart where they still had Iain ; 
And that heart felt as if its fate 
Had sudden grown less desolate, 
In thus remembering love that still 
Would share and sooth in good and ill. 

He spurr'd his steed ; but the night fall 
Had darken' d ere he reach'd the hall ; 
And gladly chief and vassal train 
Welcomed the youthful knight again. 
And many praised his stately tread, 
His far? with darker manhood spread ; 



"But of those crowding round him now, 
Who mark'd the paleness of his brow, 
But one who paused till they were past, 
Who look'd the first but spoke the last: 
Her welcome in its timid fear 
Fell almost cold on Raymond's ear ; 
A single look, — he felt he gazed 

Upon a gentle child no more, 
The blush that like the lightning blazed. 

The cheek then paler than before, 
A something of staid maiden grace, 
A cloud of thought upon her face ; 
She who had been, in Raymond's sight, 
A plaything, fancy, and delight, — 
Was changed : the depth of her blue eye 
Spoke to him now of sympathy, 
And seem'd her melancholy tone 
A very echo of his own ; 
And that pale forehead, surely care 
Has graved an early lesson there. 

They roved through many a garden scene 
Where other, happier days had been ; 
And soon had Raymond told his all 
Of hopes, like stars but bright to fall ; 
Of feelings, blighted, changed, and driven 
Like exiles from their native heaven ; 
And of an aimless sword, a lute, 
Whose chords were now uncharm'd and mute. 
But Eva's tender blandishing 
Was as the April rays, that fling 
A rainbow till the thickest rain 
Melts into blue and light again. 

There is a feeling in the heart 
Of woman which can have no part 
In man ; a self-devotedness, 
As victims round their idols press, 
And asking nothing, but to show 
How far their zeal and faith can go. 
Pure as the snow the summer sun 
Never at noon hath look'd upon, — 
Deep as is the diamond wave, 
Hidden in the desert cave, — 
Changeless as the greenest leaves 
Of the wreath the cypress weaves, — 
Hopeless often when most fond, 
Without hope or fear beyond 
Its own pale fidelity, — 
And this woman's love can be ! 

And Raymond although not again 
Dreaming of passion's burning chain, 
Yet felt that life had still dear things 
To which the lingering spirit clings. 
More dear, more lovely Eva shone 
In thinking of that faithless one ; 
And read he not upon the cheek 
All that the lip might never speak, 



THE TRO U 13 AD OUR. 



71 



All the heart cherish'd yet conecal'd, 

Scarce even to itself reveal'd. 

,\nd Raymond, though with heart so torn 

By anger, agony, and scorn, 

Might ill bear even with love's name, 

Yet felt the maiden's hidden flame 

Come like the daystar in the east, 

When every other light has ceased 

Sent from the bosom of the night 

To harbinger the morning light. 

Again they parted : she to brood 
O'er dreaming hopes in solitude, 
And every pitying saint to pray 
For Raymond on the battle day. 
And he no longer deem'd the field 
But death to all his hopes could yield. 
To other, softer dreams allied, 
He thought upon the warrior's pride. 
But as he pass'd the castle gate 
He left so wholly desolate, 
His throbbing pulse, his burning brain, 
The sudden grasp upon the rein, 
The breast and lip that gasp'd for air, 
Told Love's shaft was still rankling there. 

That night, borne o'er the bounding seas, 
The vessel swept before the breeze, 
Loaded the air the war-cry's swell, 
Wo to the Moorish infidel ; 
And raising their rich hymn, a band 
Of priests were kneeling on the strand, 
To bless the parting ship, and song 
Came from the maidens ranged along 
The sea wall, and who incense gave 
And flowers, like offerings to the wave 
That bore the holy and the brave. 
f 

And Raymond felt his spirit rise, 
And burn'd his cheek and flash'd his eyes 
With something of their ancient light, 
While plume and pennon met his sight ; 
While o'er the deep swept the war-cry, 
And peal'd the trumpet's voice on high, 
While the ship rode the waves as she 
Were mistress of their destiny. 
And muster'd on the deck the band, 
Till died the last shout from the strand ; 
But when the martial pomp was o'er, 
And, like the future, dim the shore 
On the horizon hung, again 
Closed Raymond's memory, like a chain 
The spirit struggles with in vain. 

The sky with its delicious blue, 
The stars like visions wandering through : 
Surely, if Fate had treasured there 
Her rolls of life, they must be fair ; 



The mysteries their glories hide 
Must be but of life's brightest side , 
It cannot be that Fate would write 
Her dark decrees in lines of light. 
And Raymond mused upon the hour 
When, comrade of the star and flower, 
He watch'd beside his lady's bower ; 
He number'd every hope and dream, 
Like blooms that threw upon life's stream 
Colours of beauty, and then thought 
On knowledge, all too dearly bought ; 
Feelings lit up in waste to burn, 

Hopes that seem but shadows fair, 
All that the heart so soon must learn, 

All that it finds so hard to bear. 

The young moon's vestal lamp that houi 
Seem'd pale as that it pined for love ; 

No marvel such a night had power 
So calm below, so fair above, 
To wake the spirit's finest chords 
Till minstrel thoughts found minstrel words 



THE LAST SONG. 

It is the latest song of mine 
That ever breathes thy name, 

False idol of a dream-raised shrine, 
Thy very thought is shame, — 

Shame that I could my spirit bow 

To one so very false as thou. 

I had past years where the greenwood. 

Makes twilight of the noon, 
And I had watch'd the silver flood 

Kiss'd by the rising moon ; 
And gazed upon the clear midnight 
In all its luxury of light. 

And, thrown where the blue violets dwell 

I would pass hours away, 
Musing o'er some old chronicle 
' Fill'd with a wild love lay ; 
Till beauty seem'd to me a thing 
Made for all nature's worshipping. 

I saw thee, and the air grew bright 

In thy clear eyes' sunshine ; 
I oft had dream' d of shapes of light, 

But not of shape like thine. 
My heart bow'd down, — I worshipp'd thee 
A woman and a deity. 

I may not say how thy first look 
Turn'd my whole soul to flame, 

I read it as a glorious book 

Fill'd with high deeds of fame , 



73 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



I felt a hero's spirit rise, 
Unknown till lighted at thine eyes. 

False look, false hope, and falsest love ! 

All meteors sent to me 
To show how they the heart could move, 

And how deceiving be : 
They left me, darken'd, crush' J, alone, 
My bosom's household gods o'erthrown. 

The world itself was changed, and all 

That I had loved before 
Seem'd as if gone beyond recall, 

And I could hope no more ; 
The scar of fire, the dint of steel, 
Are easier than Love's wounds to heal. 

But this is past, and I can cope 

With what I'd fain forget ; 
I have a sweet, a gentle hope 

That lingers with me yet, — 
A hope too fair, too pure to be 
Named in the words that speak of thee. 

Henceforth within the last recess 

Of my heart shall remain 
Thy name in all its bitterness. 

But never named again ; 
The only memory of that heart 
Will be to think how false thou art. 

And yet I fain would name thy name, 
My heart's now gentle queen, 

E'en as they burn the perfumed flame 
Where the plague spot has been ; 

Methinks that it will cleanse away 

The ills that on my spirit prey. 

Sweet Eta ! the last time I gazed 

Upon thy deep blue eyes, 
The cheek whereon my look had raised 

A blush's crimson dyes, 
I marvell'd, love, this heart of mine 
Had worshipp'd at another shrine. 

I will think of thee when the star, 

That lit our own fair river, 
Shines in the blue sky from afar, 

As beautiful as ever ; 
That twilight star, sweet love, shall be 
A sign and seal with thee and me ! 



CANTO III. 

Land of the olive and the vine, 
The saint and sailor, sword and shrine ! 



How glorious to young Raymond's eye 
Swell'd thy bold heights, spread thy clear sky 
When first he paused upon the height 
Where, gather'd, lay the Christian might. 
Amid a chestnut wood were raised 
Their white tents, and the red cross blazed 
Meteor-like, with its crimson shine, 
O'er many a standard's scutcheon'd line. 

On the hill opposite there stood 
The warriors of the Moorish blood, — 
With their silver crescents gleaming, 
And their horsetail pennons streaming ; 
With cymbals and the clanging gong, 
The muezzin's unchanging song, 
The turbans that like rainbows shone, 
The coursers' gay caparison, 
As if another world had been 
Where the small rivulet ran between. 

And there was desperate strife next day 
The little vale below that lay 
Was like a slaughter-pit, of green 
Could not one single trace be seen ; 
The Moslem warrior stretch'd beside 
The Christian chief by whom he died ; 
And by the broken falchion blade 
The crooked cimeter was laid. 

And gallantly had Raymond borne 
The red cross through the field that mom, 
When suddenly he saw a knight 
Oppress'd by numbers in the fight : 
Instant his ready spear was flung, 
Instant amid the band he sprung ; — 
They fight, fly, fall,— and from the fray 
He leads the wounded knight away ! 
Gently he gain'd his tent, and there 
He left him to the leech's care ; 
Then sought the field of death anew, — 
Little was there for knight to do. 

That field was strewn with dead and dyi«!$ 
And mark'd he there De Valence lyin# 
Upon the turbann'd heap, which told 
How dearly had his life been sold. 
And yet on his curl'd lip was worn 
The impress of a soldier's scorn ; 
And yet his dark and glazed eye 
Glared its defiance stern and high : 
His head was on his shield, his hand 
Held to the last his own red brand. 
Felt Raymond all too proud for grief 
In gazing on the gallant chief : 
So, thought he, should a warrior fall, 
A victor dying last of all. 
But sadness moved him when he gave 
De Valence to his lowly grave,- 



THE TROUBADOUR. 



73 



The grave where the wild flowers were sleeping, 
And one pale olive tree was weeping, — 
And placed the rude stone cross to show 
A Christian hero lay below. 

With the next morning's dawning light 
Was Raymond by the wounded knight. 
He heard strange tales, — none knew his name, 
And none might say from whence he came ; 
He wore no cognizance, his steed 
Was raven black, and black his weed. 
All own'd his fame, but yet they deem'd 
More desperate than brave he seem'd ; 
Or as he only dared the field 
For the swift death that it might yield. 

Leaning beside the curtain, where 
Came o'er his brow the morning air, 
He found the stranger chief; his tone, 
Surely 'twas one Raymond had known ! 
He knew him not, what chord could be 
Thus waken'd on his memory 1 

At fiist the knight was cold and stern, 
As that his spirit shunn'd to learn 
Aught of affection ; as it bi ought 
To him some shaft of venom' d thought : 
When one eve Raymond chanced to name 
Durance's castle, whence he came ; 
And speak of Eva, and her fate, 
So young and yet so desolate, 
So beautiful ! Then heard he all 
His father's wrongs, her mother's fall : 
For Amirald was the knight whose life 
Raymond had saved amid the strife ; 
And now he seem'd to find relief 
In pouring forth his hidden grief 
Which had for years been as the stream 
Cave-lock' d from either air or beam. 



LORD AMIRALD S HISTORY. 

I loved her! ay, I would have given 
A death-bed certainty of heaven 
If I had thought it could confer 
The least of happiness on her ! 
How proudly did I wait the hour 
When hid no more in lowly bower, 
She should shine, loveliest of all, 
The lady of my heart and hall ; — 
And soon I deem'd the lime would be, 
For many a chief stood leagued with me. 

It was one evening we had sate 
In my towel's secret council late, 
Our bands were number'd, and we said 
That the pale moon's declining head 
(10) 



Should shed her next full light o'er bands 

With banners raised, and shcathlcss brands 

We parted ; I to seek the shade 

Where my heart's choicest gem wae JdJ ; 

I flung me on my fleetest steed 

I urged it to its utmost speed, — 

On I went, like the hurrying wind, 

Hill, dale, and plain were left behind, 

And yet I thought my courser slow — 

Even when the forest lay below. 

As my wont, in a secret nook 

I left my horse, — I may not tell 
With what delight my way I took 

Till I had reach'd the oak-hid dell. 
The trees which hitherto had made 
A more than night, with lighten'd shade 
Now let the stars and sky shine through, 
Rejoicing, calm, and bright, and blue. 

There did not move a leaf that night 
That I cannot remember now, 

Nor yet a single star whose light 
Was on the royal midnight's brow : 
Wander' d no cloud, sigh'd not a flower, 
That is not present at this hour. 
No marvel memory thus should press 
Round its last light of happiness ! 
I paused one moment where I stood, 
In all a very miser's mood, 
As if that thinking of its store 
Could make my bosom's treasure more. 
I saw the guiding lamp which shone 
From the wreath'd lattice, pale and lone ; 
Another moment I was there, 
To pause, and look — upon despair. 

I saw her ! — on the ground she lay, 
The lifeblood ebbing fast away ; 
But almost as she could not die 
Without my hand to close her eye ! 
When to my bosom press'd, she raised 
Her heavy lids, and feebly gazed, 
And her lip moved : I caught its breath, 
Its last, it was the gasp of death ! 
I leant her head upon my breast, 
As I but soothed her into rest ; — 
I do not know what time might be 
Past, in this stony misery, 
When I was waken'd from my dream 
By my forgotten infant's scream. 
Then first I thought upon my child ; 
I took it from its bed, it smiled, 
And its red cheek was flush'd with sleep : 
Why had it not the sense to weep 1 
I laid its mother on the bed, 
O'er her pale brow a mantle spread, 
And left the wood. Calm, stern, and cold, 
The tale of blood and death I told : 



u 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Gave my child to my brother's care 

As his, not mine, were this despair. 

I flung me on my steed again, 

I urged him with, the spur and i-ein, — 

I left him at the usual tree, 

But left him there at liberty. 

With maddening step I sought the place, 
I raised the mantle from her face, 
And knelt me down beside, to gaze 
On all the mockery death displays, 
Until it seem'd but sleep to me. 
Death, — O, no ! death it could not be. 

The cold gray light the dawn had shed 
Changed gradual into melting red ; 
I watch'd the morning colour streak 
With crimson dye her marble cheek ; 
The freshness of the stirring air 
Lifted her curls of raven hair ; 
Her head lay pillow'd on her arm, 
Sweetly, as if with life yet warm ; — 
I kiss'd her lips : 0, God, the chill ! 
My heart is frozen with it still : — 
It was as suddenly on me 
Open'd my depths of misery. 
I flung me on the ground, and raved, 
And of the wind that past me craved 
One breath of poison, till my blood 
From lip and brow gush'd in one flood. 
I watch'd the warm stream of my veins 
Mix with the death wound's clotted stains ; 

! how I pray'd that I might pour 
My heart's tide, and her life restore ! 

And night came on : — with what dim fear 

1 mark'd the darkling hours appear, — 
I could not gaze on the dear brow, 
And seeing was all left me now. 

I grasp'd the cold hand in mine own, 
Till both alike seem'd turn'd %o stone. 
Night, morn, and noontide pass'd away, 
Then came the tokens of decay. 

'Twas the third night that I had kept 
My watch, and, like a child, had wept 
Sorrow to sleep, and in my dream 
I saw her as she once could seem, 
Fair as an angel : there she bent 
As if sprung from the element, 
The bright clear fountain, whose pure wave 
Her soft and shadowy image gave. 
Mcthought that conscious beauty threw 
Upon her cheek its own sweet hue, 
Its loveliness of morning red ; 
I woke, and gazed upon the dead. 
I mark'd the fearful stains which now 
Were darkening: o'er the once white brow, 



The livid colours that declare 

The soul no longer dwelleth there. 

The gaze of even my fond eye 

Seem'd almost like impiety. 

As it were sin for looks to be 

On what the earth alone should see. 

f thought upon the loathsome doom 

Of the grave's cold, corrupted gloom ; — 

O, never shall the vile worm rest % 

A lover on thy lip and breast ! 

0, never shall a careless tread 

Soil with its step thy sacred bed ! • 

Never shall leaf or blossom bloom 

With vainest mockery o'er thy tomb ! 

And forth I went, and raised a shrine 
Of the dried branches of the pine, — 
I laid her there, and o'er her flung 
The wild flowers that around her sprung 
I tore them up, and root and all, 
I bade them wait her funeral, 
With a strange joy that each fair thing 
Should, like herself, be withering. 
I lit the pyre, — the evening skies 
Rain'd tears upon the sacrifice ; 
How did its wild and awful light 
Struggle with the fierce winds of night ; 
Red was the battle, but in vain 
Hiss'd the hot embers with the rain, 
It wasted to a single spark ; 
That faded, and all around was dark : 
Then, like a madman who has burst 
The chain which made him doubly curst, 
I fled away. I may not tell — 
The agony that on me fell : — 
I fled away, for fiends were near, 
My brain was fire, my heart was fear ! 

I was borne on an eagle's wing, 
Till with the noon-sun perishing ; 
Then I stood in a world alone, 
From which all other life was gone, 
Whence warmth, and breath, and light were fled 
A world o'er which a curse was said : 
The trees stood leafless all, and bare, 
The sky spread, but no sun was there : 
Night came, no stars were on her way, 
Morn came without a look of day, — 
As night and day shared one pale shroud 
Without a colour or a cloud. 
And there were rivers, but they stood 
Without a murmur on the flood, 
Waveless and dark, their task was o'er, — 
The sea lay silent on the shore, 
Without a sign upon its breast 
Save of interminable rest : 
And there were palaces and halls 
But silence reign'd amid their walls, 



THE TROUBADOUR. 



75 



Though crowds yet fill'd them ; for no sound 

Rose from the thousands gather'd round ; 

All wore the same white, bloodless hue, 

All the same eyes of glassy blue, 

Meaningless, cold, corpsclikc as those 

No gentle hand was near to close. 

And all scem'd, as they look'd on me, 

In wonder that I yet could be 

A moving shape of warmth and breath 

Alone amid a world of death. 

'Tis strange how much I still retain 
Of these wild tortures of my brain, 
Though now they but to memory seem 
A curse, a madness, and a dream ; 
But well I can recall the hour 
When first the fever lost its power ; 
As one whom heavy opiates steep, 
Rather in feverish trance than sleep, 
I waken'd scarce to consciousness, — 
Memory had fainted with excess : 
I only saw that I was laid 
Beneath an olive tree's green shade ; 
I knew I was where flowers grew fair 
I felt their balm upon the air, 
I drank it as it had been wine ; 
I saw a gift of red sunshine 
Glittering upon a fountain^ brim ; 
I heard the small birds' vesper hymn, 
As they a vigil o'er me kept, — 
I heard their music, and I wept. 
I felt a friendly arm upraise 
My head, a kind look on me gaze ! 

Raymond, it has been mine to see 
The godlike heads which Italy 
Has given to prophet and to saint, 
All of least earthly art could paint ! 
But never saw I such a brow 
As that which gazed upon me now ; — 
It was an aged man, his hair 
Was white with time, perhaps with care ; 
For over his pale face were wrought 
The characters of painful thought ; 
But on that lip and in that eye 
Were patience, peace, and piety. 
The hope which was not of this earth, 
The peace which has in pangs, its birth, 
As if in its last stage the mind, 
Like silver seven times refined 
In life's red furnace, all its clay, 
All its dross purified away, 
Paused yet a little while below r , 
Its beauty and its power to show. 
As if the tumult of this life, 
Its sorrow, vanity, and strife, 
Had been but as the lightning's shock 
Shedding rich ore upon the rock, 



Though in the trial scorch'd and riven, 
The gold it wins is gold from heaven. 
He watched, he soothed me day to day, 
How kindly words may never say : 
All angel ministering could be 
That old man's succour was to me ; 
I dwelt with him ; for all in vain 
He urged me to return again 
And mix with life : — and months past on 
"Without a trace to mark them gone ; 
I had one only wish, to be 
Left to my grief's monotony. 
There is a calm which is not peace, 
Like that when ocean's tempests cease, 
When worn out with the storm, the sea 
Sleeps in her dark tranquillity, 
As dreading that the lightest stir 
Would bring again the winds on her. 
I felt as if I could not brook 
A sound, a breath, a voice a look, 
As I fear'd they would bring again 
Madness upon my heart and brain. 
It was a haunting curse to me, 
The simoom of insanity. 
The links of life's enchanted chain, 
Its hope, its pleasure, fear or pain, 
Connected but with what had been, 
Clung not to any future scene. 
There is an indolence in grief 
Which will not even seek relief : 
I sat me down, like one who knows 
The poison tree above him grows, 
Yet moves not ; my life-task was done 
With that hour which left me alone. 

It was one glad and glorious noon, 
Fill'd with the golden airs of June, 
When leaf and flower look to the sun 
As if his light and life were one, — 
A day of those diviner days 
When breath seems only given for praise,, 
Beneath a stately tree which shed 
A cool green shadow overhead ; 
I listen'd to that old man's words 
Till my heart's pulses were as chords 
Of a lute waked at the command 
Of some thrice powerful master's hand. 
He paused : I saw his face was bright 
With even more than morning's light, 
As his check felt the spirit's glow ; 
A glory sate upon his brow, 
His eye flash'd as to it were given 
A vision of his coming heaven. 
I turn'd away in awe and fear, 
My spirit was not of his sphere ; 
111 might an earthly care intrude 
Upon such high and holy mood : 



76 



MISS LAN DON'S WORKS. 



I felt the same as I had done 
Had angel face upon me shone, 
When sudden, as sent from on high, 
Music came slowly sweeping by. 
It was not harp, it was not song, 
Nor aught that might to earth belong ! 
The birds sang not, the leaves were still, 
Silence was sleeping on- the rill ; 
But with a deep and solemn sound 
The viewless music swept around. 

never yet was such a tone 

To hand or lip of mortal known ! 
It was as if a hymn were sent 
From heaven's starry instrument, 
In joy, such joy as seraphs feel 
For some pure soul's immortal weal, 
When that its human task is done, 
Earth's trials past, and heaven won. 

1 felt, before I fear'd, my dread, 

I turn'd and saw the old man dead ! 
Without a struggle or a sigh, 
And is it thus the righteous die 1 
There he lay in the sun, calm, pale, 
As if life had been like a tale 
Which, whatsoe'er its sorrows past, 
Breaks off in hope and peace at last. 

I stretch' d him by the olive tree, 
Where his death, there his grave should be ; 
The place was a thrice hallow'd spot, 
There had he drawn his golden lot 
Of immortality ; 'twas blest, 
A green and holy place of rest. 

But ill my burthen'd heart could bear 
Its after loneliness of care ; 
The calmness round seem'd but to be 
A mockery of grief and me, — 
The azure flowers, the sunlit sky, 
The rill, with its still melody, 
The leaves, the birds, — with my despair, 
The light and freshness had no share : 
The one unbidden of them all 
To join in summer's festival. 

I wander'd first to many a shrine 
By zeal or ages made divine ; 
And then I visited each place 
Where valour's deeds had left a trace ; 
Or sought the spots renown'd no less 
Tor nature's lasting loveliness. 
In vain that all things changed around, 
No change in my own heart was found. 
In sad or gay, in dark or fair, 
My spirit found a likeness there. 

At last my bosom yearn'd to see 
My Eva's blooming infancy 



I saw, myself unseen the while, 
0, God ! it was her mother's smile ! 
Wherefore, O, wherefore had they flung 
The veil just as her mother's hung ! — 
Another look I dared not take, 
Another look my heart would break ! 
I rush'd away to the lime grove 
Where first I told my tale of love ; 
And leaves and flowers breathed of spring 
As in our first sweet wandering. 
I look'd towards the clear blue sky, 
I saw the gemlike stream run by ; 
How did I wish that, like these, fate 
Had made the heart inanimate. 

! why should spring for others be, 
When there can come no spring to thee. 

Again, again, I rush'd away ; 
Madness was on an instant's stay ! 
And since that moment, near and far, 
In rest, in toil, in peace, in war, 
I've wander'd on without an aim 
In all, save lapse of years the same. 
Where was the star to rise and shine 
Upon a night so dark as mine 1 — 
My life was as a frozen stream, 
Which shares but feels not the sunbeam, 
All careless where its course may tend, 
So that it leads but to an end. 

1 fear my fate too much to crave 
More than it must bestow — the grave. 



And Amirald from that hour sought 
A refuge from each mournful thought 
In Raymond's sad but soothing smile ; 
And listening what might well beguile 
The spirit from its last recess 
Of dark and silent wretchedness. 
He spoke of Eta, and he tried 
To rouse her father into pride 
Of her fair beauty ; rather strove 
To waken hope yet more than love. 

He saw how deeply Amirald fear'd 
To touch a wound not heal'd but sear'd : 
His gentle care was not in vain, 
And Amirald learn'd to think again 
Of hope, if not of happiness ; 
And soon his bosom pined to press 
The child whom he so long had left 
An orphan doubly thus bereft. 
He mark'd with what enamour'd tongue 
Raymond and Eva's mention hung,— 
The soften'd tone, the downward gaze 
All that so well the heart betrays ; 



THE TROUBADOUR. 



CX 



And a reviving future stole 

Like dew and sunlight on his soul. 

Soon the Crusaders would be met 
Where winter's rest from war was set ; 
And then farewell to arms and Spain ; — 
Then for their own fair France again. 

One morn there swell'd the trumpet's blast, 
Calling to battle, but the last ; 
And Amirald watch'd the youthful knight 
Spur his proud courser to the fight : 
Tall as the young pine yet unbent 
By strife with its mountain element, — 
His vizor was up, and his full dark eye 
Flash'd as its flashing were victory ; 
And hope and pride sate on his brow 
As his earlier war-dreams were on him now. 
Well might he be proud, for where was there one 
Who had won the honour that he had won '} 
And first of the line it was his to lead 
His band to man)'' a daring deed. 

But rose on the breath of the evening gale, 
Not the trumpet's salute, but a mournful tale 
Of treachery, that had betray 'd the flower 
Of the Christian force to the Infidel's power. 
One came who told he saw Ratmosd fall, 
Left in the battle the last of all ; 
.His helm was gone, and his wearied hand 
Held a red but a broken brand. — 
What could a warrior do alone ? 
And Amirald felt all hope was gone. 
Alas for the young ! alas for the brave ! 
For the morning's hope, and the evening's grave ! 
And gush'd for him hot briny tears, 
Such as Amirald had not shed for years ; — 
With heavy step and alter'd heart 
Again he turn'd him to depart. 
He sought his child, but half her bloom 
Was withering in Raymond's tomb. 

Albeit not with those who fled, 
Yet was not Ratmoxd with the dead. 
There is a lofty castle stands 
On the verge of Grenada's lands ; 
It has a dungeon, and a chain, 
And there the young knight must remain. 
Day after day, — or rather night, — 
Can morning come without its light! 
Pass'd on without a sound or sight. 
The only thing that he could feel, 
Was the same weight of fettering steel, — 
The only sound that he could hear, 
Was when his own voice mock'd his ear, — 
Kis only sight was the drear lamp 
That faintly show'd the dungeon's damp, 



When by his side the jailer stood, 

And brought his loathed and scanty fcod. 

What is the toil, or care, or pain, 
The human heart cannot sustain 1 
Enough if struggling can create 
A change or colour in our fate ; 
But where' s the spirit that car cope 
With listless suffering, when hope, 
The last of misery's allies, 
Sickens of its sweet self, and dies. 

He thought on Eva : — tell not me 
Of happiness in memory ! 
! what is memory but a gift 
Within a ruin'd temple left, 
Recalling what its beauties were, 
And then presenting what they are. 
And many hours pass'd by, — each one 
Sad counterpart of others gone ; 
Till even to his dreams was brought 
The sameness of his waking thought 
And in his sleep he felt again 
The dungeon, darkness, damp, and chain. 

One weary time, when he had thrown 
Himself on his cold bed of stone, 
Sudden he heard a stranger hand 
Undo the grating's iron band : 
He knew 'twas stranger, for no jar 
Came from the hastily drawn bar. 
Too faintly gleam'd the lamp to show 
The face of either friend or foe ; 
But there was softness in the tread, 
And Raymond raised his weary head, 
And saw a muffled figure kneel, 
And loose the heavy links of steel. 
He heard a whisper, to which heaven 
Had surely all its music given : — 
" Vow to thy saints for liberty, 
Sir knight, and softly follow me !" 
He heard her light step on the stair, 
And felt 'twas woman led him there. 
And dim and dark the way they past 
Till on the dazed sight flash'd at last 
A burst of light, and Raymond stood 
Where censers burn'd with sandal wood 
And silver lamps like moonshine fell 
O'er mirrors and the tapestried swell 
Of gold and purple : on they went 
Through rooms each more magnificent. 

And Raymond look'd upon the brow 
Of the fair guide who led him now : 
It was a pale but lovely face, 
Yet in its first fresh spring of grace, 
That spring before or leaf or flower 
Has known a single withering hour : 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



With lips red as the earliest rose 
That opens for the bee's repose. 
But it was not on lip, or check 
Too marble fair, too soft, too meek, 
That aught was traced that might express 
More than unconscious loveliness ; 
But her dark eyes ! as the wild light 
Streams from the stars at deep midnight, 
Speaks of the future, — so those eyes 
Seem'd with their fate to sympathize, 
As mocking with their conscious shade 
The smile that on the red lip play'd, 
As that they knew their destiny 
Was love, and that such love would be 
The uttermost of misery. 

There came a new burst of perfume, 
But different, from one stately room, 
Not of sweet woods, water's distill'd, 
But with fresh flowers' breathing's fill'd ; 
And there the maiden paused, as thought 
Some painful memory to her brought. 
Around all spoke of woman's hand : 
There a guitar lay on a stand 
Of polish'd ebony, and raised 
In rainbow ranks the hyacinth blazed 
Like banner'd lancers of the spring, 
Save that they were too languishing. 
And gush'd the tears from her dark eyes, 
And swell'd her lip and breast with sighs : 
But Raymond spoke, and at the sound 
The maiden's eye glanced hurried round. 

Motioning with her hand she led, 
With watching gaze and noiseless tread, 
Along a flo\t er-nU'd terrace, where 
Flow'd the first tide of open air. 
They reach'd the garden ; there was all 
That gold could win, or luxury call 
From northern or from southern skies 
To make an earthly paradise. 
Their path was through a little grove, 
Where cypress branches met above, 
Green, shadowy, as nature meant 
To make the rose a summer tent, 
In fear and care, lest the hot noon 
Should kiss her fragrant brow too soon. 
O ! passion's history, ever thus 
Love's light and breath were perilous ! 
On the one side a fountain play'd 
As if it v/ere a Fairy's shade, 
Who shower'd diamonds to streak 
The red pomegranate's ruby cheek. 
The grove led to a lake, one side 
Sweet scented shrubs and willows hide : 
There winds a path, the clear moonshine 
Pierces not its dim serpentine. 
The garden lay behind in light, 
With flower and with fountain bright ; 



The lake like sheeted silver gave 
The stars a mirror in each wave ; 
And distant far the torchlight fell, 
Where paced the walls the sentinel ■ 
And as each scene met Raymond's view 
He deem'd the tales of magic true, — 
With such a path, and such a night, 
And such a guide, and such a flight. 

The way led to a grotto's shade, 
Just for a noon in summer made ; 
For scarcely might its arch be seen 
Through the thick ivy's curtain green, 
And not a sunbeam might intrude 
Upon its twilight solitude. 
It was the very place to strew 
The latest violets that grew 
Upon the feathery moss, then dream, — 
Lull'd by the music of the stream, — 
Fann'd by those scented gales which bruig 
The garden's wealth upon their wing, 
Till languid with its own delight, 
Sleep steals like love upon the sight, 
Bearing those visionings of bliss 
That only visit sleep like this. 

And paused the maid, — the moonlight shed 
Its light where leaves and flowers were spread* 
As there she had their sweetness borne, 
A pillow for a summer morn ; 
But when those leaves and flowers were raised, 
A lamp beneath their covering blazed. 
She led through a small path whose birth 
Seem'd in the hidden depths of earth, — 
'Twas dark and damp, and on the ear 
There came a rush of waters near. 
At length the drear path finds an end, — 
Beneath a dark low arch they bend ; 
" Safe, safe !" the maiden cried, and prest 
The red cross to her panting breast ! 
" Yes, we are safe ! — on, stranger, on, 
The worst is past, and freedom won ! 
Somewhat of peril yet remains, 
But peril not from Moorish chains : — 
With hope and heaven be our lot !" 
She spoke, but Raymond answer'd not: 
It was as he at once had come 
Into some star's eternal home, — 
He look'd upon a spacious cave, 
Rich with the gifts wherewith the wave 
Had heap'd the temple of that source 
Which gave it to its daylight course. 
Here pillars crowded round the hall, 
Each with a glistening capital : — 
The roof was set with thousand spars, 
A very midnight heaven of stars ; 
The walls were bright with every gem 
. That ever graced a diadem ; 






THE TROUBADOUR. 



Snow turn'd to treasure, — crystal flowers 
With every hue of summer hours. 
While light and colour round him blazed, 
It seem'd to Raymond that he gazed 
Upon a fairy's palace, raised 
By spells from ore and jewels, that shine 
In Afric's stream and Indian mine ; 
And she, his darkeyed guice, were queen 
Alone in the enchanted scene. 

They past the columns, and they stood 
By the depths of a pitchy flood, 
Where silent, leaning on his oar, 
An Ethiop slave stood by the shore. 
" My faithful An !" cried the maid, 
And then to gain the boat essay 'd, 
Then paused, as in her heart afraid 
To trust that slight and fragile bark 
Upon a stream so fierce, so dark ; 
Such sullen waves, the torch's glare 
Fell wholly unreflected there. 
'Twas but a moment ; on they went 
Over the gravelike element ; 
At first in silence, for so drear 
Was all that met the eye and ear, — 
Before, behind, all was like night, 
And the red torch's cheerless light, 
Fitful and dim, but served to show 
How the black waters roll'd below : 
And how the cavern roof o'erhead 
Seem'd like the tomb above them spread. 
And ever as each heavy stroke 
Of the oar upon these waters broke, 
Ten thousand echoes sent the sound 
Like omens through the hollows round, 
Till Ratstoitd, who awhile subdued 
His spirit's earnest gratitude, 
Now pour'd his hurried thanks to her, 
Heaven's own loveliest minister. 
E'en by that torch he could espy 
The burning cheek, the downcast eye, — 
The faltering lip, which owns too well 
All that its words might never tell ; — 
Once her dark eye met his, and then 
Sank 'neath its silken shade again ; 
She spoke a few short hurried words, 
But indistinct, like those low chords 
Waked from the lute or ere the hand 
Knows yet what song it shall command. 
Was it m maiden fearfulness 
He might her bosom's secret guess, 
Or but in maiden modesty 
At what a stranger's thought might be 
Of this a Moorish maiden's flight 
In secret with a Christian knight. 
And the bright colour on her cheek 
Was various as the morning break, — 
Now spring-rose red, now lily pale. 
As thus the maiden told her tale. 



MOORISH MAIDENS TALE. 

Albeit on my brow and breast 
Is Moorish turban, Moorish vest ; 
Albeit too of Moorish line, 
Yet Christian blood and faith are mine 
Even from earliest infancy 
I have been taught to bend the knee 
Before the sweet Madonna's face, 
To pray from her a Saviour's grace ! 
My mother's youthful heart was given • 
To one an infidel to heaven ; 
Alas ! that ever earthly love 
Could turn her hope from that above , 
Yet surely 'tis for tears, not blame, 
To be upon that mother's name. 

Well can I deem my father all 
That holds a woman's heart in thrall,— 
In truth his was as proud a form 
As ever stemm'd a battle storm, 
As ever moved first in the hall 
Of crowds and courtly festival. 
Upon each temple the black hair 
Was mix'd with gray, as early care 
Had been to him like age, — his eye, 
And lip, and brow, were dark and high ; 
And yet there was a look that seem'd 
As if at other times he dream'd 
Of gentle thoughts he strove to press 
Back to their unsunn'd loneliness. 
Your first gaze cower'd beneath his glance, 
Keen like the flashing of a lance, 
As forced a homage to allow 
To that tall form, that stately brow ; 
But the next dwelt upon the trace 
That time may bring, but not efface, 
Of cares that wasted life's best years, 
Of griefs sear'd more than soothed by teai^ 
And homage changed to a sad feeling 
For a proud heart its grief concealing. 
If such his brow, when griefs that wear, 
And hopes that waste, were written there, 
What must have been, at the hour 
When in my mother's moonlit bower, 
If any step moved, 'twas to take 
The life he ventured for her sake 1 
He urged his love ; to such a suit 
Could woman's eye or heart be mute 1 
She fled with him, — it matters not, 
To dwell at length upon their lot. 
But that my mother's frequent sighs 
Swell' d at the thoughts of former ties, 
First loved, then fear'd she loved tjo well, 
Then fear'd to love an Infidel ; 
A struggle all, she had the will 
But scarce the strength to love him still :-— 
But for this weakness of the heart 
Which could not from its love depart, 



80 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Rebell'd, but quickly clung again, 
Which broke and then renew'd its chain, 
Without the power to love, and be 
Repaid by love's fidelity : — 
Without this contest of the mind, 
Though yet its early fetters bind, 
Which still pants to be unconfined, 
The}' had been happy. 

'Twas when first 
My spirit from its childhood burst, 
That to our roof a maiden came, 
My mother's sister, and the same 
In form, in face, in smiles, in tears, 
In step, in voice, in all but years, 
Save that there was upon her brow 
A calm my mother's wanted now ; 
And that Elvira's loveliness 
Seem'd scarce of earth, so passionless, 
So pale, all that the heart could paint 
Of the pure beauty of a saint. 
Yes, I have seen Elvira kneel, 
And seen the rays of evening steal, 
Lightn»g the blue depths of her eye 
With so much of divinity, 
As if her every thought was raised 
To the bright heaven on which she gazed ! 
Then often I have deem'd her form 
Rather with light than with life warm. 

My father's darken'd brow was glad, 
My mother's burthen'd heart less sad 
With her, for she was not of those 
Who all the heart's affections close 
In a drear hour of grief or wrath, — 
Her path was as an angel's path, 
Known only by the flowers which spring 
Beneath the influence of its wing ; 
And that her high and holy mood 
Was such as suited solitude. 
Still she had gentle words and smiles, 
And all that sweetness which beguiles, 
Like sunshine on an April day, 
The heaviness of gloom away. 
It was as the soul's weal were sure 
When prayer rose from lips so pure. 

She left us ; — the same evening came 
Tidings of wo, and death, and shame. 
Her guard had been attack'd by one 
Whose love it had been hers to shun. 
Fierce was the struggle, and her flight • 
Meanwhile had gain'd a neighbouring height, 
Which dark above the river stood, 
And look'd upon the rushing flood ; 
Twas compass'd round, she was bereft 
Of the vague hope that flight had left. 
One moment, and they saw her kneel, 
And then, as Heaven heard her appeal, 



She flung her downwards from the rock : 
Her heart was nerved by death to mock 
What that heart never might endure, 
The slavery of a godless Moor. 

4 
And madness in its burning pain 
Seized on my mother's heart and brain : 
She died that night, and the next day 
Beheld my father far away. 
But wherefore should I dwell on all 
Of sorrow memory can recall, 
Enough to know that I must roam 
An orphan to a stranger home. — 
My father's death in battle field 
Forced me a father's rights to yield 
To his stern brother ; how my heart 
Was forced with one by one to part 
Of its best hopes, till life became 
Existence only in its name ; 
Left but a single wish, — to share 
The cold home where my parents were. 

At last I heard, I may not say 
How my soul brighten'd into day, 
Elvira lived ; a miracle 
Had surely saved her as she fell ! 
A fisherman who saw her float, 
Bore her in silence to his boat. 
She lived ! how often had I said 
To mine own heart she is not dead ; 
And she remember'd me, and when 
They bade us never meet again, 
She sent to me an Ethiop slave, 
The same who guides us o'er the wave, 
Whom she had led to that pure faith 
Which sains and saves in life and death, 
And plann'd escape. 

It was one morn 
I saw our conquering standards borne, 
And gazed upon a Christian knight ' 
Wounded and prisoner from the fight ; 
I made a vow that he should be 
Redeem'd from his captivity. 
Sir knight, the Virgin heard my vow, — 
Yon light, — we are in safety now ! 



The arch was past, the crimson gleam 
Of morning fell upon the stream, 
And flash'd upon the dazzled eye 
The daybreak of a summer sky ; 
And they are sailing amid ranks 
Of cypress on the river banks : 
They land where water-lilies spread 
Seem almost too fair for the tread ; 
And knelt they down upon the shore, 
The heart's deep gratitude to pour. 



THE TRO UBADOUR. 



Led by their dark guide on they press 
Through many a green and lone recess : 
The morning- air, the bright sunshine, 
To Raymond were like the red wine, — 
Each leaf, each flower seem'd to be 
With his own joy in sympathy, 
So fresh, so glad ; but the lair Moor, 
From peril and pursuit secure, 
Though hidden by her close-drawn veil, 
Yet seem'd more tremulous, more pale ; 
The hour of dread and danger past, 
Fears timid thoughts came thronging fast; 
Her cold hand trembled in his own, 
Her strength seem'd with its trial gone, 
And downcast eye, and faltering word, 
But dimly seen, but faintly heard, 
Seem'd scarcely hers that just had been 
His dauntless guide through the wild scene. 

At length a stately avenue 
Of ancient chestnuts met their view, 
And they could see the time-worn walls 
Of her they sought, Elviua's halls. 
A small path led a nearer way 
Through flower-beds in their spring array. 
They reaeh'd the steps, and stood below 
A high and marble portico 
They cnter'd, and saw kneeling there 
A creature even more than fair. 
On each white temple the dusk braid 
Of parted hair made twilight shade, 
That brow whose blue veins shone to show 
It was more beautiful than snow. 
Her large dark eyes were almost hid 
By the nightfall of the fringed lid ; 
And tears which fill'd their orbs with light, 
Like summer showers blent soft with bright. 
Her cheek was saintly pale, as nought 
Were there to flush with earthly thought- 
As the heart which in youth had given 
Its feelings and its hopes to Heaven, 
Knew no emotions that could spread 
A maiden's cheek with sudden red, — 
Made for an atmosphere above, 
Too much to bend to mortal love. 

And Ratimoxd watch'd as if his eye 
Were on a young divinity, — 
As her bright presence made him feel 
Awe that could only gaze and kneel : 
And Leila paused, as if afraid 
To break upon the recluse maid, 
As if her heart took its rebuke 
From that cold, calm, and placid look. 

" Elviua !" — though the name was said 
Low as she fear'd to wake the dead, 
Yet it was heard, and, all revealing, 
Of her most treasured mortal feeling, 

no 



Fondly the Moorish maid was prest 

To her she sought, ElyibVs breast. 

" I pray'd for thee, my hope, my fear 

My Leila ! and now thou art near. 

Nay, weep not, welcome as thou art 

To my faith, friends, and home and heart !" 

And Ratmoxd almost deem'd that earth 
To such had never given birth 
As the fair creatures, who, like light, 
Floated upon his dazzled sight : — 
One with her bright and burning check, 
All passion, tremulous and weak, 
A woman in her woman's sphere 
Of joy and grief, of hope and fear, 
The other, whose mild tenderness 
Seem'd as less made to share than bless ; 
One to whom human joy was such 
That her heart fear'd to trust too much, 
While her wan brow seem'd as it meant 
To soften rapture to content ; — 
To whom all earth's delight was food 
For high and holy gratitude. 

Gazed Rayhoxd till his burning brain 
Grew dizzy with excess of pain ; 
For unheal'd wounds his strength had worn, 
And all the toil his flight had borne ; 
His lip, and check, and brow were flame ; 
And when Elvira's welcome came, 
It fell on a regardless car, 
As bow'd beside a column near, 
He leant insensible to all 
Of good or ill that could befall. 



CANTO IV. 

It was a wild and untrain'd bower, 
Enough to screen from April shower, 
Or shelter from June's hotter hour, 
Tapestried with starry jessamines, 
The summer's gold and silver mines ; 
With a moss scat, and itn turf set 
With crowds of the while violet. 
And close beside a fountain play'd, 
Dim, cool, from its encircling shade ; 
And lemon trees grew round, as pale 
As never yet to them the gale 
Had brought a message from the sun 
To say their summer task was done. 
It was a very solitude 
For love in its despairing mood, 
With just enough of breath and bloom 
With just enough of calm and gloom, 



82 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



To suit a heart where love has wrought 

His wasting work, with saddest thought 

Where all its sickly fantasies 

May call up suiting images : 

With flowers like hopes that spring and fade 

As only for a mockery made, 

And shadows of the boughs that fall 

Like sorrow drooping over all. 

And Leila, loveliest! can it be 
Such destiny is made for thee ] 
Yes, it is written on thy brow 
The all thy lip may not avow, — 
All that in woman's heart can dwell, 
Save by a blush unutterable. 
Alas ! that ever Raymond came 
To light thy cheek and heart to flame, — 
A hidden fire, but not the less 
Consuming in its dark recess. 

She had leant by his couch of pain, 
When throbbing pulse and bursting vein 
Fierce spoke the fever, when fate near 
Rode on the tainted atmosphere ; 
And though that parch'd lip spoke alone 
Of other love, in fondest tone, 
And though the maiden knew that death 
Might be upon his lightest breath, 
Yet never by her lover's side 
More fondly watch'd affianced bride, — 
With pain or fear more anxious strove, 
Than Leila watch'd another's love. 

But he was safe ! — that very day 
Farewell, it had been hers to say ; 
And he was gone to his own land, 
To seek another maiden's hand. 

Who that had look'd on her that morn, 
Could dream of all her heart had borne; 
Her cheek was red, but who could know 
'Twas flushing with the strife below ; — 
Her eye was bright, but who could tell 
It shone with tears she strove to quell ; 
Her voice was gay, her step was light ; 
And, beaming, beautiful, and bright, 
It was as if life could confer 
Nothing but happiness on her. 
Ah ! who could think that all so fail- 
Was semblance, and but misery there. 

'Tis strange with how much power and pride 
The softness is of love allied ; 
How much of power to force the breast 
To be in outward show at rest, — 
How much of pride that never eye 
May look upon its agony ! 



Ah ! little will the lip reveal 
Of all the burning heart can feel. 
But this was past, and she was now 
With clasp 'd hands prest to her brow, 
And head bow'd down upon her knee, 
And heart-pulse throbbing audibly, 
And tears that gush'd like autumn rain, 
The more for that they gush'd in vain 
O ! why should woman ever love, 
Trusting to one false star above ; 
And fling her little chance away 
Of sunshine for its treacherous ray. 

At first Elvira had not sought 
To break upon her lonely thought. 
But it was now the vesper time, 
And she return'd not at the chime 
Of holy bells, — she knew the hour : — 
At last they search'd her favourite bower ; 
Beside the fount they found the maid 
On head bow'd down, as if she pray'd • 
Her long black hair fell like a veil, 
Making her pale brow yet more pale, 
'Twas strange to look upon her face, 
Then turn and see its shadowy trace 
Within the fountain ; one like stone, 
So cold, so colourless', so lone, — 
A statue nymph, placed there to show 
How far the sculptor's art could go. 
The other, and that too the shade, 
In light and crimson warmth array'd ; 
For the red glow of day declining, 
Was now upon the fountain shining, 
And the shape in its mirror bright 
Of sparkling waves caught warmth and light. 
Elvira spoke not, though so near, 
Her words lay mute in their own fear : 
At last she whisper'd Leila's name, — 
No answer from the maiden came. 
She took one cold hand in her own, 
Started, and it dropp'd lifeless down ! 
She gazed upon the fixed eye, 
And read in it mortality. 

And lingers yet that maiden's tale 
A legend of the lemon vale . 
They say that never from that hour 
Has flourish' d there a single flower, — 
The jasmine droop'd, the violets died, 
Nothing grew by that fountain side, 
Save the pale pining lemon trees, 
And the dark weeping cypresses. — 
And now when to the twilight stat 
The lover wakes his lone guitar, 
Or maiden bids a song impart 
All that is veil'd in her own heart, 
The wild and mournful tale they tell 
Of her who loved, alas ! too well. 



THE TROUBADOUR. 



S3 



And where was Raymond, where was he 1 
Borne homeward o'er the rapid sea, 
While sunny days and favouring gales 
Brought welcome speed to the white sails — 
With bended knee and upraised hand, 
He stood upon his native land, 
With all that happiness can be 
When resting on futurity. 
On, on he went, and o'er the plain 
He rode an armed knight again; 
He urged his steed with hand and heel, 
It bounded conscious of the steel. 
And never yet to Raymond's eye 
Spread such an earth, shone such a sky. 
Blew such sweet breezes o'er his brow, 
As those his native land had now. 

He thought upon young Eta's name, 
And felt that she was still the same ; 
He thought on Amirald, his child 
Had surely his dark cares beguiled ; 
He thought upon the welcome sweet 
It would be his so soon to meet : 
And never had the star of hope 
Shone on a lovelier horoscope. 

And evening shades were on the hour 
When Raymond rode beneath the tower 
Remember'd well, for Adeline 
Had there been his heart's summer queen. 
Could this be it 1 — he knew the heath 
Which, lake-like, spread its walls beneath, — ■ 
He saw the dark old chestnut wood 
Which had for ages by it stood ; 
And but for these the place had been 
As one that he had never seen. 
The walls were rent, the gates were gone, 
No red light from the watch tower shone. 
He enter'd, and the hall wa« bare, 
It show'd the spoiler had been there ; 
Even upon the very hearth 
The green grass found a place of birth, 
0, vanity ! that the stone wall 
May sooner than a blossom fall ! 
The tower in its strength may be 
Laid low before the willow tree. 
There stood the wood, subject to all 
The autumn wind, the winter fall, — 
There stood the castle which the rain 
And wind had buffetted in vain, — 
But one in ruins stood beside 
The other green in its spring pride. 

And Raymond paced the lonely hall 
As if he fear'd his own footfall. 
It is the very worst, the gloom 
Of a deserted banquet-room, ,. .. j anu 
To see the spider's web outvie 
The torn and faded tapestry ,- 



To shudder at the cold damp air, 

Then think how once were burning there 

The incense vase with odour glowing, 

The silver lamp its softness throwing 

O'er checks as beautiful and bright 

As roses bathed in summer light, — 

How through the portals sweeping came 

Proud cavalier and high-born dame, 

With gems like stars 'mid raven curls, 

And snow-white plumes and wreathed pearls 

Gold cups, whose lighted flames made dim 

The sparkling stones around the brim ; — 

Soft voices answering to the lute, 

The swelling harp, the sigh-waked flute, — ■ 

The glancing lightness of the dance, — 

Then, starting sudden from thy trance, 

Gaze round the lonely place and see 

Its silence and obscurity : 

Then commune with thine heart, and say 

These are the footprints of decay, — 

And I, even thus shall pass away. 

And .Raymond turn'd him to depart, 
With darken'd brow and heavy heart. 
Can outrage or can time remove 
The sting, the scar of slighted love 1 
lie could not look upon the scene 
And not remember Adeline, 
Fair queen of gone festivity, — 
O, where was it, and where was she ! 

At distance short a village lay 
And thither Raymond took his way, 
And in its hostel shelter found, 
While the dark night was closing round. 
It was a cheerful scene, the hearth 
Was bright with woodfire and with mirth, 
And in the midst a harper bent 
O'er his companion instrument : 
'Twas an old man, his hair was gray, — 
For winter tracks in snow its way, — 
But yet his dark, keen eye was bright, 
With somewhat of its youthful light ; 
Like one whose path of life had been 
Its course through mingled sheen and shade 
But one whose buoyant spirit still 
Pass'd lightly on through good or ill,— 
One reckless if borne o'er the sea 
In storm or in tranquillity ; 
The same to him, as if content 
Were his peculiar element. 
'Tis strange how the heart can create 
Or colour from itself its fate ; 
We make ourselves our own distress, 
We are ourselves our happiness. 

And many a song and many a lay, 
Had pass'd the cheerful hour away. 



84 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



When one pray'd that he would relate, 
His tale of the proud ladye's fate, — 
The lady Adeline ; — the name 
Like lightning upon Raymond came ! 
And swept the harper o'er his chords 
As that he paused for minstrel words, 
Or stay'd till silence should prevail, 
When thus the old man told the tale. 



THE PIIOTJD XADYE. 



0, what could the ladye's beauty match, 
An it were not the ladye's pride ; 

An hundred knights from far and near 
Woo'd at that ladye's side. 

The rose of the summer slept on her cheek, 

Its lily upon her breast, 
And her eye shone forth like the glorious star 

That rises the first in the west. 

There are some that woo'd for her land and gold, 

And some for her noble name, 
And more that woo'd for her loveliness ; 

But her answer was still the same. 

" There is a steep and lofty wall, 

Where my warders trembling stand, 

Hs-who at speed shall ride round its height, 
For him shall be my hand." 

Many turn'd away from the deed, 
The hope of their wooing o'er ; 

But many a young knight mounted the steed 
He never mounted more. 

At last there came a youthful knight, 
From a strange and far countrie, 

The steed that he rode was white as the foam 
Upon a stormy sea. 

And he who had scorn'd the name of love, 

Now bow'd before its might, 
And the ladye grew meek as if disdain 

Were not made for that stranger knight. 

She sought at first to steal his soul 

By dance, song, and festival ; 
At length on bended knee she pray'd 

He would not ride the wall. 

But gayly the young knight laugh'd at her fears, 

And flung him on his steed, — 
There was not a saint in the calendar 

That she pray'd not to in her need. 

She dared not raise her eyes to see 

If heaven had granted her prayer, 

Till she heard a light step bound to her side, — 
The gallant knight stood there I 



And took the ladye Adeline 

From her hair a jewell'd band, 

But the knight repell'd the offer'd gift, 
And turn'd from the offer'd hand. 

And deemest thou that I dared this deed, 

Ladye, for love of thee ; 
The honour that guides the soldier's lance 

Is mistress enough for me. 

Enough for me to ride the ring, 
The victor's crown to wear ; 

But not in honour of the eyes 
Of any ladye there. 

I had a brother whom I lost 

Through thy proud crueltie, 

And far more was to me his love, 
Than woman's love can be. 

I came to triumph o'er the pride. 

Through which that brother fell, 
I laugh to scorn thy love and thee, 

And now, proud dame, farewell ! 

And from that hour the ladye pined, 

For love was in her heart, 
And on her slumber there came dreams 

She could not bid depart. 

Her eye lost all its starry light, 

Her cheek grew wan and pale, 

Till she hid her faded loveliness 
Beneath the sacred veil 

And she cut off her long dark hair, 
And bade the world farewell, 

And she now dwells a veil'd nun 
In Saint Marie's cell. 






And what were Raymond's dreams that night 
The morning's gift of crimson light 
Waked not his sleep, for his pale cheek 
Did not of aught like slumber speak ; 
Though not upon a morn like this 
Should Raymond turn to aught but bliss. 
To-day, when Eva will be prest, 
Ere evening, to his throbbing breast. — 
To day, when all his own will be 
That cheer'd his long captivity. 
Care to the wind of heaven was flung 
As the young knight to stirrup sprung. 

He reach'd tie csstle ; save one, all 
Rush'd to hki in'pome in the hall. 
He gazcuylmt there no Eva came, 
Scarce his low voice named Eva's name . 



THE TROUBADOUR. 



85 



•• Our E r k, she is far away 
imid the young, the fair, the gay. 
A.t Thou louse, now the bright resort 
Of beauty and the Minstrel Court; 
For this time it is hers to set 
The victor's brow with violet. 
Her father, — but you're worn and pale, — 
Come, the wine cup will aid my tale." 
The greeting of the elder knight, 
The cheerful board, the vintage bright, 
Not all could chase from Raymond's soul, 
The cloud that o'ei its gladness stole ; 
And soon, pretending toil, he sought 
A soiitude for lonely thought. — 
'Tis strange how much of vanity 
Almost unconsciously will be 
With our best feelings mix'd, and now 
But that, what shadows Raymond's brow. 

He had deem'd a declining flower, 
fining in solitary bower, 
He should find Eva. sad and lone, — 
He sought the cage, the bird had flown, 
With burnish'd plume, and careless wing, 
A follower of the sunny Spring. 
He pictured her the first of all 
In masque, and dance, and festival, — 
With cheek at its own praises burning, 
And eyes but on adorers turning, 
The lady of the tournament, 
For whose bright sake the lance was sent ; 
While minstrels borrow'd from her name 
The beauty which they paid by fame : 
Beloved ! not even his hot brain 
Dared whisper, — loving too again. 

But the next morn, and Raymond bent 
His steps to that fair Parliament, 
While pride and hasty anger strove 
Against his memory and his love. 
But leave we him awhile to rave 
Against the faith which, like the wave, 
By every grain of sand can be 
Moved from its own tranquillity, 
Till settled he that woman's mind 
Was but a leaf before the wind, — 
Left to remain, retreat, advance, 
Without a destiny but chance. — 

And where is Eva 1 on her cheek 
Is there ought that of love may speak ? 
Amid the music and perfume 
That, mingling, fill yon stately room 
A maiden sits, around her chair 
Stand others who, with graceful care, 
Bind Indian jewels in her hair. 
'Tis Eva ! on one side a stand 
Of dark wood from the Ethiop's land 
Is cover d with all gems that deck 
A maiden's arm, or maiden's neck 



The diamond with its veins of light. 

The sapphire like a summer night, 

The ruby rich as it had won 

A red gift from the setting sun, 

And white pearls, such as might have been 

A bridal offering for a queen. 

On the side opposite were thrown, 

Rainbow-like mix'd, a sparkling zone, 

A snow-white veil, a purple vest 

Embroider'd with a golden crest. 

Before, the silver mirror's trace 

Is the sweet shadow of her face, 

Placed as appealing to her eyes 

For the truth of the flatteries, 

With which her gay attendants seek 

To drive all sadness from her cheek. — 

She heard them not ; she reck'd not how 

They wreath'd the bright hair o'er her 

brow, 
Whate'er its sunny grace might be 
There was an eye that would not see. 
They told of words of royal praise, 
They told of minstrel's moonlight lays, 
Of youthful knights who swore to die 
For her least smile, her lightest sigh. 
But he was gone, her young, her brave, 
Her heart was with him in the grave. 

Wearied, for ill the heart may bear 
Light words in which it has no share, 
She turn'd to a pale maid, who, mute, 
Dreaming of song, leant o'er her lute ; 
And at her sign, that maiden's words 
Came echolike to its sweet chords, — 
It was a low and silver tone, 
And very sad, like sorrow's own ; 
She sang of love as it will be, 
And has been in reality. — 
Of fond hearts broken and betray 'd, 
Of roses opening but to fade, 
Of wither'd hope, and wasted bloom, 
Of the young warrior's early tomb ; 
And the while her dark mournful eye 
Held with her words deep sympathy. 

And Eva listen'd ; — music's power 
Is little felt in sunlit hour ; 
But hear its voice when hopes depart, 
Like swallows, flying from the heart 
On which the summer's late decline 
Has set a sadness and a sign; 
When friends whose commune once we sought 
For every bosom wish and thought, 
Have given in our hour of need 
Such a support as gives the reed, — 
W'hen we have seen the green grass grow 
Over what once was life below; 
How deeply will the spirit feel 
The lute, the song*s swectvoiccd appeal : 
h 






86 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



And how the heart dm k in their sighs 
As echoes thev from Paradise. 

'Tis done : the last bright gem is set 
In Eva's sparkling coronet ; 
A soil on her rich veil appears, — 
Unsuiting here — and is il tears ! 

Her father met her, he was proud 
To lead his daughter through the crowd, 
And see the many eyes that gazed, 
Then mark the blush their gazing raised ; 
And for his sake, she forced away 
The clouds that on her forehead lay, 
The sob rose in her throat, 'twas all ; 
The tears swam, but they dared not fall ; 
And the pale lip put on a smile, 
Alas it was too sad for guile ! 

A beautiful and festal day 
Shone summer bright o'er the array, 
And purple banners work'd in gold, 
And azure pennons spread their fold, 
O'er the rich awnings which were round 
The galleries that hemm'd in the ground, 
The green and open space, where met 
The Minstrels of the Violet ; 
And two or three old stately trees 
Soften'd the sun, skreen'd from the breeze. 
And there came many a lovely dame, 
With cheek of rose, and eye of flame ; 
And many a radiant arm was raised, 
Whose rubies in the sunshine blazed ; 
And many a white veil swept the air 
Only than what they hid less fair : 
And placed at his own beauty's feet 
Found many a youthful knight his seat, 
And flung his jewell'd cap aside, 
And wore his scarf with gayer pride, 
And whisper'd soft and gallant things, 
And bade the bards' imaginings 
Whenever love awoke the tone, 
With their sweet passion plead his own. 

Beneath an azure canopy, 
Blue as the sweep of April's sky, 
Upon a snowy couch recline 
Like a white cloud before the wind, 
Leant Eva : — there was many a tent 
More royal, more magnificent, 
With purple, gold, and crimson swelling, 
But none so like a fairy dwelling : 
Onti curtain bore her father's crest, 
But summer flowers confined the rest ; 
And, at her feet, the ground was strew'd 
With the June's rainbow multitude : 
Bes ; de her knelt a page, who bore 
A vase with jewels sparkling o'er, 
And in that shining vase was set 
The prize, — the Goiden Violet. 



Alas for her whom every eye 
Worshipp'd like a divinity ! 
Alas for her whose ear was fiU'd 
With flatteries like sweet woods distill'd ! 
Alas for Eta ! bloom and beam, 
Music and mirth, came like a dream, 
In which she mingled not, — apart 
From all in heaviness of heart. 
There were soft tales pour'd in her ear, 
She look'd on many a cavalier, 
Wander'd her eye round the glad scene, 
It was as if they had not been : — 
To ear, eye, heart, there only came 
Her Raymond's image, Raymond's namr ; 

There is a flower, a snow-white flower. 
Fragile as if a morning shower 
Would end its being, and the earth 
Forget to what it gave .a birth ; 
And it looks innocent and pale, 
Slight as the least force could avail 
To pluck it from its bed, and yet 
Its root in depth and strength is set. 
The July sun, the autumn rain, 
Beat on its slender stalk in vain : — 
Around it spreads, despite of care, 
Till the whole garden is its share ; 
And other plants must fade and fall 
Beneath its deep and deadly thrall. 
This is love's emblem ; it is nurst 
In all unconsciousness at first, 
Too slight, too fair, to wake distrust ; 
No sign how that an after hour 
Will rue and weep its fatal power. 
'Twas thus with Eva : she had dream'd 
Of love as his first likeness seem'd, 
A sweet thought o'er which she might 

brood, 
The treasure of her solitude ; 
But tidings of young Raymond's fate 
Waken'd her from her dream too late, 
Even her timid love could be 
The ruling star of destiny. 
And when a calmer mood prevail'd 
O'er that whose joy her father hail'd 
Too well he saw how day by day 
Some other emblem of decay 
Came on her lip and o'er her brow, 
Which only she would disallow ; 
The cheek the lightest word could flush 
Not with health's rose, but the heart's gush 
Of feverish anxiousness ; he caught 
At the least hope, and vainly sought 
By change, by pleasure, to dispel 
Her sorrow from its secret cell. 
In vain ; — what can reanimate 
A heart too early desolate 1 
It had been his, it could not save, 
But it could follow to his grave. 






THE TROUBADOUR. 



9'i 



The trumpets peal'd their latest round, 
Stole from the flutes a softer sound, 
Swell'd the harp to each master's hand, 
As onward came the minstrel band ! 
And many a bright check grew more bright, 
And many a dark eye flash'd with light, 
As bent the minstrel o'er his lute, 
And urged the lover's plaining suit, 
Or swept a louder chord, and gave 
Some glorious history of the brave. 

At last from 'mid the crowd one came, 
Unknown himself, unknown his name, 
Both knight and bard, — the stranger wore 
The garb of a young Troubadour ; 
His dark green mantle loosely flung, 
Conceal'd the form o'er which it hung ; 
And his cap, with its shadowy plume, 
Hid his face by its raven gloom. 
Little did Eva's careless eye 
Dream that it wander'd Raymond by, 
Though his first tone thrill'd every vein, 
It only made her turn again, 
Forget the scene, the song, and dwell 
But on what memory felt too well. 



THE SONG OF THE TROUBADOUR. 

In some valley low and lone, 
Where I was the only one 
Of the human dwellers there, 
Would I dream away my care : 
I'd forget how in the world 
Snakes lay amid roses curl'd, 
I'd forget my once distress 
For young Love's insidiousness. 
False foes, and yet falser friends, 
Seeming but for their own ends ; 
Pleasures known but by their wings, 
Yet remember'd by their stings ; 
Gold's decrease, and health's decay, 
I will fly like these away, 
To some lovely solitude, 
Where the nightingale's young brood 
Lives amid the shrine of leaves, 
Which the wild rose round them weaves, 
And my dwelling shall be made 
Underneath the beech tree's shade. 
Twining ivy for the walls 
Over which the jasmine falls, 
Like a tapestry work'd with gold 
And pearls around each emerald fold : 
And my couches shall be set 
With the purple violet, 
And the white ones too, inside 
Each a blush to suit a bride. 
That flower which of all that live, 
Lovers, should be those who give, 



Primroses, for each appears 

Pale and wet with many tears. 

Alas tears and pallid cheek 

All too often love bespeak ! 

There the gilderosc should fling 

Silver treasures to the spring, 

And the bright laburnum's tresses 

Seeking the young wind's caresses 

In the midst an azure lake, 

Where no oar e'er dips to break 

The clear bed of its blue rest, 

Where the halcyon builds her nest • 

And amid the sedges green, 

And the water-flag's thick screen, 

The solitary swan resides ; 

And the bright kingfisher hides, 

With its colours rich like those 

Which the bird of India shows. — 

Once I thought that I would seek 

Some fair creature, young and meek, 

Whose most gentle smile would bless 

My too utter loneliness ; 

But I then remember'd all 

I had suffer'd from love's thrall, 

And I thought I'd not again 

Enter in the lion's den ; 

But, with my wrung heart now free, 

So I thought I still will be. 

Love is like a kingly dome, 

Yet too often, sorrow's home ; 

Sometimes smiles, but oftener tears, 

Jealousies, and hopes, and fears, 

A sweet licmor sparkling up, 

But drank from a poison'd cup. 

Would you guard your heart from care 

Love must never enter there. 

I will dwell with summer flowers, 

Fit friends for the summer hours, 

My companions honey-bees, 

And birds, and buds, and leaves, and Trees, 

And the dew of the twilight, 

And the thousand stars of night : 

I will cherish that sweet gift, 

The least earthly one now left 

Of the gems of Paradise, 

Poesy's delicious sighs. 

Ill may that soft spirit bear 

Crowds' or cities' healthless air ; 

Was not her sweet breathing meaxii 

To echo the low murmur sent 

By the flowers, and by the rill, 

When all save the wind is still 1 

As if to tell of those fair things 

High thoughts, pure imaginings, 

That recall how bright, how fair 

In our other state we were. 

And at last, when I have spent 

A calm life in mild content, 



MISS LAND ON' S WORKS. 



May my spirit pass away 
As the early leaves decay : 
Spring shakes her gay coronal, 
One sweet breath, and then they fall. 
Only let the red-breast bring 
Moss to strew me with, and sing 
One low mournful dirge to tell 
I have bid the world farewell. 



And praise rang forth, and praise is won, 
Young minstrel, thou hast equal none ! 
They led him to the lady's seat, 
And knelt he down at Eva's feet ; 
She bent his victor brow to deck, 
And, fainting, sunk upon his neck ! 
The cap and plume aside were thrown, 
'Twas as the grave restored its own, 
And sent its victim forth to share 
Light, life, and hope, and sun, and air. 

That day the feast spread gay and bright 
In honour of the youthful knight, 
And it was Eva's fairy hand 
Met Raymond's in the saraband, 
And it was Eva's ear that heard 
Many a low and lovetuned word. — 
And life seem'd as a sunny stream, 
And hope awaken'd as from a dream ; 
But what has minstrel left to tell 
When love has not an obstacle ? 
My lute is hush'd, and mute its chords, 
The heart and happiness have no words ! 



My tale is told, the glad sunshine 
Fell over its commencing line, — 
It was a morn in June, the sun 
Was blessing all it shone upon, 
The sky was clear as not a cloud 
Were ever on its face allow'd ; 
The hill whereon I stood was made 
A pleasant place of summer shade 
By the green elms which seem'd as meant 
To make the noon a shadowy tent. 
I had been bent half sleep, half wake, 
Dreaming those rainbow dreams that take 
The spirit prisoner in their chain, 
Too beautiful to be quite vain, — 
Enough if they can soothe to cheer 
One moment's pain or sorrow here. 
And I was happy ; hope and fame 
Together on my visions came, 
For memory had just dipp'd her wings 
In honey dews, and sunlit springs, — 



My brow burnt with its early wreath, 
My soul had drank its first sweet breath 
Of praise, and yet my cheek was flushing, 
My heart with the full torrent gushing 
Of feelings whose delighted mood 
Was mingling joy and gratitude. 
Scarce possible it seem'd to be 
That such praise could be meant for me. — 
Enured to coldness and neglect, 
My spirit chill'd, my breathing check'd, 
All that can crowd and crush the mind, 
Friends, even more than fate unkind, 
And fortunes stamp'd with the pale sign 
That marks and makes autumn's decline. 
How could I stand in the sunshine, 
And marvel not that it was mine 1 
One word, if ever happiness 
In its most passionate excess 
Offer'd its wine to human lip, 
It has been mine that cup to sip. 
I may not say with what deep dread 
The words of my first song were said, 
I may not say how much delight 
Has been upon my minstrel flight. — 
'Tis vain, and yet my heart would say 
Somewhat to those who made my way 
A path of light, with power to kill, 
To check, to crush, but not the will. 
Thanks for the gentleness that leant 
My young lute such encouragement, 
When scorn had turn'd my heart to stone, 
O, theirs be thanks and benison ! 

Back to the summer hill again, 
When first I thought upon this strain, 
And music rose upon the air, 
I look'd below, and, gather'd there, 
Rode soldiers with their breastplates glancing. 
Helmets and snow-white reamers dancing, 
And trumpets at wnose martial sound, 
Prouder the war horse trod the ground, 
And waved their flag with many a name 
Of battles and each battle fame. 
And as I mark'd the gallant line 
Pass through the green lane's serpentine, 
And as I saw the boughs give way 
Before the crimson pennons' play ; 
To other days my tancy went, 
Call'd up the stirring tournament, 
The darkeyed maiden who for years 
Kept the vows seal'd by parting tears, 
While he who own d her plighted hand 
Was fighting in the Holy Land. 
The youthful knight with his gay crest, 
His ladye's scarf upon a breast 
Whose truth was kept, come life, come death, 
Alas ! has modern love such faith 1 



THE TROUBADOUR. 



89 



I thought how in the moonlit hour 
The minstrel hymn'd his maiden's bower 
His helm and sword changed for the lute 
And one sweet song to urge his suit. 
Floated around me moated hall, 
And donjon Keep, and frowning wall ; 
I saw the marshall'd hosts advance, 
I gazed on banner, brand, and lance ; 
The murmur of a low song came 
Bearing one only worshipp'd name ; 
And my next song, I said, should be 
A tale of gone-by chivalry. 

My task is done, + he tale is told, 
The lute drops from my wearied hold ; 
Spreads no green earth, no summer sky 
To raise fresh visions for my eye, 
The hour is dark, the winter rain 
Beats cold and harsh against the pane, 
Where, spendthrift like, the branches twine, 
Worn, knotted, of a leafless vine ; 
And the wind howls in gusts around, 
A.s omens were in each drear sound, — 
Omens that bear upon their breath 
Tidings of sorrow, pain, and death. 
Thus should it be, — I could not bear 
The breath of flowers, the sunny air 
Upon that ending page should be 
Which Oxe will never, never see. 
Yet who will love it like that one, 
Who cherish as he would have done, 
My father ! albeit but in vain 
This clasping of a broken chain, 
And albeit of all vainest things 
That haunt with sad imaginings, 
None has the sting of memory ; 
Yet still my spirit turns to thee, 
Despite of long and lone regret, 
Rejoicing it cannot forget. 
I would not lose the lightest thought 
With one remembrance of thine fraught, — 
And my heart said no name, but thine 
Should be on this last page of mine. 

My father, though no more, thine ear 
Censure or praise of mine can hear, 
It "soothes me to embalm thy name 
With all my hope, my pride, my fame, 
Treasure's of Fancy's fairy hall, — 
Thy name most precious far of all. 

My page is wet with bitter tears, — 
i cannot but think of those years 
When happiness and I would wait 
On summer evenings by the gate, 
And keep o'er the green fields our watch 
The first sound of thy step to catch, 
Then run for the first kiss, and word, — 
An unkind one I never heard. 
(12) 



But these are pleasant memories, 

And later years have none like these : 

They came with griefs, and pains, and cares, 

All that the heart breaks while it bears ; 

Desolate as I feel alone 

I should not weep that thou art gone. 

Alas ! the tears that still will fall 

Are selfish in their fond recall ; — 

If ever tears could win from Heaven 

A loved one, and yet be forgiven, 

Mine surely might ; I may not tell 

The agony of my farewell ! 

A single tear I had not shed, — 

'Twas the first time I mourn'd the dead ;— 

It was my heaviest loss, my worst, — 

My father ! — and was thine the first ! 

Farewell ! in my heart is a spot 
Where other griefs and cares come not, 
Hallow'd by love, by memory kept, 
And deeply honour'd, deeply wept. 
My own dead father, time may bring 
Chance, change > upon his rainbow wing, 
But never will thy name depart 
The household god of thy child's heart, 
Until thy orphan girl may share 
The grave where her best feelings are. 
Never, dear father, love can be, 
Like the dear love I had for thee ! 



NOTES TO THE TROUBADOUR. 

Page 57. 

The spent stag on the grass is laid, 
But over him is bent a maid, 
Her arms and fair hair glistening 
"With the bright waters of the spring. 

The foundation of this tale was taken from Lfce 
exquisite and wild legend in the Bride of Lam' 
mermuir. It is venturing on hallowed ground ■ 
but I have the common excuse for most human er- 
rors, — I was tempted by beauty. 

Page 58. 

Bends not the mountain cedar trees, 
Folding their branches from the breeze. 

Some ancient travellers assert, that in winter the 
cedars of Lebanon fold their branches together, and 
in this spiral form defy the storms which would 
otherwise destroy their outstretched limbs. I be- 
lieve the fact is not well authenticated, but enough 
for the uses of poetry. 

Page 65. 

Elenore. 

This tale is the versification of an old tradition 

in Russell's Tour through Germany. I have vert* 

A2 



90 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



tured on one or two alterations : the original makes 
Nero the father ; and somewhat similar to the dis- 
coveiy of Bedreddin by his cream-tarts, in the 
Arabian Nights, the emperor recognises his daugh- 
ter by the flavour of a dish she alone knew how to 
prepare. 

Page 69. 

Is there a knight who for love of me, 

Into the court below will spring, 

And bear from the lion the glove I fling. 

This is an anecdote told of De Lorge, a knight 
of Francis the First's, in whose presence it took 
place. 

Page 73. 

And soon I deem'd the time would be, 
For many a chief stood leagued with me. 

I knew not whether it may be necessary to re- 
mark, that the period I suppose in this poem is 
that of the later time of chivalry in Provence, 
when the spirit of religious inquiry was springing, 
PhGenix-like, from the ashes of the Albigenses. 



Page 75. 

Had been but as the lightning's shock, 
Shedding rich ore upon the rock. 

It is a belief among some savage nations, — the 
North American Indians, I believe, — that where 
the lightning strikes it melts into gold. 

Page 84. 

This ballad is also taken, with some slight 
change, from a legend in Russell's Germany. 

Page 85. 

Thoulouse, now the bright resort 
Of beauty and the minstrel court. 
For this time it is hers to set 
The victor's brow with violet. 

f have here given to an early age what in reality 



belongs to a later one ; the Golden Violet was a 
prize given rather for the revival than the encou- 
ragement of the Troubadours. The following is 
Sismondi's account : 

" A few versifiers of little note, had assumed, at 
Thoulouse, the name of Troubadours, and were 
accustomed to assemble together, in the gardens of 
the Augustine Monks, where they read their com- 
positions to one another. In 1323, these persons 
resolved to form themselves into a species of aca- 
demy del Gai Sabir, and they gave it the title of 
La Sobrigaza Companhia dels septs Trobudors 
de Tolosa. This " most gay society" was eagerly 
joined by the Capitouls, or venerable magistrates 
of Thoulouse, who wished, by some public festival, 
to reanimate the spirit of poetry. A circular letter 
was addressed to all the cities of Languedoc, to 
give notice that, on the first of May, 1324, a Gol- 
den Violet would be decreed, as a prize, to the au- 
thor of the best poem in the Provengal language." 
— Sismondi on the Literature of the Troubadours. 

But there is a more romantic though less true 
account of the origin of the Golden Violet ; the 
foundress of this picturesque ceremony was said to 
have been Clemence Isaure ; but Sismondi seems 
to doubt even her existence. 

" If the celebrated Clemence Isaure, whose eu- 
logy was pronounced every year in the assembly 
of the Floral Games, and whose statue, crowned 
with flowers, ornamented their festivals, be not 
merely an imaginary being, she appears to have 
been the soul of these little meetings before either 
the magistrates had noticed them, or the public 
were invited to attend them. But neither the cir- 
culars of the Sobrigaza Companhia, nor th* re- 
gisters of the magistrates, make any mention of 
her ; and notwithstanding all the zeal with which, 
at a subsequent period, the glory of founding the 
Floral Games has been attributed to her, her ex 
istence is still problematical." — Sismondi- 



POETICAL SKETCHES OF MODERN PICTURES 



Beautiful art ! my worship is for thee,— 
The heart's entire devotion. When I look 
Upon thy radiant wonders, every pulse 
Is thrill'd as in the presence of divinity ! 
Pictures, bright pictures, O ! they are to me 
A world for mind to revel in. I love 
To give a history to every face, to think,— 
As I thought with the painter,— as I knew 
What his high communing had been.— L. E. L. 

Poetical Catalogue of pictures, 
in Lit. Gaz. 1S23. 



JULIET AFTER THE MASQUE- 
RADE. 

BY THOMPSON. 

She left the festival, for it seem'd dim 
Now that her eye no longer dwelt on him, 
And sought her chamber, — gazed, (then turn'd 

away,) 
Upon a mirror that before her lay, 
Half fearing, half believing her sweet face 
Would surely claim within his memory place. 
The hour was late, and that night her light foot 
Had been the constant echo of the lute ; 
Yet sought she not her pillow, the cool air 
Came from the casement, and it lured her there. 
The terrace was beneath, and the pale moon 
Shone o'er the couch which she had press'd at 

noon, 
Soft-lingering o'er some minstrel's lovelorn 

page- 
Alas, tears are the poet's heritage ! 

She flung her on that couch, but not for 



No, it was only that the wind might steep 

Her fever'd lip in its delicious dew : 

Her brow was burning, and aside she threw 

Her cap and plume, and, loosen'd from its fold, 

Came o'er her neck and face a shower of gold, 

A thousand curls. It was a solitude 

Made for young heart's in love's first dreaming 

mood : — 
Beneath the garden lay, fhTd with rose trees 
Whose sighings came like passion on the breeze. 
Two graceful statues of the Parian stone 
So finely shaped, that as the moonlight shone 
The breath of life seem'd to their beauty given, 
But less the life of earth than that of heaven. 



'Twas Pstciie and her bo} T -god, so divine 
They turn'd the terrace to an idol shrine, 
With its white vases and their summer share 
Of flowers, like altars raised to that sweet pair. 

And there the maiden leant, still in her ear 
The whisper dwelt of that young cavalier ; 
It was no fancy, he had named the name 
Of love, and at that thought her cheek grew 

flame : 
It was the first time her young ear had heard 
A lover's burning sigh, or silver word ; 
Her thoughts were all confusion, but mos! 

sweet, — 
Her heart beat high, but pleasant was its beat. 
She murmur'd over many a snatch of song 
That might to her own feelings now belong ; 
She thought upon old histories she had read, 
And placed herself in each high heroine's stead, 
Then woke her lute, — ! there is little known 
Of music's power till aided by love's own. 
And this is happiness : ! love will last 
When all that made it happiness is past, — 
When all its hopes are as the glittering toys 
Time present offers, time to come destroys, — 
When they have been too often crush'd lo 

earth, 
For further blindness to their little worth, — 
When fond illusions have dropt one by one, 
Like pearls from a rich carkanet, till none 
Are left upon life's soil'd and naked string, — 
And this is all what time will ever bring. 
— And that fair girl,— what can the heart fore 

see 
Of her young love, and of its destiny 1 
There is a white cloud o'er the moon, its form 
Is very light, and yet there sleeps the storm : 
It is an omen, it may tell the fate 
Of love known all too soon, repented all too 

late. 

91 



02 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 

BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE. 

Lady, thy lofty brow is fair, 
Beauty's sign and seal are there ; 
And thy lip is like the rose 
Closing round the bee's repose ; 
And thine eye is like a star, 
But blue as the sapphires' are. 
Beautiful patrician ! thou 
Wearest on thy stately brow 
All that suits a noble race, 
All of high-born maiden's grace, — 
Who is there could look on thee 
And doubt thy nobility 1 

Round thee satin robe is flung, 
Pearls upon thy neck are hung, 
And upon thy arm of snow 
Rubies like red sun-gifts glow ; 
Yet thou wearest pearl and gem 
As thou hadst forgotten them. — 
'Tis a step, but made to treadi 
O'er Persian web, or flower's head, — 
Soft hand that might only move 
In the broider'd silken glove, — 
Cheek unused to ruder air 
Than what hothouse rose might bear,- 
One whom nature only meant 
To be queen of the tournament, — 
Courtly fete, and lighted hall, — 
Grace and ornament of all ! 



THE COMBAT. 



BY ETTY. 



Thez fled, — for there was for the brave 
Left only a dishonour'd grave 
The day was lost ; and his red hand 
Was now upon a broken brand, 
The foes were in nis native town, 
The gates were forced, the walls were down, 
The burning city lit the sky, — 
What had he then to do but fly ; 
Fly to the mountain-rock, where yet 
Revenge might strike, or peace forget ! 

They fled, — for she was by his side, 
Life's last and loveliest link, his bride, — 
Friends, fame, hope, freedom, all were' gone, 
Or linger'd only with that one. 
They hasten'd by the lonely way 
That through the winding forest lay, 



Hearth, home, tower, temple, blazed behind, 
And shout and shriek came on the wind ; 
And twice the warrior turn'd again 
And cursed the arm that now in vain, 
Wounded and faint, essay'd to grasp 
The sword that trembled in its clasp. 

At last they reach'd a secret shade 
Which seem'd as for their safety made ; 
And where they paused, for the warm tide 
Burst in red gushes from his side, 
And hung the drops on brow and cheek, 
And his gasp'd breath came thick and weak. 
She took her long dark hair, and bound 
The cool moss on each gaping wound, 
And in her closed-up hands she brought 
The water which his hot lip sought, — 
And anxious gazed upon his eye, 
As asking, shall we live or die 1 
Almost as if she thought his breath 
Had power o'er his own life and death. 

But, hark ! — 'tis not the wind deceives, 
There is a step among the leaves : 
Her blood runs cold, her heart beats high, 
It is their fiercest enemy ; 
He of the charm'd and deadly steel, 
Whose strokes was never known to heal, — ■ 
He of the sword sworn not to spare, 
She flung her down in her despair ! 

The dying chief sprang to his knee, 
And the staunch'd wounds well'd fearfully ; 
But his gash'd arm, what is it now 1 
Livid his lip, and black his brow, 
While over him the slayer stood, 
As if he almost scorn'd the blood 
That cost so little to be won, — 
He strikes, — the work of death is done ! 



THE FAIRY QUEEN SLEEPING 



:y stothard. 



She lay upon a bank, the favourite haunt 
Of the spring wind in its first sunshine hour, 
For the luxuriant strawberry blossoms spread 
Like a snow-shower there, and violets 
Bow'd down their purple vases of perfume 
About her pillow,— link'd in a gay band 
Floated fantastic shapes, these were her guards. 
Her lithe and rainbow elves. 



We have been o'er land and sea, 
Seeking lovely dreams for thee, — 
Where is there we have notbeen 
Gathering gifts for our sweet queen 1 



POETICAL SKETCHES OF MODERN PICTURES. 



We are come with sound and sight 
Fit for fairy's sleep to-night, — 
First around thy couch shall sweep 
Odours, such as roses weep 
When the earliest spring rain 
Calls them into life again ; 
Next upon thine ear shall float 
Many a low and silver note, 
Stolen from a darkeyed maid 
When her lover's serenade, 
Rising as the stars grew dim, 
Waken'd from her thoughts of him. 
There shall steal o'er lip and cheek 
Gales, but all too light to break 
Thy soft rest, — such gales as hide 
All day orange-flowers inside, 
Or that, while hot noontide, dwell 
In the purple hyacinth bell ; 
And before thy sleeping eyes 
Shall come glorious pageantries, 
Palaces of gems and gold, 
Such as dazzle to behold, — 
Gardens, in which every tree 
Seems a world of bloom to be, — 
Fountains, whose clear waters show 
The white pearls that lie below. — 
During slumber's magic reign 
Other times shall live again ; 
First thou shalt be young and free 
In thy days of liberty, — 
Then again be woo'd and won 
By the stately Oeehox. 
Or thou shalt descend to earth, 
And see all of mortal birth. 
No, that world's too full of care 
For e'en dreams to linger there. 
But, behold, the sun is set, 
And the diamond coronet 
Of the young moon is on high 
Waiting for our revelry ; 
And the dew is on the flower, 
And the stars proclaim our hour ; 
Long enough thy rest has been, 
Wake, Titajjia, wake our queen ! 



THE ORIENTAL NOSEGAY. 

BX PICKERSGILL. 

Through the light curtains came the perfumed 
air, 
A.nd flung them back and show'd a garden, where 
The eye could just catch glimpses of those trees 
Which send sweet messages upon the breeze 
To lull a maiden's sleep, and fan her cheek, 
When inward thoughts in outward blushes speak. 



Beneath's a silken couch, just fit to be 

A snowy shrine for some fair deity ; 

And there a beauty rests, lovely as those 

Enchanted visions haunting the repose 

Of the young poet, when his eyelids shut 

To dream that love they have but dreain'd as 

yet ;— 
But dream'd ! Alas, that love should ever be 
A happiness but made for phantasie ! 
And flowers are by her side, and her dark eye 
Seems as it read in them her destiny. 
She knew whose hand had gather'd them, she 

knew 
Whose sigh and touch were on their scent and 

hue. 

Beautiful language ! Love's peculiar own, 
But only to the spring and summer known. 
Ah ! little marvel in such clime and age 
As that of our two earth-bound pilgrimage, 
That we should daily hear that love is fled 
And hope grown pale, and lighted feelings dead. 
Not for the cold, the careless to impart, 
By such sweet signs, the silence of the heart : 
But surely in the countries where the sun 
Lights loveliness in all he shines upon, — 
Where love is as a mystery and a dream, 
One single flower upon life's troubled stream ; 
There, there, perchance, may the young bosom 

thrill, 
Feeling and fancy linger with love still. 

She look'd upon the blossoms, and a smile, 
A twilight one, lit up her lip the while. 
Surely her love is blest, no* leaves are there 
That aught of lover's misery declare. 
True, 'mid them is that pale and pining flower, 
Whose dim blue colour speaks an absent hour ; 
Yet it is nothing but that tender sorrow 
Of those who part to-day to meet to-morrow : 
For there are hope and constancy beside, 
And are not these to happiness allied ; 
And yet upon that maiden's cheek is caught 
A summer evening's shade of pensive thought- 
As if these large soft eyes knew all their fate, 
How the heart would its destiny create, — 
At once too tender, and too passionate ; — 
Too made for happiness to be happy here, 
An angel fetter'd to an earthly sphere.— 
And those dark eyes, so large, so soft, so bright, 
So clear as if their very tears were light ; 
They tell that destiny, art thou not one 
To whom love will be like the summer sun 
That feeds the diamond in the secret mine, 
Then calls it from its solitude to shine, 
And piece by piece be broken. Watch the bloorr 
And mark its fading to an early tomb, 
And read in the decay upon : t stealing 



94 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Of thy own wasted hope and wither'd feeling, — 
Ay, fitting messengers for love ! as fair, 
As quickly past as his own visions are ; — 
Fling, fling the flowers away ! 



A CHILD SCREENING A DOVE 
FROM A HAWK. 

BY STEWABDS0N". 

At, screen thy favourite dove, fair child, 

Ay, screen it if you may, — 
Yet I misdoubt thy trembling hand 

Will scare the hawk away. 

That dove will die, that child will weep, — 

Is this their destinie 1 
Ever amid the sweets of life 

Some evil thing must be. 

Ay, moralize, — is it not thus 

We've mourn'd our hope and love ] 

Alas ! there's tears for every eye, 
A hawk for every dove 



THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 

BY DANBY. 

And there the island lay, the waves around 
Had never known a storm : for the north wind 
Was charm' d from coming, and the only airs 
That blew brought sunshine on their azure wings, 
Or tones of music from the sparry caves, 
Where the sea-maids make lutes of the pink 

conch. 
These were sea breezes, — those that swept the 

land 
Brought other gifts, — sighs from blue violets, 
Or from June's sweet Sultana, the bright rose, 
Stole odours. On the silver mirror's face 
Was but a single ripple that was made 
By a flamingo's beak, whose scarlet wings 
Shone like a meteor on the stream : around, 
Upon the golden sands, were coral plants, 
And shells of many colours, and sea weeds, 
Whose foliage caught and chain'd the Nautilus, 
Where lay they as at anchor. On each side 
Were grottoes, like fair porticoes with steps 
Of the green marble ; and a lovely light, 
Like the far radiance of a thousand lamps, 
Half-shine, half-shadow, or the glorious track 
Of a departing star but faintly seen 



In the dim distance, through those caverns s^ne, 
And play'd o'er the tall trees which se«i& d ta 

hide 
Gardens, where hyacinths rang their soft b^lls 
To call the bees from the anemone, 
Jealous of their bright rivals' golden wealth. 
— Amid those arches floated starry shapes, 
Just indistinct enough to make the eye 
Dream of surpassing beauty ; but in front, 
Borne on a car of pearl, and drawn by swans, 
There lay a lovely figure, — she was queen 
Of the Enchanted Island, which was raised 
From ocean's bosom but to pleasure her : 
And spirits, from the stars, and from the sea, 
The beautiful mortal had them for her slaves. 

She was the daughter of a king, and loved 
By a young Ocean Spirit from her birth, — 
He hover'd o'er her in her infancy, 
And bade the rose grow near her, that her cheek, 
Might catch its colour, — lighted up her dreams 
With fairy wonders, and made harmony 
The element in which she moved ; at last, 
When that she turn'd away from earthly love, 
Enamour'd of her visions, he became 
Visible with his radiant wings, and bore 
His bride to the fair island. 



CUPID AND SWALLOWS FLYING 
FROM WINTER. 

BY DAGLEY. 



" We fly from the cold." 

Away, away, o'er land and sea, 
This is now no home for me ; 
My light wings may never bear 
Northern cloud or winter air. 
Murky shades are gathering fast, 
Sleet and snow are on the blast, 
Trees from which the leaves are fled, 
Flowers whose very roots are dead, 
Grass of its green blade bereft, 
These are all that now are left. 
— Linger here another day, 
I shall be as sad as they ; 
My companions fly with spring 
T too must be on the wing. 

Where are the sweet gales whose song 
Wont to waft my darts along 1 
Scented airs ! O, not like these, 
Rough as they which sweep the seas ; 






POETICAL SKETCHES OF MODERN PICTURES. 



95 



But those sighs of rose which bring 
Incense from their wandering. 
Where are the bright flowers that kept 
Guard around me while I slept 1 
Where the sunny eyes whose beams 
Waken'd me from my soft dreams? — 
These are with the swallows gone, — 
Beauty's heart is chill'd to stone. 

O ! for some sweet southern clime, 
Where 'tis ever summer time, — 
Where, if blossoms fall, their tomb 
Is amid new birth of bloom, — 
Where green leaves are ever springing, 
Where the lark is always singing, — 
One of those bright isles which lie 
Fan- beneath an azure sky, 
Isles of cinnamon and spice, 
Shadow each of Paradise, — 
Where the flowers shine with dyes, 
Tinted bright from the sunrise, — 
Where the birds which drink their dew, 
Wave wings of yet brighter hue, 
And each river's course is roll'd 
Over bed of pearl and gold ! 

O ! for those lime-scented groves 
Where the Spanish lover roves, 
Tuning to the western star, 
His soft song and light guitar, — 
Where the dark hair'd girls are dancing, 
Fairies in the moonlight glancing, 
With pencil'd brows, and radiant eyes, 
Like their planet-lighted skies ! 
Or those clear Italian lakes 
Where the silver cygnet makes 
Its soft nest of leaf and flower, 
A white lily for its bower ! 
Each of these a home would be, 
Fit for beauty and for me : 
I must seek their happier sphere 
While the Winter lords it here. 



LOVE NURSED BY SOLITUDE. 

BY W. I. THOMSON, EDINBURGH. 

Ar, surely, it is here that Love should come, 
A.nd find, (if he may find on earth,) a home ; 
Here cast off all the sorrow and the shame 
That cling like shadows to his very name. 

Young Love, thou art belied : they speak of 
thee, 
And couple with thy mention misery ; 



Talk of the broken heart, the wasted bloom, 

The spirit blighted, and the early tomb ; 

As if these waited on thy golden lot, — 

They blame thee for the faults which thou Hast 

not. 
Art thou to blame for that they bring on thee 
The soil and weight of their mortality 1 
How can they hope that ever links will hold 
Form'd, as they form them now, of the harsh 

gold? 
Or worse than even this, how can they think 
That vanity will bind the failing link ? 
How can they dream that thy sweet life' will beai 
Crowds', palaces', and cities' heartless air 1 
Where the lip smiles while the heart's desolate, 
And courtesy lends its deep mask to hate ; 
Where looks and thoughts alike must feel the 

chain, 
And nought of life is real but its pain , 
Where the young spirit's high imaginings 
Are scorn'd and cast away as idle things ; 
Where, think or feel, you are foredoom'd to be 
A marvel and a sign for mockery ; 
Where none must wander from the beaten road,- 
All alike champ the bit, and feel the goad. 
It is not made for thee, young Love ! away 
To where the green earth laughs to the clear day, 
To the deep valley, where a thousand trees 
Keep a green court for fairy revelries, — 
To some small island on a lonely lake, 
Where only swans the diamond waters break 
Where the pines hang in silence o'er the tide 
And the stream gushes from the mountain side ; 
These, Love, are haunts for thee ; where canst 

thou brood 
With thy sweet wings furl'd but in Solitude. 



FAIRIES ON THE SEA SHORE 

BY HOWARD. 
FIRST FAIRY. 

My home and haunt are in every leaf, 
Whose life is a summer day, bnght and brief,- 
I live in the depths of the tulip's bower, 
I wear a wreath of the cistus flower, 
I drink the dew of the blue harebell, 
I know the breath of the violet well, — 
The white and the azure violet : 
But I know not which is the sweetest yet, — 
I have kiss'd the cheek of the rose, 
I have watch'd the lily unclose, 
My silver mind is the almond tree, 
Who will come dwell with flower and me ? 



96 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 

CHORUS OF FAIRIES. 



Dance we our round, 'tis a summer night, 
And our steps are led by the glowworm's light. 

SECOND FAIRY. 

My dwelling is on the serpentine 
Of the rainbow's colour'd line, — 
See how its rose and amber clings 
To the many hues of my radiant wings ; 
Mine is the step that bids the earth 
Give to the his flower its birth, 
And mine the golden cup to hide, 
Where the last faint hue of the rainbow, died. 
Search the depths of an Indian mine, 
Where are the colours to match with mine ? 



Dance we round, for the gale is bringing 
Songs the summer rose is singing. 

THIRD FAIRY. 

I float on the breath of a minstrel's lute, 
Or the wandering sounds of a distant flute, 
Linger I over the tones that swell 
From the pink-vein'd chords of an ocean-shell 
I love the skylark's morning hymn, 
Or the nightingale heard at the twilight dim, 
The echo, the fountain's melody, — 
These, ! these are the spells for me ! 



Hail to the summer knight of June ; 
See ! yonder has risen our ladye moon. 

FOURTH SPIRIT. 

My palace is in the coral cave 
Set with spars by the ocean wave ; 
Would ye have gems, then seek them there, — 
There found I the pearls that bind my hair. 
I and the wind together can roam 
Over the green waves and their white foam, — 
See, I have got this silver shell, 
Mark how my breath will its smallness swell, 
For the Nautilus is my boat 
In which I over the waters float, — 
The moon is shining over the sea, 
Who is there will come sail with me 1 

CHORUS OF FAIRIES. 

Our noontide sleep is on leaf and -flower, 
Our revels are held in a moonlit hour, — 
What is there sweet, what is there fair, 
And we are not the dwellers there 1 
Dance we round for the morning light, 
Will put us and our glowworm lamps to flight ! 



A GIRL AT HER DEVOTIONS 

BY 3fEWT03T. 

She was just risen from her bended knee, 
But yet peace seem'd not with her piety ; 
For there was paleness upon her young cheek, 
And thoughts upon the lips which never speak, 
But wring the heart that at the last they break. 
Alas ! how much of misery may be read 
In that wan forehead, and that bow'd dowr 

head : — 
Her eye is on a picture, wo that ever 
Love should thus struggle with a vain endeavour 
Against itself: it is a common tale, 
And ever will be while earth soils prevail 
Over earth's happiness ; it tells she strove 
With silent, secret, unrequited love. 

It matters not its history ; love has wings 
Like lightning, swift and fatal, and it springs 
Like a wild flower where it is least expected, 
Existing whether cherish'd or rejected ; 
Living with only but to be content, 
Hopeless, for love is its own element, — 
Requiring nothing so that it may be . 
The martyr of its fond fidelity. 
A mystery thou art, thou mighty one ! 
We speak thy name in beauty, yet we shun 
To own thee, Love, a guest ; the poet's songs 
Are sweetest when their voice to thee belongs, 
And hope, sweet opiate, tenderness, delight, 
Are terms which are thy own peculiar right ; 
Yet all deny their master, — who will own 
His breast thy footstool, and his heart thy throne 1 

'Tis strange to think if we could fling aside 
The masque and mantle that love wears from 

pride, 
How much would be, we now so little guess, 
Deep in each heart's undream'd, unsought recess. 
The careless smile, like a gay banner borne, 
The laugh of merriment, the lip of scorn, — 
And for a cloak what is there that can be 
So difficult to pierce as gayety ] 
Too dazzling to be scann'd, the haughty brow 
Seems to hide something it would not avow ; 
But rainbow words, light laugh, and thoughtless 

jest, 
These are the bars, the curtain to the breast, 
That shuns a scrutiny : and she, whose form 
Now bends in grief beneath the bosom's storm, 
Has hidden well her wound, — now none are nigh 
To mock with curious or with careless eye, 
(For love seeks sympathy, a chilling yes, 
Strikes at the root of its best happiness, 
And mockery is wormwood,) she may dwell 
On feelings which that picture may not tel) 



SKETCHES FROM HISTORY. 



9 



• NYMPH AND ZEPHYR : 

A STATUARY GR0CJP, BY WESTMACOTT. 

And the summer sun shone in the sky, 
And the rose's whole life was in its sigh, 
When her eyelids were kiss'd by a morning beam, 
And the Nymph rose up from her moonlit 

dream ; 
For she had watch'd the midnight hour 
Till her head had bow'd like a sleeping flower ; 
But now she had waken'd, and light and dew 
Gave her morning freshness and morning hue, — 
Up she sprang, and away she fled 
O'er the lithe grass stem and the blossom's head, 



From the lilies' bells she dash'd not the spray, 
For her feet were as light and as white as thry 
Sudden upon her arm there shone 
A gem with the hues of an Indian stone, 
And she knew the insect bird whose wing 
Is sacred to Psyche and to spring ; 
But scarce had her touch its captive prest 
Ere another prisoner was on her breast, 
And the Zephyr sought his prize again. — 
" No," said the Nymph, thy search is vain 
And her golden hair from its braided yoke 
Burst like the banner of hope as she spoke, 
" And instead, fair boy, thou shalt moralize 
Over the pleasure that from thee flies ; 
Then it is pleasure, — for we possess 
But in the search, not in the success." 



SKETCHES FROM HISTORY. 



THE 
SULTANA'S REMONSTRANCE. 

It suits thee well to weep, 

As thou lookest on the fair land, 

Whose sceptre thou hast held 
With less than woman's hand. 



On yon bright city gaze, 

With its white and marble halls, 

The glory of its lofty towers, 
The strength of its proud walls. 

And look to yonder palace, 

With its garden of the rose, 
With its groves and silver fountains, 

Fit for a king's repose. 

There is weeping in that city, 

And a cry of wo and shame, 
There's a whisper of dishonour, 

And that whisper is thy name. 

And the stranger's feast is spread, 

But it is no feast of thine ; 
In thine own halls accursed lips 

Drain the forbidden wine. 

And aged men are in the streets, 
Who mourn their length of days, 

And young knights stand with folded arms, 
Anu eyes they dare not raise, 
(13^ 



There is not one whose blood was not 
As the waves of ocean free, — 

Their fathers died for thy fathers, 
They would have died for thee. 

Weep not, 'tis mme to weep 

That ever thou wert born ; 
Alas, that all a mother's love 

Is lost in a queen's scorn ! 

Yet weep, thou less than woman, weep, 
Those tears become thine eye, — 

It suits thee well to weep the land 
For which thou darest not die.* 



HANNIBAL'S OATH. 

And the night was dark and calm, 
There was not a breath of air, 

The leaves of the grove were still, 
As the presence of death were there 

Only a moaning sound 

Came from the distant sea, 
It was as if, like life, 

It had no tranquillity. 

A warrior and a child 

Pass'd through the sacred wood, 

* These lines allude to the flight of the last king o< 
Grenada. 



9S 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Which, like a mystery, 
Around the temple stood. 

The warrior's brow was worn 

With the weight of casque and plume, 
And sunburnt was his cheek, 

And his eye and brow were gloom. 

The child was young and fair, 
But the forehead large and high, 

And the dark eyes' flashing light 
Seem'd to feel their destiny. 

They enter'd in the temple, 

And stood before the shrine, 
It stream'd with the victim's blood, 

With incense and with wine. 

The ground rock'd beneath their feet, 
The thunder shook the dome, 

But the boy stood firm, and swore 
Eternal hate to Rome. 

There's a page in history 

O'er which tears of blood were wept, 
And that page is the record 

How that oath of hate was kept. 



ALEXANDER AND PHILLIP. 

He stood by the river's side 
A conqueror and a king, 
None match'd his step of pride 
Amid the armed ring. 
And a heavy echo rose from the ground, 
As a thousand warriors gather'd round. 

And the morning march had been long, 

And the noontide sun was high, 
And weaiiness bow'd down the strong, 
And heat closed every eye ; 
And the victor stood by the river's brim 
Whose coolness seem'd but made for him. 

The cypress spread their gloom 

Like a cloak from the noontide beam, 
He flung back his dusty plume, 
And plunged in the silver stream ; 
He plunged like the young steed, fierce and wild, 
He was borne away like the feeble child. 

They took the king to his tent 
From the river's fatal banks, 
A cry of terror went 

Like a storm through the Grecian ranks : 
Was this the fruit of their glories won, 
Was tms the death for Ammos's son ] 



Many a leech heard the call, 

But each one shrank away ; 
For heavy upon all 

Was the weight of fear that day ■ 
When a thought of treason, a word of death, 
V/as in each eye and on each breath. 

But one with the royal youth 

Had been from his earliest hour, 
And he knew that his heart was truth, » 
And he knew that his hand was power ; 
He gave what hope his skill might give, 
And bade him trust to his faith and live. 

Alexander took the cup, 

And from beneath his head a scroll, 
He drank the liquor up, 

And bade Phillip read the roll ; 
And Phillip look'd on the page, where shame, 
Treason, and poison were named with his name 

An angry flush rose on his brow, 

And anger darken'd his eye, 
What I have done I would do again now ! 
If you trust my fidelity. 
The king watch'd his face, he felt he might dare 
Trust the faith that was written there. 

Next day the conqueror rose 

From a greater conqueror free ; 
And again he stood amid those 
Who had died his death to see : 
He stood there proud of the lesson he gave 
That faith and trust were made for the brave. 



THE RECORD. 

He sleeps, his head upon his sword, 

His soldier's cloak a shroud ; 
His churchyard is the open field, — 

Three times it has been plough'd : 

The first time that the wheat sprung up 

'Twas black as if with blood, 
The meanest beggar turn'd away 

From the unholy food. 

The third year, and the grain grew fair, 

As it was wont to wave ; 
None would have thought that golden corn 

Was growing on the grave. 

His lot was but a peasant's lot, 

His name a peasant's name, 
Not his the place of death that turns 

Into a place of fame. 



SKETCHES 

He fell as other thousands do, 
Trampied down where they fall, 

While on a single name is heap'd 
The glory gain'd by all. 

Yet even he whose common grave 

Lies in the open fields, 
Died not without a thought of all 

The joy that glory yields. 

That small white church in his own land, 
The lime trees almost hide, 



FROM HISTORY. 

Bears on the walls the names of those 
Who for their country died. 

His name is written on those walls, 

His mother read it there, 
With pride, — ! no, there could not be 

Pride in the widow's prayer. 

And many a stranger who shall mark 
That peasant roll of fame, 

Will think on prouder ones, yet say 
This was a hero's name. 



99 



I 



THE VENETIAN BRACELET 



THE LOST PLEIAD, 



A HISTORY OF THE LYRE, 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



'01 



PREFACE. 



Diffidence of their own abilities, and fear, 
which heightens the anxiety for public favour, are 
pleas usually urged by the youthful writer : may 
J, while venturing for the first time to speak of 
myself, be permitted to say they far more truly be- 
long to one who has had experience of both praise 
and censure. The feelings which attended the 
publication of the " Improvisatrice," are very dif- 
ferent from those that accompany the present vo- 
lume. I believe I then felt little beyond hope, 
vague as the timidity which subdued it, and that 
excitement which every author must know : now 
mine is a " farther looking hope ;" and the timidity 
which apprehended the verdict of others, is now 
deepened by distrust of my own powers. Or, to 
claim my poetical privilege, and express my mean- 
ing by a simile, I should say, I am no longer one 
who springs forward in the mere energy of exer- 
cise and enjoyment ; but rather like the Olympian 
racer, who strains his utmost vigour, with the dis- 
tant goal and. crown in view. I have devoted my 
whole life to one object: in society I have but 
sought the material for solitude. I can imagine 
but one interest in existence, — that which has 
filled my past, and haunts my future, — the per- 
haps vain desire, when I am nothing, of leaving 
one of those memories at once a good and a glory. 
Believing, as I do, in the great and excellent influ- 
ence of poetry, may I hazard the expression of 
what I have myself sometimes trusted to do 1 A 
highly cultivated state of society must ever have 
for concomitant evils, that selfishness, the result of 
indolent indulgence; and that heartlessness at- 
tendant on refinement, which too often hardens 
while it polishes. Aware that to elevate I must 
first soften, and that if I wished to purify I must 
first touch, I have ever endeavoured to bring for- 
ward grief, disappointment, the fallen leaf, the 
faded flower, the broken heart, and the early grave. 
Surely we must be less worldly, less interested, 
from this sympathy with the sorrow in which our 
unselfish feelings alone can take part. And now 
a few words on a subject, where the variety of the 



opinions offered have left me somewhat in tne 
situation of the prince in the fairy tale, who, when 
in the vicinity of the magic fountain, found him- 
self so distracted by the multitude of voices that 
directed his way, as to be quite incapable of de- 
ciding which was the right path. I allude to the 
blame and eulogy which have been equally be- 
stowed on my frequent choice of love as my source 
of song. I can only say, that for a woman, whose 
influence and whose sphere must be in the affec- 
tions, what subject can be more fitting than on© 
which it is her peculiar province to refine, spiritual- 
ize, and exalt 1 I have always sought to paint it 
self-denying, devoted, and making an almost reli- 
gion of its truth ; and I must add, that such as I 
would wish to draw her, woman actuated by an at- 
tachment as intense as it is true, as pure as it is 
deep, is not only more admirable as a heroine, but 
also in actual life, than one whose idea of love is 
that of light amusement, or at worst of vain mor- 
tification. With regard to the frequent applica- 
tion of my works to myself, considering that I 
sometimes pourtrayed love unrequited, then be- 
trayed, and again destroyed by death — may I hint 
the conclusions are not quite logically drawn, as 
assuredly the same mind cannot have suffered such 
varied modes of misery. However, if I must have 
an unhappy passion, I can only console myself 
with my own perfect unconsciousness of so great 
a misfortune. I now leave the following poems tc 
their fate : they must speak for themselves. I 
could but express my anxiety, an anxiety only in- 
creased by a popularity beyond my most sanguine 
dreams. 

With regard to those whose former praise en- 
couraged, their best recompense is the happiness 
they bestowed. And to those whose differing 
opinion expressed itselftin censure, I own, after 
the first chagrin was past, I never laid down a cri- 
ticism by which I did not benefit, or trust to benefit 
I will conclude by apostrophizing the hopes and 
fears they excited, in the words of the Mexican 
king — " Ye have been the feathers of my wings." 

102 



THE VENETIAN BRACELET 



Those subtle poisons which made science crime, 
And knowledge a temptation ; could we doubt 
One moment the great curse upon our world, 
We must believe, to find that even good 
May thus be turn'd to evil. 



THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 

Another tale of thine ! fair Italie — 
\Vhat makes my lute, my heart, aye turn to thee 1 
I do not know thy language, — that is still 
Like the mysterious music of the rill ; — 
And neither have I seen thy cloudless sky, 
Where the sun hath his immortality ; 
Thy cities crown'd with palaces, thy halls 
Where art's great wonders light the storied walls ; 
Thy fountains' silver sweep, thy groves, where 

dwell 
The rose and orange, summer's citadel ; 
Thy songs that rise at twilight on the air, 
Wedding the breath thy thousand flowers sigh 

there ; 
Thy tales of other times, thy marble shrines, 
Lovely, though fallen, — for the ivy twines 
Its graceful wreath around each ruin'd fane, 
As still in some shape beauty would remain. 
I know them not, yet, Italie, thou art 
The promised land that haunts my dreaming 

heart. 
Perchance it is as well thou art unknown : 
I could not bear to lose what I have thrown 
Of magic round thee, — but to find in thee 
What hitherto I still have found in all — 
Thou art not stamp'd with that reality 

Which makes our being's sadness, and its 

thrall ! 
But now, whenever I am mix'd too much 
With worldly natures till I feel as such ; — 
(For these are as the waves that turn to stone, 
Till feeling's keep their outward show alone) — 
When wearied by the vain, chill' d by the cold, 
Impatient of society's set mould — 
The many meannesses, the petty cares, 
The long avoidance of a thousand snares, 
The lip that must be chain'd, the eye so taught 
To image all but its own actual thought ; — 
(Deceit is this world's passport: who would 

dare 
However pure the breast, to lay it bare ?) — 



When worn, my nature struggling with my fate, 
Checking my love, but, 0, still more my hate ; — 
(Why should I love 1 flinging down pearl and gem 
To those who scorn, at least care not for them : 
Why should I hate 1 as blades in scabbards melt, 
I have no power to make my hatred felt ; 
Or, I should say, my sorrow : — I have borne 
So much unkindness, felt so lone, so lorn, 
I could but weep, and tears may not redress, 
They only fill the cup of bitterness) — 
Wearied of this, upon what eager wings 
My spirit turns to thee, and birdlike flings 
Its best, its breath, its spring, and song o'er thee. 
My lute's enchanted world, fair Italie. 
To me thou art a vision half divine, 
Of myriad flowers lit up with summer shir:e , 
The passionate rose, the violet's Tyrian dye, 
The wild bee loves them not more tenderly ; 
Of vineyards like Aladdin's gem set hall, 
Fountains like fairy ones with music's fall ; 
Of sorrows, too ; for e'en on this bright soil 
Grief has its shadow, and care has its coil, 
But e'en amid its darkness and its crime, 
Touch'd with the native beauty of such clime, 
Till wonder rises with each gushing tear : — 
And hath the serpent brought its curse even here 1 
Such is the tale that haunts me : I would fain 
Wake into pictured life the heart's worst pain ; 
And seek I if pale cheek and tearful eye 
Answer the notes that wander sadly by. 
And say not this is vain, in our cold world, 
Where feelings sleep like wither'd leaves unfurl'd 
'Tis much to wash them with such gentle rain, 
Calling their earlier freshness back again. 
The heart of vanity, the head of pride, 
Touch'd by such sorrow, are half purified ; 
And we rise up less selfish, having known 
Part in deep grief, yet that grief not our own. 

I. 

They stood beside the river, that young pair — 
She with her eyes cast down, for tears were there, 
Glittering upon the eyelash, though unshed ; 
He murmuring those sweet words so often said 

103 



104 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



By parting lover, still as fondly spoken 
As his could be, the only ones not broken. 
The girl was beautiful ; her forehead high 



W 



rhite 



re the marble fanes that lie 



On Grecian lands, making a fitting shrine 

Where the mind spoke ; the arch'd and raven line 

Was very proud, but that was soften'd now, — 

Only sad tenderness was on her brow. 

She wore the peasant dress, — the snowy lawn 

Closely around her whiter throat was drawn, 

A crimson bodice, and the skirt of blue 

So short, the fairy ankle was in view ; 

The arm was hidden by the long loose sleeve, 

But the small hand was snow ; around her hair 
A crimson net, such as the peasants weave, 

Bound the rich curls, and left the temples bare. 
She wore the rustic dress, but there was not 
Aught else in her that mark'd the rustic's lot : 
Her bearing seem'd too stately, though subdued 
By all that makes a woman's gentlest mood — 
The parting hour of love. And there they leant, 
Mirror'd below in the clear element 
That roll'd along, with wild shrubs overhung, 
And colour'd blossoms that together clung — 
That peasant girl, that high-born cavalier, 
Whispering those gentle words so sweet to hear, 
And answer'd by flush'd cheek, and downcast eye, 
And roselip parted, with half smile, half sigh. 
Young, loving, and beloved, — these are brief 

words, 
And yet they touch on all the finer chords, 
Whose music is our happiness : the tone 
May die away and be no longer known 
In the harsh wisdom brought by after years, 
Lost in that worldliness which scars and sears, 
And makes the misery of life's troubled scene ; — 
Still it is much to think that it has been. 
They loved with such deep tenderness and truth, — 
Feelings forsaking us as does our youth, — 
They did not dream that love like theirs could die, 
And such belief half makes eternity. 
Yes, they were parting ; still the fairy hope 
Had in their clear horizon ample scope 
For her sweet promises without the showers 
That are their comrades in life's after hours. 
They parted trustingly ; they did not know 
The -vanity of youthful trust and vow ; 
And each believed the other, — for each read 
In their own hearts the truth of what each said. 
The dews are drying rapidly : — away, 
Young warrior ! those far banners chide thy stay. 
Hark ! the proud trumpet swells upon the wind, — 
His first of fields, he must not be behind. 

The maiden's cheek flush'd crimson, and her 
eye 
Flash'd as the martial music floated by. 
She saw him spring upon his snow-white steed, — 
ft dash'd across the plain with arrowy speed. 



The beat of heart, the flush of cheek, are gone, 

Amestaide but felt she was alone. 

The vow which soothed her, and the hope which 

cheer'd, 
The pride which nerved, with him had disap 

pear'd. 
" Leont, dear Leont !" — 'twas in vain : — 
The mocking echo answer'd her again. 
— It is deep wretchedness, this passionate burst 
Of parting's earlier grief, but not the worst ; 
It is the lingering days of after care, 
That try the wasted spirit most to bear. 
Now listless, languid, as the world had left 
Nothing to interest, of him bereft ; 
Now lull'd by opiate thoughts that but restore 
The mind its tone, to make it sink the more ; 
Now fever'd by anxiety, for rife 
Are fears when fancy calls them into life ; 
And then that nameless dread of coming wo, 
Which only those who've felt it ere can know : 
These still have been in absence, still will be, 
And these, Am en aide, were all for thee. 
The valley in a summer twilight lay — 
That fairy confine of the night and day — 
When leant Amenaide behind the shade 
The fragrant shrubs around her lattice made, 
'Scaped from her nurse and each consoling phrase 
Sinking the spirit that it fain would raise. 
The room was small and dark; but when the 

wind 
Moved the green branches of the myrtle-blind, 
A crimson beauty woo'd the maiden's eye : — 
She look'd and saw, where, dark against the sky, 
His father's battlement's rose on the air ; — 
Alas, how haughty and how high they were ! 
An orphan she, a rustic's nursling child, 
O, how could hope k have ever so beguiled ! 

" Amestaide !" her kind old nurse's voice ; 
" Nay, come to me, dear child, come and rejoice." 
Wondering, she enters, strangers round her 

stand, 
And kindly takes their lordly chief her hand. 
" So fair a peasant, sooth, but it is shame 
To tell thee, maiden of another name. 
In the wild troubles which have rent our state 
Thy noble father met an exile's fate : — 
Nay, not that anxious look ; he is no more, 
And sorrowing Genoa can but restore 
His honours to his child : I was aware 
Thanks to that faithful creature's parent care, 
His daughter lived ; and dear the task to me 
To bring these words, and let Aiiezzi be 
The first to greet and honour, countess, mine, 
Loveliest, and last of Aefiori's line. 

II. 

Fit for a palace was that lovely room, 
Hung with the azure of an eastern loom, 



THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 



105 



And carpeted with velvet, where the flowers 
Companion'd those whereon the April hours 
Had shed their beauty ; numbers stood around 
Of vases where each varying hue was found, 
From the white myrtle-bud and lily-bell, 
Like pearls that in the ocean waters dwell, 
To those rich tints which on the tulip lie, 
Telling their southern birth and sunny sky 
The wine-cups of the sun : — each silken blind 
Waved to and fro upon the scented wind, 
Now closing till the twilight haunted room 
Was in an atmosphere of purple gloom, 
First scarcely letting steal one crimson ray, 
Then flung all open to the glowing day. 
Pictures were hung above ; how more than fair ! 
The changing light made almost life seem there. 
A faint rose-colour wander'd o'er the cheek, 
Seem'd the chance beams from each dark eye to 

break ; 
.n.nd you could deem each braided auburn wave 
Moved, as its gold the glancing sunlight gave. 
And fitting mistress had the charmed scene : 
Leant, like a beautiful and eastern queen, 
Upon a purple couch — how soft and warm 
Clung the rich colour to her ivory arm ! — 
Amexaide reclined. Awhile she lay, — 
Then, as if movement hurried time away, 
She paced the room, gazed on each pictured face, — 
Then wreath'd the flowers, — then watch'd, as if to 

trace 
The evening close : again the couch was press' d, 
But feverish, restless, more for change than rest : 
And yet all this was only the excess 
Of overmuch impatient happiness. 
Many a weary hour and day had past 
For that young countess, — this day was the last. 
He was return' d, with ail war could confer 
Of honourab ~ name, to home and her. 
Leoni would to-night be in the hall 
Where Count Arezzi held his festival, 
Would hear her history ; how there was now 
Nothing to chain the heart or check the vow. 
— And must they meet first in a careless crowd ] 
This was a moment's grief; though she felt proud 
That he should see how well she could beseem 
Her present rank, yet keep her early dream ; 
See her the worshipp'd of the courtly throng, 
Sigh of each lip, and idol of each song ; 
Hear the fair flatteries offer'd, yet behold 
Her courtesy so graceful, but so cold ; 
And know it was for him her heart's young throne 
Was ever kept, the lovely and the lone. 

III. 
O pleasant was that night the toilet's care — 
What broider'd robe to don, what gems to wear ! 
Her hair was parted on her brow, each braid 
Black as the darkvving'd raven's darkest shade, 
(14) 



And gather'd up with diamonds, — few there 

were — 
Just stars to light the midnight of her hair. 
Well did the sweeping robe of emerald green, 
Wrought in rich gold, suit with her stately mien. 
" How beautiful she looks this evening !" burst 
From every lip, when that fair countess first 
Enter'd Akezzi's hall : her heart's content 
To every lighted look its lustre lent. 
Her beauty's fault had been, it was too cold ; 
Features too tranquil in their perfect mould, 
A cheek somewhat too pale ; but not to-night — 
The eye was sparkling, and the cheek was bright. 
Gently she glided to a balustrade, 
Where jessamine a pleasant shadow made ; 
It raised no marvel ; never had her hand 
With its white beauty link'd the saraband ; 
And seldom did she join the converse gay, 
Where the light flattery gains its gilded way ; 
They seldom won more than a few cold words, 
As when unskilful hands awake the chords 
Of some lorn lute, the music of whose tone 
Lives for one touch, and only for that one. 
She dwelt within the circle of her heart, 
A charm'd world, lovely, lonely, and apart, 
Where it had seem'd to her as sin and shame 
Aught there had enter'd, not in his dear name. 
— It was a spell-touch'd hour. That gorgeous 

hall, 
With perfume floating and with music's fall, 
Light steps, and gentle laugh, and whispers 

bland, — 
Was in their words or the sweet airs that fann'd 
The beauty's cheek into a redder rose 1 — 
And starry eyes, like what the clear night shows, 
But wandering ones ; and there were golden curls 
Like sudden sunshine ; and dark braids, whose 

pearls 
Were lost on the white neck when there they 

fell; 
And there were shapes, such as in pictures dwell ; 
It look'd like fairy land. With eager glance 
She watch'd the door, and counted every dance ; 
Then time grew long, hope caught a shade of 

fear — 
" Leoxi — but they said he would be here !" 
When sudden came Arezzi to her side, — 
" Look there, the Count Leoni and his bride ! 
She with the violet wreath in her bright hair ; 
Sooth but to say, that English bride is fair ! 
But I must go and have my welcome paid." 
Alone Amewaide stood in the shade, — 
Alone ! ay, utterly. A couch was nigh, 
And there she sank — O, had it been to die ! 

IV. 

Alas for the young heart thus early thrown 
Back on itself, the unloved and tne lone ! 



106 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



For this should be the lesson of long years, 

The weary knowledge taught and traced by tears, 

Till even those are frozen, and we grow 

Cold as the grave that yawns for us below : 

But this was like those sudden blasts that fling 

Unlook'd-for winter on the face of spring, — 

4nd worst wo for the heart, whose early fate 

Leaves it so young, and, O, so desolate. 

She had one feeling left — it was of pride — 

O, misery, how much she had to hide ! 

And steps were now approaching her: she 

sprung 
From off the couch, and every nerve was strung 
For that worst rack, the rack of outward show, 
Still haunts such vanity the deepest wo. 
The heart may swell to bursting, but the while 
The features wear the seeming of a smile : 
The eye be lesson'd, and the lip be seal'd, 
And wretchedness be, like the plague, conceal'd. 
— It was the Count Arezzi : " What still 

here ! — 
Come, thou wild dreamer of another sphere, 
I must shut out the sky, if thus it share 
My stars, thine eyes, which should be shining 

there, 
Making yon hall its equal ; but to-night 
You have, Amenaide, a rival light. 
The English bride, — see round they crowd to 

gaze 
On the new loveliness her form displays. 
Why, she should bear the name which once you 

bore, 
— The peasant countess, — it would suit her 

more." 
A moment, and the group were press'd aside, 
She stood before Leoni and his bride. 
He knew her history, and each met prepared ; 
Cold looks were given, careless converse shared ; 
At first Leon i shunn'd to meet her eye, — 
A moment's awkwardness, — but that pass'd by. 
How much we give to other hearts our tone, 
And judge of others' feelings by our own ! 
Himself has alter'd : — all he sought to do 
Was to believe that she was alter'd too. 
Her cheek was paler than 'twas wont to be, — 
That was its round of midnight gayety : 
Het smile less frequent, and her brow more 

grave, — 
'Twas her new rank its stateliness that gave : 
New friends press'd round, — their interview is 

o'er, — 
Aiv. he pass'd on, to think of it no more ; 
Arcj she to seem, as thoughtless. Till to-night, 
Like some fair planet in its own far light, 
She shone apart ; to-night she sought the crowd, 
Join'd in their mirthfulness, and laugh'd aloud ; 
Was leady with gay converse, — that light mirth 
Which like the meteor has from darkness birth : 



She watch'd her circle, — ready smile or sneer, — 

Sneers for the absent ones, smiles for the near, 

Till every other hall sent forth its tide, 

And half the guests were gather'd at her side. 

It was an evil feeling that which now 

Flush'd on her cheek, and lighted up her brow — 

Part bitternsss, part vanity, part wo — 

The passionate strife which pride and mistrj 

know ; 
A burning wish to make a vain regret 
In that false one, who now had best forget ; 
To show Leoni how that she, the queen, 
Made his fair Edith nothing on the scene ; 
Her rival — hers — language has not a word 
By woman's ear so utterly abhorr'd. 
No marvel, for it robs her only part 
Of sweet dominion — empire o'er the heart. 



Leont and his bride have left the hall. 
Why does that cheek grow pale, that dark eye 

fall? 
Why does that lip its wit, its smiling cease 7 — 
It only pass'd for beauty's gay caprice. 
She left the feast — but, O, not yet alone ; 
Many a cavalier has eager flown 
Upon her gondola's home course to wait, 
And sigh farewell at her own palace gate. 
Her maidens gather'd round. What more, yet 

more, 
To read the breast now throbbing to the core 1 
She hurried not their task, — each silken braid 
Of raven hair was in set order laid : 
But once she show'd her weakness, — when her 

hand 
Strove vainly to unloose a glittering band, 
It trembled like a leaf: — but that pass'd by ; 
Struggle she might, but no one heard her sigh ; 
And when her last good night was courteous said, 
Never more queenlike seem'd that lofty head. 
The last step died upon the marble stair, — 
She sprang towards the door, — the bolt is there : — 
She tried the spring, gave one keen look around, 
Mutter'd " alone !" and dash'd her on the ground. 
Corpselike she lay, — her dark hair wildly thrown 
Far on the floor before her ; white as stone, 
As rigid stretch'd each hand, — her face was 

press'd 
Close to the earth ; and but the heaving vest 
Told of some pang the shuddering frame con- 

fess'd, 
She seem'd as stricken down by instant death. — 
Sudden she raised her head, and gasp'd foi 

breath ; 
And nature master'd misery. She sought, 
Panting, the air from yonder lattice brought. 
Ah, there is blood on that white lip and brow ! — 
She struggles still — in vain— she must weep now 



THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 



107 



She wept, childlike, till sleep began to press 

Upon her eyes, for very weariness. 

She sleeps ! — so sleeps the wretch beside the 

stake : 
She sleeps ! — how dreadful from such sleep to 

wake ! 

VI. 

She was both proud and cold : not hers the 
heart 
Easy to lure, and ready to depart— 
A trifle, toy — but that fair countess gave 
No common gift when she became a slave ; 
And only did she hold her gift redeem'd, 
By that high worthiness she had but dream'd. 
A peasant, yet she felt his equal still ; 
And when her lofty state beseem'd her will, 
It was such pride, such pleasure, to have known 
Leoxi's love was for herself alone. 
And in her young romances loftier view 
One touch of vanity might mingle too 
It was the triumph of her lowlier state 
She had been even then a noble's mate. 
Amenaide had many faults ; her youth 
Had seen too soon life's bitterness and truth : 
The cutting word, the cold or scornful look, 
All that her earlier days had had to brook — 
The many 'slights the humble one receives — 
Lay on her memory like wither'd leaves ; 
And homage from the crowd, and lovers' praise, 
Were all too apt disgust and doubt to raise. 
There was a something wayward in her mood ; 
She left her heart too much to solitude : 
For kindly thoughts are social ; but she held 
A scornful creed, and sympathy repell'd. 
That sullen barrier had one gentle break — > 
She loved, — she loved, — and for Leo^i's sake 
Believed that were some angel steps on earth: — 
As truth that keeps the promise of its birth ; 
As faith that will not change, that will not tire, 
And deems its gold the purer for the fire. 
Her love was all her nature's better part, 
The confidence, the kindness of her heart, 
The source of all the sweet or gentle there : 
But this was past — what had it left 1 — despair ! 

VII. 

The wind threw back the curtain fraught with 
rose : — 
vJ-a.n sorrow be upon such gales as those 1 
Yes, for it waked the countess. Up she sprung, 
Startled, surprised, to see how she was flung 
By the veranda, — and that open, too ; 
Her hair was heavy with the weight of dew ; 
Scarcely aroused, painful and slow she raised 
Her weary head, and round in wonder gazed. 
It was her own fair room, — some frightful dream, 
But indistinct, — she struggled with a scream : 



Her eye has caught a mirror, — that pale face, — 
Why lip and brow are sullied by the trace 
Of blood ; its stain is on her tangled hair, 
Which shroudlike hides the neck that else were 

bare. 
Around that neck there is a fragile chain, 
And memory's flood comes rushing o'er her brain : 
Leojti's gift, — its slight gold links are broken, — 
So are the vows of which it was the token. 
Who has not loathed that worst, that waking 

hour, 
When grief and consciousness assert their power : 
When misery has morn's freshness, yet we fain 
Would hold it as a dream, and sleep again ; 
Then know 'tis not illusion of the night 
And sicken at the cold and early light 1 
How ever shall we pass the weary day, 
When thus we shudder at its opening ray 1 
She gazed upon the glass, then glanced around, 
In wonder at the contrast which she found. 
The walls were faintly colour'd with the bloom 
Which comes when morn has struggled through 

the gloom, 
And blushes for success ; the silken veil 
Of the blue hangings seem'd to catch the gale, 
Then keep its sweetness prisoner : on the floor 
The Persian loom had spread its velvet store : 
Vases stood round, each carved with such fine art, 
The flowers that fill'd seem'd of themselves a 

part: 
A sandal lute lay on an inlaid stand, 
Whose rich wrought ivory spoke its Indian land ■ 
Shells of bright colours, foreign toys of gold, 
And crystals wrought in many a curious mould; 
Pictures, a prince's ransom in their worth ; 
Small alabaster statues — all that earth 
Has rich or varied, all that wealth could buy, 
Loathing she tum'd. " Yet what a wretch am I! 
This must not be ! — stain'd cheek and fever'd brow 
Too much the secret of my soul avow. 
Aye deep as is the grave my heart shall keep 
What burning tears Amenaide could weep. 
O, never let Leoni know the worst ; 
'Tis well if he believe I changed the first. 
Too much e'en to myself has been reveal'd, 
— And thus be every trace of tears conceal'd." 
She sought the alcove where the fountain play'd, 
And wash'd from lip and cheek their crimson shade 
And bathed her long hair, till its glossy curls 
Wore not a trace but of the dewy pearls 
The waters left, as if in pity shed; 
She loosed the bolt, and sought her silken bed ; 
But easier far had been the rack, the wheel :- - 
When hath the body felt what mind can feci 1 

VIII. 

The weary day pass'd on — night came again ;- 
Amenaide has join'd the glittering train ; 



108 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Self-torturer — self-deceiver — cold and high, 
She said it was to mock the curious eye. 
Such strength is weakness. Was it not to be 
Where still, Leoni, she might gaze on thee 1 
— She heard the history of his English bride : 
A patient nurse at her pale mother's side, 
Leosti saw her first : — that mother's hand 
(A stranger she and wanderer in the land) 
Gave the sweet orphan to his care, — and here 
Was all to soften, all that could endear. 
Together wept they o'er the funeral stone, 
His the sole heart she had to lean upon. 
Now months had pass'd away, and he was come 
To bring his beautiful, his dear one home. 
Her beauty was like morning's, breathing, bright, 
Eyes glittering first with tears, and then with 

light, 
And blue, too glad to be the violet's blue, 
But that which hangs upon it, lucid dew, — 
Its first clear moment, ere the sun has burst 
The azure radiance which it kindled first ; — 
A cheek of thousand blushes ; golden hair, 
As if the summer sunshine made it fair : 
A voice of music, and such touching smile, 
Amehaide sigh'd, " Well might they beguile !" 
—Love, what a mystery thou art ! — how strange 
Thy constancy, yet still more so thy change ! 
How the same love, born in the selfsame hour, 
Holds over different hearts such different power ; 
How the same feeling lighted in the breast 
Makes one so wretched, and makes one so blest ; 
How one will keep the dream of passion born 
In youth with all the freshness of its morn ; 
How from another will thine image fade ! 
Far deeper records on the sand are made. 
— Why hast thou separate being 1 why not die 
At once in both, and not leave one to sigh, 
To weep, to rave, to struggle with the chains 
Pride would fling off, but memory retains 1 
There are remembrances that will not vanish, — 
Thoughts of the past we would but cannot banish : 
As if to show how impotent mere will, 
We loathe the pang and yet must suffer still: 
For who is there can say they will forget ? 
— It is a power no science teaches yet. 
love, how sacred thy least words should be, 
When on them hangs such abject misery ! 

IX. 

The fountain's music murmur'd through the 
grove, 
Like the first plaint that sorrow teaches love ; 
The orange boughs shut out the sultry sky, 
While their rich scent, as pass'd the countess by, 
Came homagelike. For hours that chestnut tree — 
The only one that grew there — wont to be 
Her favourite summer-seat ; — but now she paced 
Hurriedly, though 'twas noon ; her memory traced 



Her galling wrongs, and many an evil thought 
Envy and hatred in her bosom wrought. 
She felt Leoxi had not loved till now ; 
Hers was but youthful fantasy's light vow. 
Had he not trifled with her 1 — She, the proud, 
The cold, had of such mocking suit allow'd. 
Her heart was wrung, and worse, her pride was 

bow'd. 
— She hears a step : who is it dares intrude 
On this her known and guarded solitude 1 
She sees an aged Jew ; a box he bore 
Fill'd with gay merchandise and jewell'd store. 
Ere she could speak, he spread before her eyes 
Those glittering toys that loveliest ladies prize :- 
" Fair dame, in sooth so fair thou seem'st to be, 
That almost it is vain to offer thee 
The many helps for meaner beauty made ; 
But yet these gems would light that dark hair's 

shade ; 
Well would these pearls around that white throat 

show 
Each purple vein that wanders through its snow." 
Angrily turn'd the countess, — " Fool, away !" — 
" So young, so fair, has vanity no sway 1 — 
But I have things most curious, and 'mid these 
Somewhat may chance your wayward fancy 

please." 
— He took a bracelet, — 'twas of fine wrought 

gold, 
And twisted as a serpent, whose lithe fold 
Cuil'd round the arm : — he spoke in whispering 

tone — 
" Here, lady, look at this, I have but one : 
Here, press this secret spring ; it lifts a lid, — 
Beneath there is the subtlest poison hid, 
I come from Venice ; of the wonders there 
There is no wonder like this bracelet rare." 
She started — evil thoughts, at first repress'd, 
Now struggled like a storm within her breast. 
Alas ! alas ! how plague-spot like will sin 
Spread over the wrung heart it enters in ! 
Her brow grew dark: — " Amid thy baubles shine 
This ruby cross, — but be the bracelet mine." 
Around her arm the fatal band is fast 
Away its seller, like a vision, pass'd. 

X. 

That night she join'd the revel ; but not long 
A?fE> r AiDE was seen amid the throng. 
No eye beheld her pace her lonely room : 
Fearing the light, yet trembling in the gloom ; 
The ghastly cheek, as marble cold and white ; 
The wild eye flashing with unholy light ; 
The quivering lip, the forehead's dew-moist pore, 
The sudden start, the rapid step once more, — 
As if it would annihilate the time :— 
But who may paint the solitude of crime 1 



THE VENETIAN BRACELET 



109 



XI. 

That night there was another saddest scene : 
Halls where mirth, music, festival had been 
Were as the house of mourning ; crowds stood 

nigh, 
Horror and pity mark'd in every eye. 
— Upon a crimson couch — a contrast strange 
To those pale features in that ghastly change — 
The young, the beautiful, the happy lay, 
Life passing in convulsive sobs away. 
Still mid her hair the red rose wreath was hung, 
Mocking her cheek with the rich dye it flung ; 
The festal robe still sparkled as it flow'd ; 
Still on her neck a few fresh flowers giow'd : 
The warmth her sandal'd foot hath scarcely left, 
Light from the dance, though now of motion reft ! 
— The agony is over, — and she raised 
Her feeble head, and round her faintly gazed : 
She saw, she leant upon Leoju's breast, 
Murmur'd his name, and sank as if to rest. 
" Edith, sweet Edith, speak to me again !" 
Thou fond one — even thou must ask in vain : 
Ay, kiss those lips, and fancy they have breath, 
Till they chill even thee : — they're damp with 
death. 

XII. 

The night is over, — night which seem'd to be 
Endless, O lost Am en aide ! to thee : 
Yet what has daylight brought 1 — a haunting 

dread. 
Hark ! the hall echoes to a stranger's tread — 
It is the Count Arezzi : — " My fair child, 
How now ! — thy cheek is wan, thine eyes are 

wild. 
Ah, well, the rose is brightening on thy cheek : 
I was too hasty with my sudden break 
Upon thy solitude ; scarce may I tell 
The crime and horror which last night befell. 
I have no time. The Count Leoni's bride — 
You saw her — by some sudden poison died ; 
And strange suspicions on her husband fall : 
There were so many present who recall 
He gave her the sherbet : — 'twas not all drain'd ; 
Part of the venom in the cup remain'd. 
Some say 'twas jealousy : — I'm on my way 
To the tribunal that will sit to-day. 
— Amestaide, dear, thou art very pale : 
I would I had not told thee of this tale. — 
Ha ! 'tis the summons of the council bell, — 
I loathe my task, — sweet, hastily farewell." 
She strove to speak, — to only wave her hand, — 
To rise, — her trembling limbs refused to stand : 
She sought her cross, she strove to think a 

prayer, — 
She gasp'd for breath, — no ruby cross is there ; 
But full in view the fatal bracelet shone : 
" Leoni, this is what my love has done ; 



I who would willingly have died for thee, 

The fiend has triumph'd in my misery. 

I'll rush before the judges, — is there time? — 

But. no, I cannot bear to own the crime ! 

And there is nought of proof, — there can be 

none, — 
And then his known love for that happier one ;— 
His noble house, — his brave and stainless name :— 
He must escape his doom,— and I my shame." 
Long hours past by, she stirr'd not from her 

place, 
A very statue, with that cold set face, 
Save that red flushes came at each light sound, 
While the wild eyes glanced fearfully around; 
But still she moved not, spoke not, — such distress 
Seeks no distraction from its wretchedness. 
There rose loud voices in the outer hall : — 
She nerves her with despair, she will know all : 
Her ear, acute with agony, can hear 
A name at once so dreaded and so dear : — 
" Yes, Lady, he is guilty ! — " but no more : — 
They raise her senseless from the marble floor. 
Long did it last, that stony trance like death , 
She roused, but scarce it seem'd with mortal 

breath. 
She show'd no weakness, rose from off the bed 
Distinct, though low and few, the words she said. 
She took a scroll and wrote, — the phrase was brief; 
But a life's sorrow was upon that leaf. 
" To Count A.rezzi this, with all thy speed; 
And here, my page, is gold for present meed. 
Now all away, — my spirit is opprest :" 
She flung her on the couch as if for rest 
They deem'd she slept : — at length her maidens 

came 
To ask her will, to light the lamps' sweet flame :- • 
Where is the countess 1 why, the couch is bare,— 
They search the halls in vain, — she is not there. 

XIII. 

" Gold, O ! take double, so my prayer I win." 
When hath such offer fail'd 1 — She enter'd in : 
Heavily iron chain and barrier fell, 
Ere she could reach the prisoner's midnight cell. 
They grated on her very heart. At last 
She saw Leoni in his misery cast 
Abject upon the ground : — not her strange tread 
Brought ought to make him raise his bow'd down 

head. 
She gazed upon him : — has it come to this, 
Her passionate love, her youth's long dream if 

bliss 1 
She felt her frame convulsed, her pulse grow weak 
" Leoni, Leoni ! hear me speak." 
He started at her voice : — Amenaide ! 
I did not merit this from thee indeed ; 
And yet thy name was heavy on my . eart : 
I pray thee pardon me before we part." 



110 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



He sought to take her hand ; but back she flung 

The shrouding mantle that around her clung. 

" Ah f start you at my livid lip and brow ] 

You are familiar with such signs ere now ! 

for a few short words ! I've own'd the whole : 

Ere this the Count Arezzi has my scroll. — 

The darkness gathers on my failing eye, — 

Leosti, let me gaze on thee and die ! 

God, unloose this bracelet's fiery clasp !" — 

Her spirit pass'd in that convulsive gasp. 

The struggle's o'er, — that wild heart does not beat; 

She lies a ghastly corpse before his feet. 



XIV. 



They show the traveller still a lonely tomb, 
Hid in the darkness of a cloister's gloom ; 
As scarcely worthy of such holy ground, 
No other monument is near it found. 
A figure closely veil'd bends o'er the stone, 
Only the arm with its strange bracelet shown.—. 
A serpent twining round : beneath are graved 
A few brief words, that passing pity craved — 
" Pray for the wounded heart, the sinful deed * 
And, half effaced, a name — " Amenaide." 



THE LOST PLEIAD. 



A story from the stars ; or rather one 
Of starry fable from the olden time, 
When young Imagination was as fresh 
As the fair world it peopled with itself. 
The Poet's spirit does so love to link 
Its feelings, thoughts, with nature's loveliness : 
And hence the twilight grove, the lonely spring, 
The ocean-caves, the distant, planets, all 
Were fill'd with radiant creatures ; and the heart 
Became interpreter, and language made 
From its own warm sad sympathies, for those 
Of whom the dream was beauty. 



He was weary of flinging the feather'd reed, 
He was weary of curbing his raven steed ; 
He heard the gay din from the palace hall, 
But he was not in mood for the festival. 
There was that crimson, the last on the sky, 
Blushes that fade in the moon's cold eye ; 
The sigh of the flowers arose sweet on the air, 
For the breath of the twilight was wandering 

there. 
He look'd to the west, and the tranquil main 
Was branch'd with many a lifelike vein ; 
Hues of the rosebud the clouds had cast, 
Like a cheek on its mirror in gliding past. 
It tempted him forth, — to the lulling gale 
Pnnce Cmis has open'd his silken sail, 
And the little boat went over the sea 
Like foam, for it was of ivorie, 
And carved and shaped like a wreathed shell, 
And it was lined with the rose as well ; 
For the couch was made of those plumes that 

fling 
The one warm tint neath the wooddove's wing. 
O'er the purple sail the golden flowers run, 
For it was wrought for a monarch's son ; 
And as it past on, the air was fill'd 
With odours, for only waters distill'd 



From clove, and sandal, and cinnamon, 

E'er wash'd that boat when its task was done : 

'Twas left in the care of maidens three, 

Lovely they were as maidens should be; 

And in the soft airs that around it flew, 

Perhaps their own breath left a perfume too. 

— There lay Prince Cxms, and his mood 

Made harmony with the solitude. 

— pleasant is it for the heart 

To gather up itself apart ; 

To think its own thoughts, and to be 

Free, as none ever yet were free, 

When, prisoners to their gilded thrall, 

Vain crowd meets crowd in lighted hall ; 

With frozen feelings, tutor'd eye, 

And smile which is itself a lie. 

— 0, but for lonely hours like these, 

Would every finer current freeze ; 

Those kindlier impulses that glow, 

Those clear and diamond streams that flow 

Only in crystal, while their birth, 

Is all unsoil'd with stain of earth. 

Ever the lover hath gainsay'd 

The creed his once religion made, — 

That pure, that high, that holy creed, 

Without which love is vain indeed ; 



THE LOST PLEAID. 



Ill 



While that which was a veiled shrine, 

Whose faith was only not divine, 

Becomes a vague, forgotten dream, — 

A thing of scorn — an idle theme. 

Denied, degraded, and reprcst, 

Love dies beneath the heartless jest. 

vain ! for not with such can be 

One trace of his divinity. 

Ever from poet's lute hath flown 

The sweetness of its early tone, 

When from its wild flight it hath bow'd, 

To seek for homage 'mid the crowd ; 

Be the one wonder of the night, 

As if the soul could be a sight ; 

As all his burning numbers speak 

Were written upon brow and cheek ; 

And he forsooth must learn his part, 

Must choose his words, and school his heart 

To one set mould, and pay again 

Flattery with flattery as vain ; 

Till, mixing with the throng too much, 

The cold, the vain, he feels as such ; 

Then marvels that his silent lute 

Beneath that worldly hand is mute. 

— Away ! these scenes are not for thee : 

Go dream beneath some lonely tree ; 

Away to some far woodland spring, 

Dash down thy tinsel crown, and wring 

The scented unguents from thine hair : 

If thou dost hope that crown to share 

The laurelfd bards immortal wear : 

Muse thou o'er leaf and drooping flower, 

Wander at evening's haunted hour ; 

Listen to stockdove's plaining song 

Until it bear thy soul along ; 

Then call upon thy freed lute's strain, 

And it will answer thee again. 

O mine own song, did I not hold 

Such faith as held the bards of old, — 

That one eternal hope of fame 

Which sanctifies the poet's name, — 

I'd break my lyre in high disdain, 

And hold my gift of song as vain 

As those forced flowers which only bloom 

One hot night for a banquet-room. 

— But I have wander'd from my tale, — 

The ivory bark, the purple sail, 

That bore Prince Crms o'er the sea, — 

Content with that slow ebb to be 

Danced on the wave. By nightfall shaded, 

The red lights from the clouds are faded ; 

Leaving one palest amber line 

To mark the last of day's decline ; 

And all o'er heaven is that clear blue 

The stars so love to wander through. 

They're rising from the silent deep, 

Like bright eyes opening after sleep. 



Young Ctiiis watch'd them till their ray 

Grew sad — so far they were away. 

He felt so earthly, thus to see 

What he might never hope to be. 

He thought upon earth's loveliest eyes ; 

What were they to those shining there ? 
He thought upon earth's sweetest sighs : 

What were they to the lulling aii 1 
" no, my heart," he mournful sigh'd 
' ; To thee is that dear boon denied ; 
That wildering dream whose fair deceit 
Makes languid earth a temple meet 
For light, such light as dwells above, 
I have no faith in thee, false love ! 
I've knelt at many a beauteous shrine, 
And caljld, but thought them not, divine. 
I've dived in many a beating heart, 
But search'd them only to depart ; 
For selfish care, or heartless pride, 
Were all they ever had to hide. 
I'm weary, weary : — one by one, 
The life charms of my youth are gone. 
I had a dream of stirring fame — 
It was a promise, and a name, 
Thrice glorious, shining from afar, 
But nearer earth had touch'd the star 
With toil and trouble won from many 
Yet trembling on the breath of any. 
The bard, the w r arrior, and the sage, 
What win they but one lying page, 
Where deeds and words, at hazard thrown, 
May be or may not be their own 1 
And pleasure, lighted halls, red wine, 
Bright smiles, gay words, have all been rmne ' 
They only left what haunts me now, — 
A wasted heart, a weary brow. 
Ye distant stars, so calm, so bright, 
Would I had portion in your light, 
Could read the secrets of your birth, — 
Aught, any thing but this dull earth !" 
— It was not long, ere, still and deep, 
Those restless eyes were closed in sleep. 
There lay he like a statue pale, 
His canopy that silken sail. 
There lay he as Endymion slept 
When Dian came to him, and wept 
Beside the sleep she might not break. 
Love, thus we sorrow for thy sake. 
There lay he : — well might Cxitis seem 
The being of a poet's dream. 

Ay, beautiful as a star in the sky, 
When the clouds are gloom, and the storm 

high, 
But still in defiance keeps shining on, 
Till the shades are past, and the wind is done. 
His hair was gold, like the pheasant's wing, 
And curl'd like the hyacinth flower in spring 



112 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



And his eye was that blue so clear, so dark, 

Like the falcon's when flying his highest mark. 

And telling a tale of gallant war, 

On his brow was a slight but glorious scar. 

His voice had that low and lutelike sound, 

Whose echo within the heart is found. 

His very faults were those that win 

Too dazzling and ready an entrance in. 

Daring, and fiery, wild to range, 

Reckless of what might ensue from the change ; 

Too eager for pleasure to fill up the void, 

Till the very impatience their nature destroy'd ; 

Restless, inconstant, he sought to possess, — 

The danger was dared, and the charm grew less. 

But, ! these were only youth's meteor fires, 

The ignis blaze that with youth expires. 

No never ! — the heart should childlike be 
train'd, 
And its wilful waywardness somewhat enchain'd. 
i — Was it the spell of morning dew 
That o'er his lips its influence threw, 
Clearing those earthly mists away, 
That erst like veils before them lay 1 
Whether fair dream, or actual sight, 
It was a vision of delight : 
For free to his charm'd eyes were given 
The spirits of the starry heaven. 
It was that hour, when each faint dye 

Of rose upon the morning's cheek 
Warns the bright watchers of the sky 

Their other ocean home to seek. 
He saw the Archer with his bow, 
Guide now his radiant car below ; 
He saw the shining Serpent fold 
Beneath the wave his scales of gold. 
— But of all the pageants nigh, 
Only one fix'd Cybis' eye: 
Borne by music on their way, 
Every chord a living ray, 
Sinking on a songlike breeze, 
The lyre of the Pleiades, 
With its seven fair sisters bent 
O'er their starry instrument ; 
Each a star upon her brow, 
Somewhat dim in daylight's glow, 
That clasp'd the flashing coronet 
On their midnight tresses set. 

All were young, all were fair — 
But one — ! Cyris gazed but there. 
Each other lip wore sterner mould, — 
Fair, but so proud, — bright, but so cold ; 
And clear pale cheek, and radiant eye, 
Wore neither blush, nor smile, nor sigh, 
Those sweet signs of humanity. 
But o'er Cyrehe's cheek the rose, 
Like moon-touch'd water, ebbs and flows ; 
And eyes that droop like summer flowers 
Told they could change with shine and showers 



— The starry lyre has reach'd the sea.— 
Started young Cyris to his knee: 
Surely her dark eyes met his own ; 
But, ah ! the lovely dream is flown. 
— I need not tell how long the day 
Pass'd in its weariness away ; 
I need not say how Cybis' sight 
Pined for the darkness of the night. 
But darkness came, and with it brought 
The vision which the watcher sought. 
He saw the starry lyre arise — 

The seven fair sisters' glittering car — 
Till, lost amid the distant skies, 

Each only look'd a burning star. 
Again, at morning's dewy hour, 
He saw them seek their ocean bower ; 
Again those dark eyes met his own — 
Again the lovely dream is flown. 
— Night after night thus pass'd ; but now 
The young Moon wears less vestal brow. 
Her silver veil is lined with gold ; 
Like a crown'd queen, she comes to hold 
Her empire in the sky alone — 
No rival near her midnight throne. 
Sometimes he fancied o'er the tide 
He saw pale phantoms dimly glide : 
The moonbeams fell o'er sea and sky, 
No other light met Crnis' eye. 
The night — the moon — he watch'd in vain, 
No starry lyre rose from the main. 
— And who were they the lovely seven, 
With shape of earth, and home in heaven * 
Daughters of King Atlas they — 
He of the enchanted sway ; 
He who read the mystic lines 
Of the planets' wondrous signs : 
He the sovereign of the air — 
They were his, these daughters fair. 
Six were brides, in sky and sea, 
To some crown'd divinity ; 
But his youngest, loveliest one, 
Was as yet unwoo'd, unwon. 
She's kneeling at her father's side : — 
What the boon could be denied 
To that fair but tear-wash'd cheek, 
That look'd so earnest, yet so meek; 
To that mouth whose gentle words 
Murmur like the wind -lute's chords ; 
To that soft and pleading eye 
Who is there could suit deny 1 
Bent the king, with look of care, 
O'er the dear one kneeling there ; 
Bent and kiss'd his pleading one, — 
Ah, that smile ! her suit is won. 
— It was a little fountain made 
A perfect sanctuary of shade : 
The pine boughs like a roof, beneath 
The tapestry of the acacia wreath 



THE LOST PLEIAD. 



113 



The air was haunted, sounds, and sighs, 

The falling waters' melodies; 

The breath of flowers, the faint perfume 

Of the green pineleaf 's early bloom ; 

And murmurs from the music hung 

Ever the woodland, boughs among ; 

His couch of moss, his pillow flowers, 

Dreaming away the listless hours — 

Those dreams so vague, those dreams so vain, 

Yet iron links in lover's chain — 

Prince Crms leant: the solitude 

Suited such visionary mood ; 

For love hath delicate delights, — 

The silence of the summer nights ; 

The leaves and buds, whose languid sighs 

Seem like the echo of his own ; 
The wind which like a lute note dies ; 

The shadow by the branches thrown, 
Although a sweet uncertain smile 
Wanders through those boughs the while, 
As if the young Moon liked to know 
Her fountain mirror bright below ; 
Linking his thoughts with all of these, 
For love is full of fantasies. 
— Why starts young Critis from his dream 1 
There is a shadow on the stream, 
There is an odour on the air ; — 
What shape of beauty fronts him there ! 
He knows her by her clear dark eye, 
Touch 'd with the light that rules the sky ; 
The star upon her forehead set, 
Her wild hair's sparkling coronet ; 
Her white arms, and her silvery vest, — 
The lovely Pleiad stands confest. 
— I cannot sing as I have sung ; 
My heart is changed, my lute unstrung ; 
Once said I that my early chords 
Were vow'd to love or sorrow's words : 
But love has like an odour past, 
Or echo, all too sweet to last : 
And sorrow now holds lonely sway 
O'er my young heart, and lute, and lay. 
Be it for those whose unwaked youth 
Believes that hope and love are sooth — 
The loved, the happy — let them dream 
This meeting by the forest stream. 
— No more they parted till the night 
Cali'd on her starry host for light, 
And that bright lyre arose on high 
With its fair watchers to their sky. 
Then came the wanderings long and lonely, 
As if the world held them, them only ; 
The gather'd flower, which is to bear 
Some gentle secret whisper'd there ; 
The seat beneath the forest tree ; 

The breathless silence, which to love 
h all that eloquence can be ; 

The looks ten thousand words above ; 
(15) 



The fond deep gaze, till the fix'd eye 
Casts each on each a mingled dye ; 
The interest round each little word, 
Though scarcely said, and scarcely aeard. 
Little love asks of language aid, 
For never yet hath vow been made 
In that young hour when love is new ; 
He feels at first so deep, so true, 
A promise is a useless token, 
When neither dream it can be broken,, 
Alas ! vows are his after sign ! — 
We prop the tree in its decline — 
The ghosts that haunt a parting hour, 
With all of grief, and naught of power ; 
A chain half sunder'd in the making,— 
The plighted vows already breaking. 
From such dreams all too soon we wake i 
For like the moonlight on the lake, 
One passing cloud, one waving bough — 
The silver light, what is it now 1 
— Said I not, that young prince was one 
Who wearied when the goal was won ; 
To whom the charm of change was all 
That bound his heart in woman's thrall ! 
And she now lingering at his side, 
His bright, his half-immortal bride, 
Though she had come with him to die, 
Share earthly tear, and earthly sigh ; 
Left for his sake her glorious sphere, — 
What matter'd that 1 — she now was here. 
— At first 'twas like a frightful dream : 
Why should such terror even seem 1 
Again — again — it cannot be ! 
Wo for such wasting misery ! — 
This watching love's o'erclouding sky, 
Though still believing it must clear ; 
This closing of the trusting eye ; 

The hope that darkens into fear ; 
The lingering change of doubt and dread ; 
All in the one dear presence fled. 
Till days of anguish past alone, 
Till careless look, and alter'd tone, 
Relieve us from the rack, to know 
Our last of fate, our worst of wo. 
— And she, the guileless, pure, and bright, 
Whose nature was her morning's light ; 
Who deem'd of love as it is given. 
The sunniest element to heaven ; 
Whose sweet belief in it was caught 
Only from what her own heart taught — 
Her woman's heart, that dreamy shrine, 
Of what itself made half divine, — 
Gyrene, when thy shadow came 

With thy first step that touch'd the earth. 
It was an omen how the same 

Doth sorrow haunt all mortal birth. 
Thou hast but left those starry sphere* 
For woman's destiny of tears. 
h 2 



114 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



They parted as all lovers part, — 
She with her wrong' d and brca king heart ; 
But he, rejoicing he is free, 

Bounds like the captive from his chain, 
And wilfully believing she 

Hath found her liberty again : 
Or if dark thoughts will cross his mind, 
They are but clouds before the wind. 
— Thou false one, go ! — but deep and dread 
Be minstrel curse upon thy head ! 
— Go, be the first in battle line, 
Where banners sweep, and falchions shine ; 
Go thou to lighted festival, 
Be there the peerless one of all ; 
Let bright cheeks wear yet brighter rays 
If they can catch Prince Cxitis $ gaze; 
Be thine in all that honour'd name, 
Men hold to emulate is fame ; 
Yet not the less my curse shall rest, 
A serpent coiling in thy breast. 
Weariness, like a weed, shall spring 
Wherever is thy wandering. 
Thy heart a lonely shrine shall be, 
Guarded by no divinity. 
Thou shalt be lonely, and shalt know 
It is thyself has made thee so. 
Thou hast been faithless, and shalt dread 
Deceit in aught of fondness said. 
Go, with the doom thou'st made thine own ! 
Go, false one ! to thy grave — alone. — 
— 'Twas the red hue of twilight's hour 
That lighted up the forest bower ; 
Where that sad Pleiad look'd her last. 
The white wave of his plume is past ; 
She raised her listening head in vain, 
To catch his echoing step again ; 
Then bow'd her face upon her hand, 

And once or twice a burning tear 
Wander'd beyond their white command, 

And mingled with the waters clear. 
Tis said that ever from that day 



Those waters caught their diamond ray. 
— The evening shades closed o'er the sky, 
The night winds sang their melody : 
They seem'd to rouse her from the dream 
That chain'd her by that lonely stream. 
She came when first the starry lyre 
Tinged the green wave with kindling fire ; 
" Come, sister," sang they, " to thy place 
The Pleiad gazed, then hid her face. 
Slowly that lyre rose while they sung, — 
Alas ! there is one chord unstrung. 
It rose, until CrrtENE's ea 1- 
No longer could its music hear. 
She sought the fountain, and flung there 
The crown that bound her raven hair ; 
The starry crown, the sparkles died, 
Darkening within its fated tide. 
She sinks by that lone wave : — 'tis past; 
There the lost Pleiad breathed her last. 
No mortal hand e'er made her grave ; 
But one pale rose was seen to wave, 
Guarding a sudden growth of flowers, 
Not like those sprung in summer hours, 
But pale and drooping ; each appears 
As if their only dew were tears. 
On that sky lyre a chord is mute : 

Haply one echo yet remains, 
To linger on the poet's lute, 

And tell in his most mournful strains, 
— A star hath left its native sky, 
To touch our cold earth, and to die ; 
To warn the young heart how it trust 
To mortal vows, whose faith is dust ; 
To bid the young cheek guard its bloom 
From wasting by such early doom ; 
Warn by the histories link'd with all 
That ever bow'd to passion's thrall ; 
Warn by all — above — below, 
By that lost Pleiad's depth of wo, — 
Warn them, Love is of heavenly birth, 
But turns to death on touching earth. 



A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 



Sketches indeed, from that most passionate page, 

A woman's heart, of feelings, thoughts, that make 

The atmosphere in which her spirit moves ; 

But, like all other earthly elements, 

O'ercast with clouds, now dark, now touch'd with light, 

With rainbows, sunshine, showers, moonlight, stars, 

Chasing each other's change. I fain would trace 

Its brightness and its blackness ; and these lines 

Are consecrate to annals such as those, 

That count the pulses of the beating heart. 



'Tis strange how much is mark'd on memory, 
In which we may have interest, but no part ; 
How circumstance will bring together links 
In destinies the most dissimilar. 
This face, whose rudely-pencill'd sketch you hold, 
Recalls to me a host of pleasant thoughts, 
And some more serious. — This is Eulalie, 
Once the delight of Rome for that fine skill 
With which she woke the lute when answering 
With its sweet echoes and melodious words. 
She had the rich perfection of that gift, 
Her Italy's own ready song, which seems 
The poetry caught from a thousand flowers ; 
The diamond sunshine, and the lulling air, 
So pure, yet full of perfume ; fountains tuned 
Like natural lutes, from whispering green leaves ; 
The low peculiar murmur of the pines : 
From pictured saints, that look their native 

heaven — 
Statues whose grace is a familiar thing ; 
The ruin'd shrine of mournful loveliness ; 
The stately church, awfully beautiful ; 
Their climate, and their language, whose least 

word 
Is melody — these overfill the heart 
Till, fountainlike, the lips o'erflow with song, 
And music is to them an element. 
— I saw Eulalie : all was in the scene 
Graceful association, slight surprise, 
That are so much in youth. It was in June, 
Night, but such night as only is not day, — 
For moonlight, even when most clear, is sad : 
We cannot but contrast its still repose 
With the unceasing turmoil in ourselves. 

— We stood beside a cypress, whose green 

spire 
Rose like a funeral column o'er the dead. 
Near was a fallen palace — stain'd and gray 
The marble show'd amid the tender leaves 
Of ivy but just shooting ; yet there stood 
Pillars unbroken, two or three vast hails, 



Entire enough to cast a deep black shade , 
And a few statues, beautiful but cold, — 
White shadows, pale and motionless, that seem 
To mock the change in which they had no part,— 
Fit images of the dead. Pensive enough, 
Whatever aspect desolation wears ; 
But this, the wrecking work of yesterday, 
Hath somewhat still more touching ; here w« 

trace 
The waste of man too much. When years have 

past 
Over the fallen arch, the ruin'd hall, 
It seems but. course of time, the one great doom, 
Whose influence is alike upon us all ; 
The gray tints soften, and the ivy wreath 
And wild flowers breathe life's freshness round 

but here 

We stand before decay ; scarce have the walls 

Lost music left by human step and voice ; 

The lonely hearth, the household desolate, 

Some noble race gone to the dust in blood ; 

Man shames of his own deeds, and there we gazft 

Watching the progress not of time, but death. 

— Low music floated on the midnight wind, 

A mournful murmur, such as opes the heart 

With memory's key, recalling other times, 

And gone-by hopes and feelings, till they have 

An echo sorrowful, but very sweet ; 

" Hush !" said my comrade, — " it is Eulalie , 

Now you may gaze upon the loneliness 

Which is her inspiration." Soft we pass'd 

Behind a fragment of the shadowy wall. 

— I never saw more perfect loveliness. 

It ask'd, it had no aid from dress : her robe 

Was white, and simply gather'd in such folds 

As suit a statue : neck and arms were bare ; 

The black hair was unbound, and like a veil 

Hung even to her feet ; she held a lute, 

And, as she paced the ancient gallery, waked 

A few wild chords, and murmur'd low sweet 

words, 

115 



116 MISS LANDO 

But scarcely audible, as if she thought 

Rather than spoke ; — the night, the solitude, 

Fili'd the young Pythoness with poetry. 

— Her eyes were like the moonlight, clear anil 

soft, 
That shadowy brightness which is born of tears, 
And raised towards the sky, as if they sought 
Companionship with their own heaven ; her 

cheek, — 
Emotion made it colourless, that pure 
And delicate white which speaks so much of 

thought, 
Yet flushes in a moment into rose ; 
And tears like pearls lay on it, those which come 
When the heart wants a language ; but she 

pass'd, 
And left the place to me a haunted shrine, 
Hallow'd by genius in its holiest mood. 
—At Count Zarik's palazzo the next night 
We were to meet, and expectation wore 
Itself with fancies, — all of them were vain. 
[ could not image aught so wholly changed. 
Her robe was Indian red, and work'd with gold, 
A nd gold the queenlike girdle round her waist. 
Here hair was gather'd up in grapelike curls ; 
An emerald wreath, shaped into vine leaves, made 
Its graceful coronal. Leant on a couch 
The centre of a group, whose converse light 



Ms 



a fit element, in which her wit 



Flash'd . like the lightning : — on her cheek the 

rose 
Burnt like a festal lamp; the sunniest smiles 
Wander'd upon her face. — I only knew 
Eulalte by her touching voice again. 
— They had been praying her to wake the lute : 
She would not, wayward in her mood that night ; 
When some one bade her mark a little sketch 
I brought from England of my father's hall ; 
Himself was outlined leaning by an oak, 
A greyhound at his feet. " And is this dog 
Your father's sole companion 1" — with these words 
She touch' d the strings : — that melancholy song, 
I never may forget its sweet reproach. 
— She ask'd me how I had the heart to leave 
The old man in his age ; she told how lorn 
Ts solitude ; she spoke of the young heart 
Left in its loneliness, where it had known 
No kindness but from strangers, forced to be 
Wayfarer in this bleak and bitter world, 
And looking to the grave as to a home. 
— The numbers died in tears, jut no one sought 
To stay her as sue pass'd with veiled face 
From the hush'd hall. — One gently whisper'd me, 
Euialie is an orphan ! * * * 
Yet still our meetings were 'mid festival, 
Night after night. It was both sad and strange, 
To see that fine mind waste itself away, 
Too like some noble stream, which, unconfined, 



N'S WORKS. 

Makes fertile its rich banks, and glads the face 

Of nature round ; but not so when its wave 

Is lost in artificial waterfalls, 

And sparkling eddies; or coop'd up to make 

The useless fountain of a palace hall. 

— One day I spoke of this ; her eager soul 

Was in its most unearthly element. 

We had been speaking of the immortal dead. 

The light flash'd in her eyes. " 'Tis this which 

makes 
The best assurance of our promised heaven : 
This triumph intellect has over death — 
Our words yet live on other's lips ; our thoughts 
Actuate others. Can that man be dead 
Whose spiritual influence is upon his kind 1 
He lives in glory ; and such speaking dust 
Has more of life than half its breathing moulds. 
Welcome a grave with memories such as these, 
Making the sunshine of our moral world !" 
" This proud reward you see, and yet can leave ! 
Your songs sink on the ear, and there they die, 
A flower's sweetness, but a flower's life. 
An evening's homage is your only fame ; 
'Tis vanity, Eulalie." — Mournfully 
She shook the raven tresses from her brow, 
As if she felt their darkness omenlike. 
" Speak not of this to me, nor bid me think ; 
It is such pain to dwell upon myself; 
And know how different I am from all 
I once dream'd I could be. Fame ! stirring fame 
I work no longer miracles for thee. 
I am as one who sought at early dawn 
To climb with fiery speed some lofty hill : 
His feet are strong in eagerness and youth ; 
His limbs are braced by the fresh morning air, 
And all seems possible : — this cannot last. 
The way grows steeper, obstacles arise, 
And unkind thwartings from companions near. 
The height is truer measured, having traced 
Part of its heavy length ; his sweet hopes droop 
Like prison'd birds that know their cage has bars, 
The body wearies, and the mind is worn — 
That worst of lassitude : — hot noon comes on ; 
There is no freshness in the sultry air, 
There is no rest upon the toilsome road ; 
There is the summit, which he may not reach, 
And round him are a thousand obstacles. 

"I am a woman : — tell me not of fame. 
The eagle's wing may sweep the stormy path, 
And fling back arrows, where the dove would die. 
Look on those flowers near yon acacia tree — 
The lily of the valley — mark how pure 
The snowy blossoms, — and how soft a breath 
Is almost hidden by the large dark leaves. 
Not only have those delicate flowers a gift 
Of sweetness and of beauty, but the root — 
A healing power dwells there ; fragrant and fair, 
But dwelling- still in some beloved shade. 



A HISTORY OF THE LYRE 



111 



Is not this woman's emblem 1 — she whoso smile 

Should only make the loveliness of home — 

Who seeks support and shelter, from man's heart, 

And pays it with affection quiet, deep, — 

And in his sickness — sorrow — with an aid 

He did not deem in aught so fragile dwelt.. 

Alas! tliis has not hcen my destiny. 

Again I'll borrow Summer's eloquence. 

Yon Eastern tulip— that is emblem mine ; 

Ay ! it has radiant colours — every leaf 

Is as a gem from its own country's mines. 

'Tis redolent with sunshine ; but with noon 

It has begun to wither : — look within, 

It has a wasted bloom, a burning heart ; 

It has dwelt too much in the open day, 

And so have I ; and both must droop and die ! 

I did not choose my gift ; — too soon my heart, 

Watchlike, had pointed to a later hour 

Than time had reach'd : and as my years pass'd 

on, 
Shadows and floating visions grew to thoughts, 
And thoughts found words, the passionate words 

of song, 
And all to me was poetry. The face, 
Whose radiance glided past me in the dance, 
Awoke a thousand fantasies to make 
Some history of her passing smile or sigh. 
The flowers were full of song : — upon the rose 
I read the crimson annals of true love ; 
The violet flung me back on old romance ; 
All was association with some link 
Whose fine electric throb was in the mind. 
I paid my price for this — 'twas happiness. 
My wings have melted in their eager flight, 
And gleams of heaven have only made me feel 
Its distance from our earth more forcibly. 
My feelings grow less fresh, my thoughts less 

kind : 
My youth has been too lonely, too much left, 
To struggle for itself; and this world is 
A northern clime, where every thing is chill'd. 
I speak of my own feelings — I can judge 
Of others but by outward show, and that 
Is falser than the actor's studied part. 
We dress our words and looks in borrow'd robes: 
The mind is as the face — for who goes forth 
In public walks without a veil at least 1 
'Tis this constraint makes half life's misery. 
'Tis a false rule : we do too much regard 
Others' opinions, but neglect their feelings ; 
Thrice happy if such order were reversed. 
O why do we make sorrow for ourselves, 
And, not content with the great wretchedness 
Which is our native heritage — those ills 
We have no mastery over — sickness, toil, 
Death, and the natural grief which comrades 

death- 
Are not all these enough, that we must add 



Mutual and moral torment, and inflict 
Ingenious tortures we must first contrive 1 
I am distrustful — I have been deceived 
And disappointed — I have hoped in vain! 
I am vain — praise is opium, and the lip 
Cannot resist the fascinating draught, 
Though knowing its excitement is a fraud- 
Delirious — a mockery ■ f fame. 
I may not image the deep solitude 
In which my spirit dwells. My days are past 
Among the cold, the careless, and the false. 
What part have I in them, or they in me 7 
Yet I would be beloved ; I would be kind ; 
I would share others' sorrows others' joys ; 
I would fence in a happiness with friends. 
I cannot do this : — is the fault mine own 1 
Can I love those who but repay my love 
With half caprice, half flattery ; or trust, 
When I have full internal consciousness 
They are deceiving me ? I may be kind, 
And meet with kindness, yet be lonely still ; 
For gratitude is not companionship. — 
We have proud words that speak of intellect ; 
Wc talk of mind that magnifies the world, 
And makes it glorious : much of this is true, — 
All time attests the miracles of man : 
The very elements, whose nature seems 
To mock dominion, yet have worn his yoke. 
His way has been upon the pathless sea ; 
The earth's dark bosom search'd ; bodiless air 
Works as his servant ; and from his own mind 
What rich stores he has won, the sage, the bard. 
The painter, these have made their nature proud 
And yet how life goes on, its great outline 
How noble and ennobling ! — but within 
How mean, how poor, how pitiful, how mix'd 
With base alloy ; how Disappointment tracks 
The steps of Hope ; how Envy dogs success ; 
How every victor's crown is lined with thorns, 
And worn 'mid scoffs ! Trace the young poet's 

fate : 
Fresh from his solitude, the child of dreams, 
His heart upon his lips, he seeks the world, 
To find him fame and fortune, as if life 
Were like a fairy tale. His song has led 
The way before him ; flatteries fill his ear, 
His presence courted, and Ins words are caught ; 
And he seems happy in so many friends. 
What marvel if he somewhat overrates 
His talents and his state 1 These scenes soon 

change. 
The vain, who sought to mix tneir name with his , 
The curious, who but live for some new sight; 
The idle, — all these have been gratified, 
And now neglect stings even more than scorn 
I Envy has spoken, felt more bitterly, 
For that it was not dream'd of; worldhness 
Has crept upon his spirit unaware ; 



U8 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Vanity craves for its accustom' d food ; 

He has turn'd skeptic to the truth which made 

His feelings poetry ; and discontent 

Hangs heavily on the lute, which wakes no more 

Its early music : — social life is fill'd 

With doubts and vain aspirings ; solitude, 

When the imagination is dethroned, 

Is turn'd to weariness. What can he do 

But hang his lute on some lone tree, and die 1 

" Methinks we must have known some former 
state 
More glorious than our present, and the heart 
Is haunted with dim memories, shadows left 
By past magnificence ; and hence we pine 
With vain aspirings, hopes that fill the eyes 
With bitter tears for their own vanity. 
Remembrance makes the poet ; 'tis the past 
Lingering within him, with a keener sense 
Than is upon the thoughts of common men 
Of what has been, that fills the actual world 
With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes, 
That were and are not ; and the fairer they, 
The more their contrast with existing things, 
The more his power, the greater is his grief. 
— Are we then fallen from some noble star, 
Whose consciousness is as an unknown curse, 
And we feel capable of happiness 
Only to know it is not of our sphere ? 

" I have sung passionate songs of beating 
hearts ; 
Perhaps it had been better they had drawn 
Their inspiration from an inward source. 
Had I known even an unhappy love, 
It would ha\e flung an interest round life 
Mine never knew. This is an empty wish ; 
Our feelings are not fires to light at will 
Our nature's fine and subtle mysteries ; 
We may control them, but may not create, 
And love less than its fellows. I have fed 
Perhaps too much upon the lotos fruits 
Imagination yields, — fruits which unfit 
The palate for the more substantial food 
Of our own land — reality. I made 
My heart too like a temple for a home ; 
My thoughts were birds of paradise, that breathed 
The airs of heaven, but died on touching earth. 
— The knight whose deeds were stainless as his 

crest, 
Who made my name his watchword in the field ; 
The poet with immortal words, whose heart 
{ shared with beauty ; or the patriot, 
Whose eloquence was power, who made my smile 
His recompense amid the toil which shaped 
A nation's destiny : these, such as these, 
The glorified — the passionate — the brave — 
fn these I might have found the head and heart 
. could have worshipp'd. Where are such as 
these 1 



— Not mid gay cavaliers, who make the dance 
Pleasant with graceful flatteries ; whose words 
A passing moment might light up my cheek, 
But haunted not my solitude. The fault 
Has been my own ; perhaps I ask'd too much :— » 
Yet let me say, what firmly I believe, 
Love can be — ay, and is. I held that Love 
Which chooseth from a thousand only one, 
To be the object of that tenderness 
Natural to every heart ; which can resign 
Its own best happiness for one dear sake ; 
Can bear with absence ; hath no part in hope,— 
For Hope is somewhat selfish, Love is not, — 
And doth prefer another to itself. 
Unchangeable and generous, what, like Love, 
Can melt away the dross of worldliness ; 
Can elevate, refine, and make the heart 
Of that pure gold which is the fitting shrine 
For fire, as sacred as e'er came from Heaven 1 
No more of this : — one word may read my hear. 
And that one word is utter weariness ! 
Yet sometimes I look round with vain regret, 
And think I will restring my lute, and nerve 
My woman's hand for nobler enterprise ; 
But the day never comes. Alas ! we make 
A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, 
But sleep ourselves at the foot : our high resolves 
Look down upon our slumbering acts." 

I soon left Italy : it is well worth 
A year of wandering, were it but to feel 
How much our England does outweigh tba 

w T or'd. 
A clear cold April morning was it, when I first 
Rode up the avenue of ancient oaks, 
A hundred years upon each stately head. 
The park was bright with sunshine, and the deei 
Went bounding by ; freshness was on the wind, 
Till every nerve was braced ; and once the air 
Came with Arabian sweetness on its wing, — 
It was the earliest growth of violets. 
A fairy foot had left its trace beside, — 
Ah, Emily had nursed my favourite flowers. 
Nearer I came, I heard familiar sounds — 
They are the heart's best music ; saw the blaze 
Through the wide windows of the dear old halL ' 
One moment more my eager footsteps stood 
Within my father's home, beside his hearth. 
— Three times those early violets had fill'd 
Their turns with April dew, when the changes 

cheek 
Of Emily wore signs of young decay. 
The rose was too inconstant, and the light 
Too clear in those blue eyes ; but southern skies 
Might nurse a flower too delicate to bear 
The winds of March, unless in Italy. 
I need not tell thee how the soothing air 
Brought tranquil bloom that fed not on itself 
To Emily's sweet face : but soon again 



THE ANCESTRESS. 



119 



We talk' J of winter by our own wood five, 
With cheerful words, that had no tears to hide. 
— We pass'd through Rome on our return, and 

there 
Sought out Eulalie. Graceful as her wont 
Her welcome to my bride ; but, 0, so changed ! 
Her cheek was colourless as snow ; she wore 
The beauty of a statue, or a spirit 
With large and radiant eyes : — her thrilling voice 
Had lost its power, but still its sweetness kept. 
One night, while seated in her favourite hall, 
The silken curtains all flung back for air, 
She mark' J my E.uit.r, whose idle gaze 
Was fix'd on that fair garden. " Will you come 
And wander in the moonlight 1 — our soft dew 
Will wash no colour from thine island cheek." 
She led the way by many a bed, whose hues 
Vied with the rainbow, — through sweet-scented 

groves 
Golden with oranges : at length the path 
Grew shadowy with darker, older trees, 
And led us to a little lonely spot. 
There were no blossoming shrubs, but sweeping 

pines 
Guarded the solitude ; and laurel boughs 



Made fitting mirrors for the lovely moon, 
With their bright shining leaves ; the ivy lay 
And trail'd upon the ground ; and in the midst 
A large old cypress stood, beneath whose shade 
There was a sculptured form ; the feet wer« 

placed 
Upon a finely-carved rose wreath ; the arms 
Were raised to Heaven, as if to clasp the stars 
Eulalie leant beside ; 'twas hard to say 
Which was the actual marble : when she spoke, 
You started, scarce it seem'd a human sound ; 
But the eyes' lustre told life linger'd still ; 
And now the moonlight seem'd to fill their depths 
" You see," she said, " my cemetery here : — 
Here, only here, shall be my quiet grave. 
Yon statue is my emblem : see, its grasp 
Is raised to Heaven, forgetful that the while 
Its step has crush'd the fairest of earth's flowers 

With its neglect." 

Her prophecy was sooth : 
No change of leaf had that green valley known, 
When Eulalie lay there in her last sleep. 

Peace to the weary and the beating heart, 
That fed upon itself ! 



THE ANCESTRESS, 

A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 



The Count of Ardenbueg. 

Jarojiir, otherwise Count Herman, his Nephew. 
Guests, Attendants, Officers, fyc. 



Bertha, Daughter of the Count. 
Leitra, her Nurse. 

Ladies, Attendants, fyc. 



SCENE I.— Ja] 



Bi 



Bertha. 
It is in this we differ ; I would seek 
To blend my very being into thine — 
I'm even jealous of thy memory : 
I wish our childhood had been pass'd together. 

Jaromir. 
Bertha, sweet Bertha ! would to heaven it had ! 
What would'st thou with a past that knew thee 
not? 

Bertha. 

To make that past my own by confidence, 
By mingled recollections, I would fain 
Our childish sorrows had been wept together ; 
Our childish joys had been indulged together ; 
Our childish hopes had been believed together : 
But as this cannot be, I speak of them — 



The very speaking does associate us — 
I speak of them, that, in those coming years, 
When youthful hours rise up within the mind, 
Like lovely dreams some sudden chance haj 

brought, 
To fill the eyes with long-forgotten tears, 
My image may be with them as of one 
Who held such sympathy with aught of thine. 

Jaromir. 
Sweetest, no more of this : my youth hath pass'd 
In harsh and rugged warfare, not the scenes 
Of } 7 oung knights with white plumes, and gallaa 1 

steeds, 
With lady's favour on each burnish'd crest. 
Whose tournaments, in honour of fair dames, 
May furnish tales to suit the maiden's ear. 
I've had no part in such ; I only know 
Of war the terrible reality : — 
The long-night watch beneath the driving snow 



1-20 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



The unsoothed pillow where the strong man lay 

Likc a weak child, by weary sickness worn 

Even to weeping : — or the ghastly dead, 

By the more ghastly dying, whose last breath 

['ass'd in a prayer for water — but in vain, — 

O'er them their eager comrades hurry on 

To slaughter others. How thy cheek is blanch'd ! 

I truly said these were no tales for thee. 

Come, take thy lute, and sing just one sweet song 

To fill my sleep with music. 

Bertha. 

Then good night. 
I have so much to say to my old nurse, — 
This is her annual visit, and she waits 
"V\ itbin my chamber, — so one only song. 

My lute is tuneless with this damp night air, 
Like to our own glad spirits, its fine chords 
Are soon relax'd. 

Jaromih. 
Then sing, love, with the wind, 
The plaining wind, and let that be thy lute. 

Bertha. 
How wildly round our ancient battlements 
The air-notes murmur ! Blent with such a wind 
I heard the song which shall be ours to-night. 
She had a strange sweet voice, the maid who 

sang, 
Out early death was pale upon her cheek ; 
And she had melancholy thoughts, that gave 
Their sadness to her speech : she sat apart 
From all her young companions, in the shade 
Of an old tree — a gloomy tree, whose boughs 
Hung o'er her as a pall : — 'twas omenlike, 
For she died young. — of gradual decay, 
As if the heart consumed itself. None knew 
If she had loved ; but always did her song 
Dwell on love's sorrows. 

Sleep, heart of mine, — 
Why should love awake thee 1 
Like yon closed rosebud, 
To thy rest betake thee. 

Sleep, heart of mine, — 
Wherefore art thou beating 1 
Do dreams stir thy slumbers, 
Vainest hopes repeating 1 

Sleep, heart of mine, 
Sleep thou without dreaming : 
Love, the beguiler, 
Weareth such false seeming. 

Sleep, heart of mine ; 
But if on thy slumbers 
Breathe one faint murmur 
Of his charm'd numbers ; 



Waken, heart of mine, 
From such dangerous sleeping ; 
Love's haunted visions 
Ever end in weeping. 

But now no more of song. I will not lose 

Another legend of my nurse's store. 

A whole year must have added to her list 

Of ghastly murders, spiritual visitings : 

At least, 'twill make the ancient ones seem new 

JARO^riR. 

And you will listen like a frighted child. 
I think I see you ; — when the turret clock 
Has toll'd the night hour heavily ; the hearth 
Has only flickering embers, which send forth 
Gleams of distorting light ; the untrimm'd lamp 
Exaggerates the shadows, till they seem 
Flung by no human shape ; the hollow voice 
Of that old crone, the only living sound ; 
Her face, on which mortality has writ 
Its closing, with the wan and bony hand, 
Raised like a spectre's — and yourself the while, 
Cold from the midnight chill, and white with fear 
Your large blue eyes darker and larger grown 
With terror's chain'd attention, and } T our breath 
Suppress'd for very earnestness. Weil, love, 
Good night ; and if our haunted air be fill'd 
With Spirits, may they watch o'er thee like Love 

BERTHA. , 

Good night, good night! — the kind Madonna 
shed 
Her blessings o'er thee ! 

[Exit Jaromik. 

'Tis his last footfall. — I can catch no more. 
Methinks he pass'd too quickly. Had I left 
This room, I should have counted every step, — 
Have linger'd on the threshold ; but he went 
Rapidly, carelessly. Now out on this, 
The very folly of a loving heart ! 

Jaromir ! it is a fearful thing 

To love as I love thee ; to feel the world — 
The bright, the beautiful, joy-giving world— 
A blank without thee. Never more to me 
Can hope, joy, fear, wear different seemings 
Now 

1 have no hope that does not dream for thee ; 
I have no joy that is not shared by thee ; 

I have no fear that does not dread for thee. 
All that I once took pleasure in — my lute 
Is only sweet when it repeats thy name ; 
My flowers, I only gather them for thee ; 
The book drops listless down, I cannot read, 
Unless it is to thee ; my lonely hours 
Are spent in shaping forth our future lives 
After my own romantic fantasies. 
He is the star round which my thoughts revolve 
Like satellites. My father, can it be 



THE ANCESTRESS. 



121 



That thine, the unceasing love of many years, 

Doth not so fill my heart as this strange guest 1 

I loved thee once so wholly, — now mcthinks 

I love thee for that thou lovest Jaromir. 

— It is the lamp gone out, — that dreams like these 

Should be by darkness broken ! I am grown 

So superstitious in my fears and hopes, 

As if I thought that all things must take part 

In my great love. — Alas, my poor old nurse, 

How she has waited ! 

[Exit Bertha. 



SCENE II.— Bertha. Leitra. 

BERTHA. 

The embers cast a cold dim light around, 
And the wan lamp seems weary with our watch. — 
O Leitra, do not look so fearfully. 

ieitiia. 
Now, holy saints ! who brought that picture 
here 7 

BEHTHA. 

That picture — O, now, Leitra, thy strange tales 
Made me forget what Jaromir had done. 
In the east turret's old deserted rooms 
He saw a lovely portrait almost hid 
By the gray cobwebs and the gather'd dust ; 
That he had clear'd it carefully, and thought 
It should be with my favourite pictures hung — 
And here it is, my own kind Jaromir. 

EEITHA. 

He brought it here! — Bertha, kneel and 
pray ! — 
The shadowy likeness, when the actual shape 
Is distant far ; the dream whose prophecy 
Comes when we waken terribly distinct ; 
The shriek the grave sends up in the still night, 
Are not such deadly omens as that face. 
My young, my good, my fair, what hath the curse 
That s upon thine house to do with thee 1 

BERTHA. 

What do you mean ? Speak, speak ! — the very 
sound 
Of my own voice is terrible ! — what curse — 
Whose is this picture 1 

EEITHA. 

It is The Ancestress ! 

BERTHA. 

My Ancestress 1— and a most lovely one : 
Yet is her beauty awful :— the pale cheek 
Looks as if passion had fed on its rose ; 
(16) 



The lips are pale, too, though their graceful curvj 
Fascinates in its scorn ; her kose dark hair, 
Wild as a sibyl's, sweeps as if 't had caught 
Its wildness and its darkness from the storm ; 
Her eyes, like moonlight melancholy, seem 
So deep, so spiritual, — such the far light 
Of stars which are a mystery ; like a queen's 
For grace, and like a swan's for snow, her neck 
Thrown back so haughtily ; and her black robe, 
Her golden girdle with strange characters, 
Suit her strange loveliness so well. 



Hush, hush ! 
Your thoughtless words sound like impiety. 
I had not meant to tell her history, 
But it is best you know it. Never came 
That portrait here by but a simple chance. 
She was a princess of the olden time, 
So beautiful, that kings laid down their crowns 
Like flowers before her, and her halls were 

throng'd 
With lovers, and of life she took no thought, 
Save for its pleasures ; but as years pass'd on 
She felt her insecurity, and cursed 
Her own fair face for fading. Suddenly 
She grew more lovely, as if age to her 
Were but a second youth ; again her halls 
Were fill'd with worshippers, and day and night 
Consumed in revels ; when as suddenly 
As summer had revisited her face, 
She pass'd away. On his death-bed a monk 
Told a wild legend, how one autumn eve 
He leant in his confessional alone, 
And a most radiant lady knelt and wept 
Over the one unpardonable sin, 
How for the sake of lasting loveliness 
Her soul was forfeit to the evil power, 
Who tempted her with beauty. Then she said 
It was now moek'd by ceaseless tears, which fell, 
Although in vain ; how she from shrine to shrine 
Had gone in late repentant pilgrimage. 
Her knees were worn with many prayers ; but 

still 
The presence of the demon haunted her. 
Then rose a spirit of strong prophecy 
Upon that aged monk : he said her crime 
Was fearful, so would be its punishment ; 
That for her sin a curse was on her race, 
Which she would witness : — sorrow, early death; 
Sickness, and guilt would be her children's lot ; 
That, still bound by her human sympathy, 
Although debarr'd all human intercourse, 
She now was doom'd to wander o'er the earth, 
A witness of their misery, till not one 
Kemain'd of her descendants ; then the grave 
Would be her restingplace, and she might hope 
That the most infinite mercy of the Cross 



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MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Might sanctify a sinner's penitence.— 
Bertha, this was your Ancestress. My child, 
Yon portrait is an evil omen here. 



There is another where my heart can turn : — 
Gentlest Madonna, from my early years 
Thou hast been as the mother I have lost, 
In patience and in comfort. Leitra, 
I am too sad for more of these dark tales : — 
Good night ! 

LEITRA. 

Now blessings rest upon thee, my sweet child ! 
There's not a bead upon my rosary 
That shall not count a prayer for thy dear sake. 



SCENE III.— The Castle Chapel. 

Jaromir. Bertha. 

jaromir. 
What, Bertha, is it you 1 I little thought 
The shrouding mantle, and the hurried step, 
Which raised my wonder at this midnight hour, 
So cold, so damp were those of mine own love ; 
I little dream'd this dreary chapel held 
So fail - a saint. 

BERTHA. 

I pray thee do not speak to me ; I feel 
As if the dead were conscious of our presence ; 
And human tenderness, and human hope, 
Were impious before them. Nay, but hark ! 
I hear a strange low sound, like grief suppress'd, 
Debarr'd from words, and breaking out in sighs. 

JAROMIR. 

I hear it too ; the wild wind in the pines, 
The mournful music of an autumn eve. 
What brought thee here, to scare thyself with 

thoughts 
That make their own reality 1 



To pray. 
Alas ! for thee too much have I forgot 
My orisons beside my mother's grave : 
Till lately, never did a day go past 
Without some scatter'd flowers, some holy hymn, 
That kept affection fresh with piety. 
It is a beautiful, a bless'd belief, 
That the beloved dead, grown angels, watch 
The dear ones left behind ; and that my prayers 
Are welcome to my mother's ears, as when 
I knell a lisping infant at her knee ; 



And that her pure and holy spirit now 
Doth intercede at the eternal throne : 
And thus religion in its love and hope 
Unites us still — the mother and her child ! 

JAROMIR. 

Ah, Bertha mine ! thy childhood was thtico 
bless'd, 
Thy young mind sanctified, and after life 
Made holy by the memory of the past. 
I knew no mother's care to teach my lips 
Those prayers that like good angels keep the heart 
From uncurb'd passions, that lay waste and curse. 
But Bertha, my sweet Bertha ! thou shalt be 
My soul's religion, and my prayers will rise 
Welcome and purified when blent with thine. 
But come, methinks the funeral urn has lent 
Its marble to thy cheek : thy hair is wild ; 
The dew has half unloosed its graceful qutI. 
The lamps around burn dim in the thick air : 
Come, let me wrap my cloak around thee, love ; 
Thou art too delicate for such a night. 
Why didst thou leave thy chamber ] 



My nurse — Jaromir ! she told to-night 
A history of our house. I could not sleep, — 
The fear of its deep terror, like a ghost, 
So haunted me ; I sought my mother's grave ; 
It seem'd a sanctuary, — Jaromir ! 
Have you not heard of her — "The Ancestress V 

JAROMIR. 

An excellent ghost story. I have led 
A life too stirring for those vague beliefs 
That superstition builds in solitude : 
But you, my gentle lady of romance, 
Whose youth has pass'd in an old castle, dark 
With overhanging pines ; whose twilight hours 
Are spent in ancient galleries, where the walls 
Are hung with pictures of grim ancestors ; 
Who art familiar with the plumed knights 
Whose effigies keep guard in the old hall, 
On whose black panels of the carved oak 
The sunshine falls in vain ; no wonder thou 
Shouldst yield these marvels such a ready faith : 
But, though I fain would share thy eveiy thought. 
Feel — hope— fear — any thing like thee — at this 
I cannot choose but smile. 

Bertha. 

Nay, Jaromir ! 
Who shall deny the spiritual influence 
Of the unquiet dead ] — a mystery 
The hidden, and the terrible. 

JAROMIR. 

Come, cornet, 
This shall be argued by the cheerful fire. 



THE ANCESTRESS. 



123 



BERTHA. 

Look there, look there ! My God, it is her face ! 
[The Ancestress rises from the tomb, but 
only visible to Bertha, as Jaromir is 
turned from her. 

jaromir. 
What foolish fear is this 1 My Bertha, speak ! 
Good saints ! but she is senseless. 

[ Carries tsr out. 



SCENE IV.— The Cockt and Jaromir 

COUNT. 

The legends of our house ? — I'll tell you one. 
There were two brothers who grew up together, 
As if they had one heart ; their tasks, their sports 
Were shared ; at evening side by side they slept, 
At morning waked together ; when they talk'd 
With all youth's eagerness of future days, 
They imaged but one plan, for neither knew 
Their hopes could be divided. Years pass'd on, 
And never brought they with them less of change. 
But when the elder came to man's estate, 
There was too mark'd a difference in their lot : 
The first held wealth and rank, — the younger one 
Dependent *, 'tis a bitter word, and most 
When bred together in equality. 
And then the younger brother rashly wed, 
And lovely children crowded at his knee, 
Foredoom'd to the same life that he had led, 
Where pride and poverty contend, and shame 
Grows deeper from suppression. Years pass'd on 
At length a deadly sickness smote the Count ; 
His brother, with a strange unholy joy, 
Stood by the dying man ; for he was heir 
To that proud castle and its wide domain, 
And past loves were all lost in future hopes. 
Then was a secret told him which destroy'd 
Those golden dreams, — that brother had a child ! 
Death scoffs at worldly canities, and death 
Avow'd the secret marriage pride conceal'd. 
He died ; and now his lonely orphan's fate 
Was in the new count's hands, and he play'd false : 
The boy was left in poor obscurity, 
The mother's claim put down, and fraud and strife 
Grasp'd their inheritance. That unjust lord, 
The curse was on him, — one by one they died, 
The children, for whose sake he sold his soul. 
One only daughter cheer'd his desolate house ! 
And all search for the orphan was in vain, 
Till chance restored him, and her father sought 
To make her his atonement. 

JAROMIR. 

Count, no more ! 
" know the history, though till now I deem'd 



Myself unknown. It was with bitter thoughts 
And evil hopes I sought this castle first ; 
But love and kindness greeted me ; I saw 
An old man with remorse upon his brow. 

COUNT. 

Remorse ! — for years it has encompass'd me, 
Darker and darker as its shadow fell 
Nearer the grave : but at your coming, hope 
Enter'd the dungeon of my mind like light. 
I knew you by your likeness to your father. 
For years I have not dared to raise my eyes 
Even upon his picture ; but to-night, 
When all the lighted halls are fill'd with guests, 
By blood or amity link'd to our house, 
You shall be own'd before them as the heir ; 
And I will look my brother in the face, 
And say, Your son is happy, — pardon me. 

And now for the worst penance of my sin, — 
To tell my Bertha of her father's crime. 
Alas ! to think that he who virtue taught, 
Who fill'd her heart with piety and truth, 
Should be the first to show temptation's strength 
To prove that guilt could be within the soul, 
While the false words spoke moral loveliness 

JAROMIR. 

But, ! there needs not this.— 



Hush ! hush 
I am impatient as a wearied man 
Eager to lay a weighty burthen down. 
Come to me presently. [Exit. 

JAROMIR. 

I do not feel as I should feel at this. 
Acknowledged heir of a most noble house, 
Beloved and loving, wherefore should the past, 
Which hitherto had seem'd but as a dream, 
Of which I took no heed, — why should the past 
Come darkly up like an o'ertaking storm, 
Whose heaviness weighs down the atmosphere 
Of present hope ] Which shall I curse the most 
My father's pride, my uncle's avarice 1 
But for these, bred according to my birth, 
Familiar but with honourable deeds, 
My fiery youth allow'd an open field, 
The name of every gallant ancestor 
A bond upon my soul against disgrace, 
My name had been as stainless as my crest. 
But, nursed in poverty, my infant ears 
Listening to curses, how must wrongs have 

changed 
A mother's nature, when the first lisp'd words 
Her child's young lips were taught, were oaths and 

threats 
Of deep revenge ! Brought up to scorn my state 
Yet shut out from all other, while the blood 



124 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Of my bold forefathers stirr'd in my veins, 
What have they made me 1 Robber — murderer ! 
One of the ready sword and reckless hand, 
Who values blood by gold. Where art thou 

now, 
Spirit of enterprise, that urged me on — 
Spirit of vengeance, that at midnight rang 
My mother's dying words within my brain, — 
Where are ye now"? Hush'd as the womout 

wave ! 
And in your stead do fear and sorrow come ; 
Till, even as a child that dreads the dark, 
I dread the future. Bertha, thou hast struck, 
As with an angel's hand, my rocky heart, 
And calFd forth its pure waters : higher hopes, 
Gentle affections, thankfulness to God, 
And kindliness towards my fellow-men, 
Are gushing in my bosom's stony depths ; 
And all subdued and chasten'd by a sense 
Of my unworthiness. No more I hold 
A blind and terrible fatality 
Is paramount upon this weary life — 
This gulf of troubled billows — where the soul, 
Like a vex'd bark, is toss'd upon the waves 
Of pain and pleasure by the warring breath 
Of passions, which are winds that bear it on, 
And only to destruction. Never more 
Shall I speak recklessly of death ; or shun 
A quiet thought or solitary hour ; 
Or drown that consciousness, our moral life, 
In the red wine cup : now my better heart 
Luxuriates in repose ; I can pass days 
Stretch'd in the shade of those old cedar trees, 
Watching the sunshine like a blessing fall, — 
The breeze like music wandering o'er the boughs, — 
Each tree a natural harp, — each different leaf 
A different note, blent in one vast thanksgiving. 

[In leaning from the casement he catches 
a sight of Bertha. 
1 see her now. How more than beautiful 
She paces yon broad terrace ! — The free wind 
Has lifted the soft curls from off her cheek, 
Which yet it crimsons not, — the pure, the pale, — 
Like a young saint. How delicately carved 
The Grecian outline of her face ! — but touch'd 
With a more spiritual beauty, and more meek. 
Her large blue eyes are raised up to the heavens, 
Whose hues they wear, and seem to grow more 

clear 
As the heart fills them. There, those parted 

lips, — 
Prayer could but give such voiceless eloquence, — 
Shining like snow her clasp'd and earnest hands, 
She seems a dedicated nun, whose heart 
is God's own altar. By her side I feel 
As in some holy place. My best love, mine, 
Blessinsrs must fall on one like thee ! 



SCENE V.— Bertha in her Room. 



The sound of festival is in my ear, 
Haunting it with faint music ; the red lights 
Shine fitfully reflected in the lake, 
Where I have never seen aught but the moon 
Mirror'd before, or the bright quiet stars. 
A weight is on the air, for every breeze 
Has, birdlike, folded up its wings for sleep. 
It is like mockery of the silent night 
To choose her hours for merriment ; but thus 
We struggle with all natural laws, and make 
Our life a strange disorder. Yet how sweet 
Comes up the distant music ! — though 'tis sad. 
A few brief moments, and those notes will be 
But echoes to the dancers' joyous steps. 
Why should they rouse in me such mournfu 

thoughts 1 
Recalling snatches of familiar song's, 
I've sung to those sweet airs, all sorrowful. 
I see the youthful warrior with his head 
Pillow'd upon his shield, but not for sleep ; 
The maiden with her face upon her hands 
Bow'd in its last despair. What are the words ? 

[Sings a few words in a low tone to herself. 

And fitfully the embers raised 

A faint and passing flame ; 
They miss'd her from her father's hearth, 

But call'd not on her name. 

They knew that she was weeping 
For the loved and for the dead ; 

In silence and in solitude, 

Must such heavy tears be shed 1 

And can these notes, so long associate 

With love and sorrow, thus be turn'd to mirth, 

And we shall dance to what brought tears before * 

[Leaning from the casement. 
How beautiful it is ! though on the air 
There is the stillness of a coming storm, 
And on the sky its darkness. On the west, 
Like a rebellious multitude, the clouds 
Are gather'd in huge masses ; but the Moon, 
Like a young queen, unconscious, brightens still 
A little clear blue space ; though rapidly 
Her comrades, the sweet stars, sink one by one, 
Lost in the spreading vapours. Yet the lake 
Has not a shadow. Well may the young Mom 
Forget her danger, gazing on the face 
Its silver water's mirror : — all beyond 
Is like the grave's obscurity ; more near 
All is most tranquil beauty and repose. 
The garden flowers are paler than by day, 
And sweeter. What an altar of perfume 



THE ANCESTRESS. 



125 



is the musk-rose, beneath my casement twined ! 

Dipping its golden tresses in the lake, 

Leans the laburnum, and beneath its shade 

Sleep my two swans, as white, as still as snow. 

— The wind is rising, and a yellow haze, 

Like a volcano's smoke, makes heaven less dark 

To be more fearful. I can now discern 

Our ancient avenue of cedar trees, — 

How black they look, and with what heavy 

strength 
The giant branches move ! — the weary air 
Like a deep breath comes from them. — Ah, how 

dark ! 
It is the first cloud that has touch'd the moon : — 
Her loveliness has conquer'd, — 0, not yet ! — 
One huge cloud, and another. I could deem 
The evil powers did war on high to-night. 
And are there such that o'er humanity 
Hold influence, — the terrible, the wild, — 
Inscrutable as fear, — the ministers 
To our unholy passions 1 These are they 
Who dazzle with unrighteous wealth, and make 
Our sleep temptation ; they who fill its dreams 
With passionate strife and guilt, until the mind 
Is grown familiar with the sight of blood. 
I do believe in them : — by those strange crimes 
Man's natural heart would shrink from, — by the 

fear 
That comes with midnight, — by that awful face, 
Which, though they say it was a fantasy, 
I know I saw, — I do believe in them. 

Enter Jaro:\iih. 

JAR0XIR. 

Bertha, you are beautiful to-night ! 
My fairy Princess, with your golden hair 
Loosed from the braids which almost hid its wealth, 
Descending in a sunny shower of curls, 
And lighted up with diamonds ; and your waist, 
That rainbow girdle of all precious stones, — 
How well it suits its slender gracefulness ! 
Our halls are fill'd with guests. There, take one 

glance 
At yonder mirror ; and now let me lead 
My lovely cousin to the festal rooms. 
Come, Bertha. 



SCENE VI.— A Hall filled with, Guests. 
The Couxt, Jaromir, and Bertha. 

fiust iadt. 
This is delightful. Why the grim old hall 
Is fill'd with torches ; every shining shield 



And gilded helm reflects the light : the crowd 
Of our gay nobles have not left a gem 
Within their ancient coffers. 

SECOXI) LAD I. 

Yet methinks 
There is a shadow on this gayety, 
Flung from departed years ; yon empty helm 
The last memorial of some mighty chief, 
Now even as the dust upon his plume ; 
Those ghastly portraits bringing back the dead. 
I cannot bear to look upon a face 
Warm with the hues of life, from which long 

since 
All likeness to the human form has pass'd. 

TIRST IADT. 

This is too fanciful : — come, join the dance. 

TIRST X0BIE5I1X. 

A gallant cavalier this new-found count : 
He'll wear his honours gayly. 

SECOND NOBEE^IAX. 

Such excess 
Of mirth's exuberance visits not for good. 
An evil fate is written on his brow ; 
The dark, the ominous, — his very joy 
Is like a desperate man's : — I like it not. 
He is not one over w T hose head the curse 
Will pass away that hangs upon his house. 

FIRST NOELEXAy. 

Yonder is Bertha ; but how very pale ! — 
More like a nun on whom the moonlight fall? 
In some lone cell, than a betroth'd bride 
My gentle Bertha, have you not a smile 
For an old friend to-night 1 



My very kindest, if you did but know 
The happiness of one familiar face. 
Let us rest here awdiile, the open air 
Is so refreshing in its natural sweetness. 
My head is dizzy with excess of light 
Let us but join with looks the festival 
Awhile from this aicove. 

FIRST KOBEEMAW. 

How miserlike 
The wealth of spring is heap'd ! Say, are not 

these 
Among your favourite flowers 1 

BERTHA. 

Blue hyacinths ! 
0, do not show them me ; they fill my eye 
With tears too soft for such a scene «s this. 
/ 2 



126 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



FIRST NOBLEMAN. 

Is happiness so wholly past from thee, 
That its remembrance is turn'd into pain 1 
Or is thy heart, thy woman's heart, so caught 
By this gay revel, that a serious thought 
Is counted as a pleasure lost 1 



But now thy words give utterance to mine, 
Which else might seem so grave. I've lived too 

long 
Fn the deep quiet of our ancient halls ; 
Have dwelt too much in solitude, whose fence 
Was broken but by old beloved friends, 
To bear this revelry of festival, 
And not feel too oppress'd for happiness. 
I am spectator, not partaker, here. 
To me it seems more like a pageant made 
To represent mirth, than the mirth itself. 
I have known many that did act a joy 
In which they had no part. At first I gazed 
In wonder and delight on lips that wore 
A smile as if by custom, and on eyes 
Which seem'd but made to look bland courtesy. 
This did not last. I saw the cheek grow red 
With ill-dissembled anger, at some slight ; 
The eye flash sudden fire, and the harsh lip 
Curve into scorn : then all grow calm again, — 
Is it not like those lands, where, I have read, 
Beneath an outward show of fairest flowers 
The soil has veins of subterranean flame, 
Whose fiery sparkles start to sudden life 
When we least dream of them. I'd rather breathe 
One moment's breath of morning on the hills, 
Than all the Indian woods that ever burnt 
On silver censers ; and would rather see 
One leaf fall from the bough which misses not 
Its loss, than look upon the purple sweep 
Of these rich tapestries. 

Ah, 'tis his voice ! 
Jaromir in the distance. 
Health and long happiness, my friends. 

Bertha, com ing forward. 
Who are those strangers 7 They are arm'd ; 

and see 
How rudely do they force their way ! 

Officers rush up the room, and surround 
Jaromir, exclaiming, 
Jur prisoner ! 

first officer. 
Count Herman, we are sorry thus to break 
Upon your gayety. 

COUNT HERMAN. 

Off, off ! your prisoner is my nearest kin 
The noble heir of these insulted halls. 



FIRST OFFICER. 

But not the less the robber Udolph, too. 



Discover'd, baffled — well, I can but die. 
I will not shame a name at which so oft 
The brave have trembled. I am Udolph : come 
I do defy you : one and all come on. 
Is there no rescue in my father's house 

[Some of the young cavaliers come forward ; 
they fight ; when Bertha flings herself 
before Jaromir, who is mortally wounded 
and receives another blow destined for him 



My father ! — 



[Dies 



JAROMIR. 



There, take my sword ; I cannot see her face. 
0, for one hour of life but to revenge ! 

COUNT HERMAN. 

I see her : — 'tis the Ancestress ! 

[The Ancestress glides across the stage 
beckoning the Count. 

COUNT. 

The last and the accursed of my house, 
Will no one let me touch his hand 1 

Enter Servants. 

The castle is on fire ! — a lightning flash 
Has set the eastern turrets in a blaze. 
Fly for your lives ! 

SECOND NOBLEMAN. 

We must take hence this miserable man, 

FIRST NOBLEMAN. 

He's dead! 
[The flames burst into the room, and they fly. 

The Ancestress is seen to kneel by the dead, 
with her hands raised to heaven, till the falling 
ruins of the castle hide the whole. 



NOTE. 

The hint of " The Ancestress" is taken from a 
German play by Grillparzer, called " T he Ahnfrau." 
The following is the account of it, contained in 
Blackwood's Magazine, for September, 1825 : — 
" The guilt of the Ahnfrau having introduced a 
spurious heir into the noble family of Borotin, she 
cannot rest in her grave until her crime is ex- 
piated, and its consequences remedied, by tho 



POETICAL PORTRAITS. 



127 



extinction of the intrusive line. This is -finally 
effected m the play through a series of horrible 
calamities. The son of the count having been 
stolen in his infancy by a robber, is brought up in 
his supposed father's profession ; falls in love, as 
unwittingly as CEdipus, with his sister ; kills his 
father in a scuffle with the Bow-street officers of 
Poland ; and finally dies in the embrace of his 
ghostly Ahnfrau, whom he mistakes for Bertha. 
The old lady, when her penance is completed, by 
the disasters of her descendants, which, with truly 
disinterested maternal love, she had vainly endea- 



voured to prevent, ends her tragedy by going 
quietly home into her hitherto untenanted monu- 
ment." 

I have taken very considerable liberties with the 
original plot; first, in making the guilt of the 
Ancestress supernatural, as believing such most 
likely to incur supernatural punishment ; secondly, 
in making Jaromir cousin instead of brother, and 
thus avoiding the most revolting of crimes ; and, 
thirdly, in awarding something of the character of 
poetical justice, as it is the count's own offencfl 
which brings down the punishment. 



POETICAL PORTRAITS. 



No. I. 

no, sweet lady, not to thee 
That set and chilling tone, 

By which the feelings on themselves 

So utterly are thrown : 
For mine has sprung upon my lips, 

Impatient to express 
The haunting ©harm of thy sweet voice 

And gentlest loveliness. 
A very fairy queen thou art, 
Whose only spells are on the heart. 

The garden it has many a flower, 

But only one for thee — 
The early graced of Grecian song, 

The fragrant myrtle tree ; 
For it doth speak of happy love, 

The delicate, the true. 
If its pearl buds are fan like thee, 

They seem as fragile too ; 
Likeness, not omens, for love's power 
Will watch his own most precious flower. 

Thou art. not of that wilder race 

Upon the mountain side, 
Able .ike the summer sun 

And winter blasts to bide : 
But thou art of that gentler growth, 

Which asks some loving eye, 
To keep it in sweet guardianship, 

Or it must droop and die ; 
Requiring equal love and care, 
Even more delicate than fair. 

1 cannot paint to thee the charm 

Which thou hast wrought on me ; 
Thy laugh, so like the wild bird's song 
In the first bloom-touch'd tree 



You spoke of lovely Italy, 
And of its thousand flowers ; 

Your lips had caught the music breath 
Amid its summer bow'rs. 

And can it be a form like thine 

Has braved the stormy Appenine ? 

I'm standing now with one white rose 

Where silver waters glide : 
I've flung that white rose on the stream, 

How light it breasts the tide ! 
The clear waves seem as if they love 

So beautiful a thing ; 
And fondly to the scented leaves 

The laughing sunbeams cling. 
A summer voyage — fairy freight ;— 
And such, sweet lady, be thy fate ! 

No. II. 

Ah ! little do those features wear 
The shade of grief, the soil of care ; 
The hair is parted o'er a brow- 
Open and white as mountain snow, 
And thence descends in many a ring, 
With sun and summer glistening. 
Yet something on that brow has wrought 
A moment's cast of passing thought 
Musing of gentle dreams, like those 
Which tint the slumbers of the rose : 
Not love, — love is not yet with thee, — 
But just a glimpse what love may be : 
A memory of some last night's sigh, 
V/hen flitting blush and drooping eye 
Answer'd some youthful cavalier, 
W T hose words sank pleasant on thine eaf. 
To stir, but not to fill the heart ; — 
Dreaming of such, fair girl, thou art.- 

Thou blessed season of our spring, 
When hopes are angels on the wing- 



128 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Bound upwards to their heavenly shore, 

Alas ! to visit earth no more. 

Then step and laugh alike are light, 

When, like a summer morning bright, 

Our spirits in their mirth are such, 

As turn to gold whate'er they touch. 

The past ! 'tis nothing, — childhood's day 

Has roll'd too recently away, 

For youth to shed those mournful tears 

That fill the eye in older years, 

When care looks back on that bright leaf 

Of ready smiles and shortlived grief. 

The future ! — 'tis the promised land ; 

To which hope points with prophet hand, 

Telling us fairy tales of flowers 

That only change for fruit — and ours. 

Though false, though fleeting, and though vain, 

Thou blessed time I say again. — 

Glad being, with thy downcast eyes, 
And visionary look that lies 
Beneath their shadow, thou shalt share 
A world, where all my treasures are — 
My lute's sweet empire, fill'd with all 
That will obey my spirit's call ; 
A world lit up by fancy's sun ! 
Ah ! little like our actual one. 

No. III. 

His hand is on the snowy sail, 

His step is on the prow, 
And back the cold night-winds have flung 

The dark curls from his brow ; 
That brow to which his native heaven 
A something of itself has given. 

But all too mix'd with earthly stain, 

The nameless shadowy care, 
Which tells, that though Heaven gave it birth, 

Its home has not been there ; 
And here, the earth and heaven seem blent 
In one discordant element. 

It weart, our nature's nobler part ; 

That spirit which doth spurn 
The weary bondage of our world, 

And show what man can earn ; 
Where, led by honourable pride, 
Hero and sage are deified : — 

T hose high imaginings which make 

The glory which they hope ; 
fine- wrought aspirings, lofty aims, 

Which have in youth such scope ; 
Like tides" which, haunted by the moon 
Eise but, alas ! to fall too soon. 

Vain are these dreams, and vain these hopes 
And yet 'tis these give birth, 



To each high purpose, generous deed, 

That sanctifies our earth. 
He who hath highest aim in view, 
Must dream at first what he will do. 

Upon that youthful brow are traced 

High impulses like these ; 
But all too purposeless, like gales 

That wander o'er the seas ; 
Not winds that bear the vessel on, 
Fix'd to one point, and only one. 

And meaner workings have deform'd 

His natural noble mind ; 
Those wretched aims which waste the ore 

For happier use design'd. 
And petty wishes, idle praise, 
Destroy the hopes of better days. 

And hath no earlier vision taught 

A more exalted creed 1 
Alas ! that such a mind should waste 

Its powers away, to feed 
That wretched vanity which clings 
To life's debasing, paltry things. 

The worthlessness of common praise, 

The dry rot of the mind, 
By which its temple secretly 

But fast is undermined. 
Alas ! the praise given to the ear 
Ne'er was nor e'er can be sincere— 

And does but waste away the mind 

On which it preys : — in vain 
Would they in whom its poison lurks 

A worthier state attain. 
Indifference proud, immortal aim, 
Had, aye, the demigods of fame. 

The dew of night falls cold around, 

Yet can it not allay 
The fever burning on thy cheek, 

That eats thy life away : 
For thou dost know thy birthright sold 
For even less than his of old. 

Thou know'st what thou hast power to be, 
Thou know'st, too, what thou art ; 

And heavily does discontent 
Sit rankling at thy heart ; 

And thou dost mask thy grief the while 

With scornful sneer, and bitter smile. 

But yet thou art too indolent 
From such weak bonds to free 

Thy better self, and urge thy strength 
To be what thou might'st be ; 



POETICAL PORTRAITS. 



129 



Thou dost repent the past, and blame, 
And yet thy future is the same. 

Ay, leave thy rudder to the wave 

Thy sail upon the wind, 
Leave them to chance, and they will be 

Fit likeness of thy mind : 
Unguided sail, unmaster'd prow, 
Are only emblems ; — What art thou 1 

No. IV. 
His brow is pale with high and passionate 

thoughts, 
That come from heaven like lightning, and consume, 
E'en while they brighten : youth hath lost its 

hopes : 
Those sweet and wandering birds, that make its 

spring 
So happy with their music, — these are gone ; 
All scared by one, a vulture, that doth feed 
Upon the lifeblood of the throbbing heart — 
The hope of immortality ! — that hope, 
Whose altar is the grave, whose sacrifice 
Is life — bright, beautiful, and breathing life. 
He stands amid the revellers with a joy, 
A scarcely conscious joy, in their delight ; 
In it he has no part, — he stands alone ; 
But the deep music haunts his dreaming ear, — 
But the fair forms flit o'er his dreaming eye, — 
And exquisite illusions fill his soul 
With loveliness to pour in future song. 

He leant beside a casement, and the moon 
Shed her own stillness o'er the hectic cheek 
Whereon the fever of the mind had fed ; 
His eyes have turn'd towards th' eternal stars, 
Drinking the light into their shadowy depths, 
Almost as glorious and as spiritual. 
The night-wind touch'd his forehead, with it ran 
A faint slight shudder through his wasted frame, — 
Alas ! how little can bring down our thoughts 
From their most lofty communings with heaven, 
To poor mortality — that passing chill 
Recall'd those bitter feelings that attend 
Career half folio w'd, and the goal unwon : 
He thought upon his few and unknown years, 
How much his power, how little it had done ; 
And then again the pale lip was compress'd 
With high resolve, the dark eye flash'd with hope 
To snatch a laurel from the grasp of death, 
For the green memory of an early grave. 

No. V. 
Thy beauty ! not a fault is there ; 

No queen of Grecian line 
E'er braided more luxuriant hair 

O'er forehead more divine. 

The light of midnight's starry heaven 
Is in those radiant eyes ; 
(17) 



The rose's crimson life has given 
That cheek its morning dyes. 

Thy voice is sweet, as if it took 

Its music from thy face ; 
And word and mien, and step and look. 

Are perfect in their grace. 

And yet I love thee not : thy brow 

Is but the sculptor's mould : 
It wants a shade, it wants a glow, — 

It is less fair than cold. 

Where are thy blushes, where thy tears 1 

Thy cheek has but one rose : 
No eloquence of hopes and fears 

Disturbs its bright repose. 

Thy large dark eyes grow not more dark 

With tears that swell unshed : 
Alas ! thy heart is as the ark 

That floated o'er the dead 

Hope, feeling, fancy, fear and love 

Are in one ruin hurl'd ; 
Fate's dreary waters roll above 

Thy 3^oung and other world. 

And thou hast lived o'er scenes like these, 

The terrible, the past, 
Where hearts must either break or freeze, — 

And thine has done the last. 

Thou movest amid the heartless throng 
With school'd and alter'd brow : 

Thy face has worn its mask so long, 
It is its likeness now. 

Where is the colour that once flush'd 

With every eager word ] 
Where the sweet joyous laugh, that gush'd 

Like spring songs from the bird ? 

Where are the tears a word once brought- — 

The heart's sweet social rain 1' 
Where are the smiles that only sought 

To see themselves again 1 

I knew thee in thine earlier hours, 

A very summer queen 
For some young poet's dream : — those flow'ia 

Are just what thou hast been. — 

Wild flow'rs, all touch'd with rainbow hues. 

Born in a morning sky, 
Lighted with sunshine, fill'd with dews, 

Made for a smile and sigh. 



130 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



But now I look upon thy face, 

A very pictured show, 
Betraying not the slightest trace 

Of what may work below. 

Farewell, affection! — selfish, changed, 

Thine it no more may be : 
From love thou hast thyself estranged, — 

It could not dwell with thee. 

No. VI. 

The light is kindling in his eye, 

The colour on his cheek ; 
And thoughts, the passionate, the deep, 

Their charmed silence break ; 

Yet not to pour themselves in song, 

But in those burning words 
That come when such chance touch has waked 

The spirit's secret chords. 

How eloquent, how beautiful 

Like morning in the north 
Melting away the dreary ice, 

His noble mind came forth ! 



He stood the centre of the ring, 

Awakening in each breast 
Feelings and thoughts, forgotten, though 

Their noblest and their best. 

'Twas but a moment while they own'd 

The youthful poet's sway ; 
A beacon light upon the hill, 

To warn and die away. 

Again his downcast eye was dim, 

Again his cheek was pale ; 
Again around his beating heart 

Closed its accustom'd veil. 

A moment's pause, a moment's praise, . 

Sufficed to change the scene ; 
And careless word and careless laugh 

Arose where mind had been. 

So flings the lamp upon the wind 
Its bright and dying flame : — 

I thought, alas, the waste of life, 
The vanity of fame ' 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Chance notes struck from the lute— fancies and thoughts- 
Shadows that haunt the poet's fairy land. 

Love's words are writ on roseleaves, but with tears. 

These are the dreams that light my solitude : 

Warrior thoughts— had I been a young knight, 

And curb'd a gallant steed, and worn a sword, — 

Heaven knows I often wish it !— sadness, signs 

I fancy many a cheek betrays of love ; 

Records of beauty, that has seem'd to me 

A thing for worship ; thoughts that sprung from flowers ; 

Feelings on which to meditate is all 

Woman's philosophy ; sorrows that flung 

Darkness upon my heart ; unkindness, wrong, 

Gentle affection too ; all that hath made 

My minstrel annals, are upon these leaves. 



THE NEGLECTED ONE. 

And there is silence in that lonely hall, 
Save where the waters of the fountain fall, 
And the wind's distant murmuring, which takes 
ISweet messages from every bud it wakes. 
'Tis more than midnight ; all the lamps are goxe, 
Their fragrant oils exhausted, — all but one, 
A little silver lamp beside a scroll, 
Where a young maiden leant, and pour'd her soul, 
in those last words, the bitter and the brief. 
How can they nay confiding is relief 1 



Light are the woes that to the eyelids spring, 
Subdued and soften'd by the tears they bring ; 
But there are some too long, too well conceal'd, 
Too deeply felt, — that are but once reveal' d : 
Like the withdrawing of the mortal dart, 
And then the lifeblood follows from the heart ; 
Sorrow, before unspoken by a sigh, 
But which, once spoken, only hath to die. — 

Young, very young, the lady was, who now 
Bow'd on her slender hand her weary brow : 
Not beautiful, save when the eager thought 
In the soft eyes a sudden beautv wrought : 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



131 



.N ot beautiful, save when the cheek's warm blush 

Grew eloquent with momentary flush 

Of feeling, that made beauty, not to last, 

And scarcely caught, so quickly is it past. 

— Alas ! she knew it well ; too early thrown 

Mid a cold world, the unloved and the lone, 

With no near kindred ties on whom could dwell 

Love that so sought to be beloved as well. 

Too sensitive for flattery, and too kind 

To bear the loneliness by fate assign'd, 

Her life had been a struggle : long she strove 

To fix on things inanimate her love ; 

On pity, kindness, music, gentle lore, 

All that romance could yield of fairy store. 

In vain ! she loved : — she loved, and from that 

hour 
Gone were the quiet loves of bird or flower ; 
The unread book dropp'd listless on her knee, 
The untouch'd lute hung on the bending tree, 
Whose unwreath'd boughs no more a pleasant 

shade 
For the lone dreamings of her twilight made. 
— Well might she love him : every eye was turn'd 
On that young knight, and bright cheeks brighter 

burn'd, 
Save one, that grew the paler for his sake : 
Alas ! for her-, whose heart but beat to break ; 
Who knew too well, not hers the lip or eye 
For which the youthful lover swears to die. 
How deep, how merciless, the love represt, 
That robs the silent midnight of its rest ; 
That sees in gather' d crowds but one alone ; 
That hears in mingled footsteps only one ; 
That turns the poet's page, to only find 
Some mournful image for itself design'd ; 
That seeks in music, but the plaining tone 
Which secret sorrow whispers is its own ! 
Alas for the young heart, when love is there, 
Its comrade and its confidant, despair ! 

How often leant in some unnoticed spot, 
Her very being by the throng forgot, 
Shrunk back to shun the glad lamp's mocking ray, 
Pass'd many a dark and weary hour away, 
Watching the young, the beautiful, the bright, 
Seeming more lovely in that lonely light ; 
And as each fair face glided through the dance, 
Stealing at some near mirror one swift glance, 
Then, starting at the contrast, seek hei room, 
To weep, at least, in solitude and gloom ! 
And he, her stately idol, he, with eye 
Dark as the eagle's in a summer sky, 
And darker curls, amid whose raven shade 
The very wild wind amorously delay'd, 
With that bright smile, which makes all others 

dim, 
So proud, so sweet,— what part had she in him 1 
And yet she loved him : who may say, be still, 
To the fond heart that beats not at our will 1 



'Twas too much wretchedness : — the convent 

cell, 
There might the maiden with her misery dwell. 
And that, to-morrow was her chosen doom : 
There might her hopes, her feelings, find a tomb. 
Her feelings ! — no : pray, struggle, weep, con- 
demn, — 
Her feelings, — there was but one grave for them. 
'Twas her last night, and she had look'd her last, 
And she must live henceforward in the past. 
She linger'd in the hall, — he had been there ; 
Her pale lips grew yet paler with the prayer 
That only ask'd his happiness. She took 
A blank leaf from an old emblazon'd book, 
Which told love's chronicles ; a faint hope 

stole, — 
A sweet light o'er the darkness of her soul — 
Might she not leave remembrance, like tho 

wreath, 
Whose dying flowers their scents on twilight 

breathe ; 
Just one faint tone of music, low and clear, 
Coming when other songs have left the ear 1 
Might she not tell him how she loved, and pray 
A mournful memory for some distant day 1 
She took the scroll : — what ! bare perhaps to 

scorn 
The timid sorrow she so long had borne ! 
Silent as death, she hid her face, for shame 
In rushing crimson to her forehead came ; 
Through the small fingers fell the bitter rain, 
And tremblingly she closed the leaves again. 
— The hall is lit with rose, that morning hour, 
Whose lights are colour'd by each opening 

flower : 
A sweet bird by the casement sat and sang 
A song so glad, that like a laugh it rang, 
While its wings shook the jessamine, till the 

bloom 
Floated like incense round that joyous room. 
— They found the maiden : still her face waa 

bow'd, 
As with some shame that might not be avow'd ; 
They raised the long hair which her face con 

ceal'd, — 
And she is dead, — her secret unreveal'd. 



A NIGHT IN MAY. 



A night not sacred to Spring's opening leaves, 
But one of crowded festival. 



Light and glad through the rooms the gav 

music is waking, 
Where the young and the lovelv are gather'd 

to-night ; 



132 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



A.nd the soft cloudless lamps, with their lustre, are 
making 
A midnight hour only than morning less bright. 

There are vases, — the flowers withm them are 
breathing 
Sighs almost as sweet as the lips that are near ; 
Light feet are glancing, white arms are wreath- 
ing— 
temple of pleasure thou surely art here. 

I gazed on the scene ; 'twas the dream of a minute ; 

But it secm'd to me even as fairy land fair : 
Twas the cup's bright inside ; and on glancing 
within it, 
What but the dregs and the darkness were 
there 1 

-False wave of the desert, thou art less beguiling 
Than false beauty over the lighted hall shed : 
What but the smiles that have practised their 

smiling, 
Or honey words measured, and reckon'd as 

said 1 

3, heart of mine ! turn from the revellers before 
thee ; 
What part hast thou in them, of have they in 
thee ] 
What was the feeling that too soon came o'er 
thee ?— 
Weariness ever that feeling must be. 

Praise — flattery — opiates the meanest, yet sweetest, 
Are ye the fame that my spirit hath dream'd 1 

Lute, when in such scenes, if homage thou meetest, 
Say, if like glory such vanity seem'd 1 

for some island far off in the ocean, 

Where never a footstep has press'd but mine 
own : 
With one hope, one feeling, one utter devotion 
To my gift of song, once more, the lovely, the 
lone ! 

My heart is too much in the things which profane 
it; 

The cold, and the worldly, why am I like them ? 
Vanity ! with my lute chords I must chain it, 

Nor thus let it sully the minstrel's best gem. 

It rises Defore me, that island, where blooming, 
The flowers in their thousands are comrades for 
me ; 
And where if one perish, so sweet its entombing, 
The welcome it seems of fresh leaves to the tree. 

Ill wander among them when morning is weeping 
Her earliest tears, if such pearls can be tears ; 



When the birds and the roses together are sleep- 
ing, 
Till the mist of the daybreak, like hope fulfill'd. 
clears. 

Grove of dark cypress, when noontide is flinging 
Its radiance of light, thou shalt then be my 
shrine ; 

I'll listen the song which the wild dove is singing 
And catch from its sweetness a lesson for mine 

And when the red sunset at even is dying, 

I'll watch the last blush as it fades on the wave - 
While the wind, through the shells in its low 

music sighing, 
Will seem like the anthem pearl'd over its grave. 

And when the bright stars which I worship are 
beaming, 
And writing in beauty and fate on the sky, 
Then, mine own lute, be the hour of thy dreaming, 
And the night-flowers will open and echo thy 
sigh. 

Alas ! but my dream has like sleep's visions 
vanish'd ; 
The hall and the crowd are before me again : 
Sternly my sweet thoughts like fairies are banish'd ; 
Nay, the faith which believed in them now 
seems but vain, 

I left the gay circle : — if I found it dreary, 

Were all others there, then, the thoughtless and 
glad] 
Methinks that fair cheek in its paleness look'd 
weary, 
Methinks that dark eye in its drooping was sad. 

— I went to my chamber, — I sought to be lonely, — 
I leant by the casement to catch the sweet air ; 

The thick tears fell blinding ; and am I then only 
Sad, weary, although without actual care 1 

The heart hath its mystery, and who may reveal it ; 

Or who ever read in the depths of their own? — 
How much, we never may speak of, yet feel it, 

But, even in feeling it, know it unknown ! 

Sky of wild beauty, in those distant ages 

Of which tune hath left scarce a wreck or 
name, 
Say were thy secrets laid bare to the sages, 

Who held that the stars were life's annals of 
flame 1 

Spirit, that ruleth man's life to its ending, 

Chance, Fortune, Fate, answer my summoning 
now; 



MISCELLANEOUS P E M S 

The storm o'er the face of the night is descend 



133 



Fair moon, the dark clouds hide thy silvery 
brow. 

Let these bring thy answer, and tell me if sadness 

Forever man's penance and portion must be ; 
Doth the morning come forth from a birthplace of 
gladness 1 
Is there peace, is there rest, in thine empire or 
thee f 

Spirit of fate, from yon troubled west leaning, 
As its meteor-piled rack were thy home and thy 
shrine, 
Grief is our knowledge, 'twill teach me thy mean- 
ing, 
Although thou but speak'st it in silence and sign. 

I mark'd a soft arch sweep its way over heaven ; 
It spann'd as it ruled the fierce storm which it 
bound : 
The moonshine, the shower, to its influence seem'd 
given, 
And the black clouds grew bright in the beauti- 
ful round. 

I look'd out again, but few hues were remaining 
On the side nearest earth ; while I gazed, they 
were past: 
As a steed for a time with its curb proudly strain- 
ing, 
Then freed in its strength, came the tempest at 
last. 

And this was the sign of thy answer, dark spirit ! 

Alas ! and such ever our pathway appears ; 
Tempest and change still our earth must inherit, — 

Its glory a shade, and its loveliness tears. 



WARNING. 

PitAY thee, maiden, hear him not ! 
Take thou warning by my lot ; 
Read my scroll, and mark thou all 
I can tell thee of thy thrall. 
Thou hast own'd that youthful breast 
Treasures its most dangerous guest ; 
Thou hast own'd that Love is there : 
Though now features he may wear, 
Such as would a saint deceive, 
Win a skeptic to believe, 
Only for a time that brow, 
Will seem what 'tis seeming now. 



I have said, heart, be content ! 

For Love's power o'er thee is spent. 

That I love not now, true ! — 

I have bade such dream's adieu : 

Therefore deemest thou my heart 

Saw them tranquilly depart ; 

That they past, nor left behind 

Wreck' and ruin in my mind. 

Thou art in the summer hour 

Of first passion's early power ; 

I am in the autumn day, 

Of its darkness, and decay. 

— Seems thine idol now to thee 

Even as a divinity 1 

Such the faith that I too held ; 

Not the less am I compell'd 

All my heart-creed to gainsay, 

Own my idol gilded clay, 

And yet pine to dream again 

What I know is worse than vain. 

Ay, I did Jove, and how well, 

Let thine own fond weakness tell 

Still upon the softcn'd mood 

Of my twilight solitude, 

Still upon my midnight tear, 

Rises image all too dear ; 

Dark and starry eyes, whose light 

Make the glory of the night ; 

Brow like ocean's morning foam, 

For each noble thought a home. 

Well such temple's fair outline 

Seem'd the spirit's fitting shrine. 

— Is he hero, who hath won 

Fields we shrink to think upon 1 

Patriot, on whose gifted tongue 

Senates in their wonder hung 1 

Sage, before whose gifted eyes 

Nature spreads her myst» ries 1 

Bard, to whose charm'd lute is given 

All that earth can breathe of heaven 1- 

Seems thy lover these to thee 1 

Even more mine seem'd to me. 

Now, my f jiid belief is past ; 

Strange, methinks, if thine should last. 

" Be content, thou lovest not now :" 

Free, thou sayest, — dream'st thou how { 

Loathing wouldst thou shun dismay'd 

Freedom by such ransom paid. 

— Girl, for thee I'll lay aside 

Veil of smiles and mask of pride ; 

Shrouds that only ask of Fate 

Not to seem so desolate. 

— I am young, — but age's snow 

Hides not colder depths below ; 

I am gay, — but siyJa a light 

Shines upon the grave by nignt. 

— Yet mine is a common tale ; 

Hearts soon changed, and vows were rV;ul 



134 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Each one blamed the other's deed, 
5fet both felt they were agreed ; 
Ne'er again might either prove 
Those sweet fallacies of love. 
— Still for what so vain I hold 
Is my wasted heart grown cold. 
Can hopes be again believed, 
When their sweetest have deceived 1 
Can affection's chain be trusted, 
When its dearest links have rusted 1 
Can life's dreams again be cherish'd, 
When its dearest ones have perish'd 1 
I know Love will not endure ; — 
Nothing now to me seems sure. 
— Maiden, by the thousand tears 
Lava floods on my first years ; 
By the nights, when burning pain 
Fed upon my heart and brain ; 
By the wretched days now past, 
By the weary days to last ; 
Be thou warn'd, for still the same 
Is Love, beneath whatever name. 
Keep thy fond faith like a thing 
Where Time never change may bring. 
Vow thee to thy idol's shrine, — 
Then, maiden ! read thy fate in mine. 



THE NAMELESS GRAVE. 

A nameless grave, — there is no stone 

To sanctify the dead : 
O'er it the willow droops alone, 

With only wild flowers spread. 

" 0, there is nought to interest here, 

No record of a name, 
A trumpet call upon the ear, 

High on the roll of fame. 

" I will not pause beside a tomb 

Where nothing calls to mind 
Aught that can brighten mortal gloom, 

Or elevate mankind ; — 

" No glorious memory to efface 

The stay of meaner clay ; 
No intellect whose heavenly trace 

Redeem' d our earth : — away !" 

Ah, these are thoughts that well may rise 

On youth's ambitious pride ; 
But I will sit and moralize 

This lowly stone beside. 

Here thousands might have slept, whose name 

Had been to thee a spell, 
To light thy flashing eyes with flame, — 

To bid thy young heart swell. 



Here might have been a warrior's rest, 
Some chief who bravely bled, 

With waving banner, sculptured crest, 
And laurel on his head. 

That laurel must have had its blood, 
That blood have caused its tear, — 

Look on the lovely solitude — 
What ! wish for warfare here ! 

A poet might have slept, — what ! he 
Whose restless heart first wakes 

Its lifepulse into melody, 

Then o'er it pines and breaks 1 — 

He who hath sung of passionate love, 

His life a feverish tale : — 
! not the nightingale, the dove 

Would suit its quiet vale. 

See, I have named your favourite two,* 
Each had been glad to crave 

Rest 'neath this turf's unbroken dew, 
And such a nameless grave ! 



FANTASIES. 

INSCRIBED TO T. CR0ET0N CHOKER, ESQ.* 
1. 

I'm weary, I'm weary, — this cold world of ours • 
I will go dwell afar, with fairies and flowers. 
Farewell to the festal, the hall of the dance, 
Where each step is a study, a falsehood each 

glance ; 
Where the vain are displaying, the vapid are 

yawning ; 
Where the beauty of night, the glory of dawning. 
Are wasted, as fashion, that tyrant, at will 
Makes war on sweet Nature^ and exiles her still. 



I'm weary, I'm weary, — I'm off with the wind: 
Can I find a worse fate than the one left behind 1 
— Fair beings of moonlight, ga3 r dwellers in air, 

show me your kingdom ! O let me dwell there ! 

1 see them, I see them ! — how sweet it must be 
To sleep in yon lily ! — is there room in't for me ? 
I have flung my clay fetters ; and now I but wear 
A shadowy seeming, a likeness of air, 

3. 
Go harness my chariot, the leaf of an oak ; 
A butterfly stud, and a tendril my yoke. 
Go swing me a hammock, the poles mignonette ; 
I'll rock with its scent in the gossamer net. 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



135 



Go fetch me a courser : yon reed is but slight, 
Yet far is the distance 'twill bear me to-night. 
I must have a throne, — ay, yon mushroom may 

stay, 
It has sprung in a night, 'twill be gather'd next 

day: 
And fit is such throne for my brief fairy reign : 
For alas ! I'm but dreaming, and dreams are but 

vain. 



EEVENGE. 

Ay, gaze upon her rose-wreath'd hair, 

And gaze upon her smile : 
Seem as you drank the very air 

Ker breath perfumed the while : 

And wake for her the gifted line, 

That wild and witching lay, 
And swear your heart is as a shrine, 

That only owns her sway. 

'Tis well : I am revenged at last, — 
Mark you that scornful cheek, — 

The eye averted as you pass'd, 

Spoke more than words could speak. 

Ay, now by all the bitter tears, 
That I have shed for thee, — 

The racking doubts, the burning fears, — 
Avenged they well may be — 

By the nights pass'd in sleepless care, 

The days of endless wo ; 
All that you taught my heart to bear, 

All that yourself will know 

I would not wish to see you laid 

Within an early tomb ; 
I should forget how you betray'd, 

And only weep your doom : 

But this is fitting punishment 

To live and love in vain, — 
O my wrung heart, be thou content, 

And feed upon his pain. 

Go thou and watch her lightest sigh, — 

Thine own it will not be ; 
And back beneath her sunny eye, — 

It will not turn on thee. 

'Tis well : the rack, the chain, the wheel, 
Far better hadst thou proved ; 

Ev'n I could almost pity feel, 
For thou art not beloved. 



A SUMMER DAY. 

Sweet valley, whose streams flow as sparkling 

and bright 
As the stars that descend in the depths of the night i 
Whose violets fling their rich breath on the air, 
Sweet spendthrifts of treasure the Spring has flung 

there. 

My lot is not with thee, 'tis far from thine own ; 
Nor thus, amid Summer and solitude thrown : 
But still it is something to gaze upon thee, 
And bless earth, that such peace on her bosom 
can be. 

My heart and my steps both grow light as I bound 
O'er the green grass that covers thy beautiful 

ground ; 
And joy o'er my thoughts, like the sun o'er th.; 

leaves, 
A blessing in giving and taking receives. 

I have heap'd up thy flowers, the wild and the 

sweet, 
As if fresh from the touch of the night-elfin's feet ; 
A bough from thy oak, and a sprig from thy 

broom, — 
I take them as keepsakes to tell of thy bloom. 

Their green leaves may droop, and .heir colours 

may flee, 
As if dying with sorrow at parting from thee ; 
And my memory fade with them, till thou wilt 

but seem 
Like the flitting shape morning recalls of a dream- 
Let them fade from their freshness, so leave they 

behind 
One trace, like faint music, impress'd on the mind . 
One leaf or one flower to memory will bring 
The light of thy beauty, the hope of thy spring 



THE WREATH. 

Nat, fling not down those faded flowers.. 

Too late they're scatter'd round • 
And violet and rose-leaf lie 

Together on the ground. 

How carefully this very morn 

Those buds were cull'd and wreath d . 
And, 'mid the cloud of that dark hair, 

How sweet a sigh they breathed ! 

And many a gentle word was said 
Above their morning dye, 



136 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



How that the rose had touch'd thy cheek, 
The violet thine eye. 

Methinks, if but for memory, 

I should have kept these flowers ; 

Ah ! all too lightly does thy heart 
Dwell upon vanish'd hours. 

Already has thine eager hand 

Stripp'd yonder rose-hung bough ; 

The wreath that bound thy raven curls 
Thy feet are on it now. 

That glancing smile, it seems to say 

" Thou art too fanciful : 
What matters it what roses fade, 

While there are more to cull 1" 

Ay, I was wrong to ask of thee 
Such gloomy thoughts as mine : 

Thou in thy Spring, how shouldst thou dream 
Of Autumn's pale decline ] 

Young, lovely, loved, — O ! far from thee 

Life's after-dearth and doom ; 
Long ere thou learn how memory clings 

To even faded bloom ! 



THE DYING CHILD. 



The woman was in abject misery— that worst of poverty, 
which is haunted by shame— the only relic left by better 
3ays. She shrunk from all efforts at recovery, refused to 
administer the medicines, and spoke of the child's death 
rut as a blessing. 

My God ! and is the daily page of life 
Darken'd with wretchedness like this. 



Her cheek is flush'd with fever red ; 

Her little hand burns in my own ; 
Alas ! and does pain rack her sleep 1 

Speak ! for I cannot bear that moan. 

Yet sleep, I do not wish to look 
Again within those languid eyes; 

Sleep, though again the heavy lash 
May never from their beauty rise. 

— Aid, hope for me 1 — now hold thy peace, 
And take that healing cup away ; 

Life, length of life, to that poor child ! — 
It is not life for which I pray. 

Why should she live for pain, for toil, 
For wasted frame and broken heart : 



Till life has only left, in death, 

With its base fear of death to part ! 

How could I bear to see her youth 
Bow'd to the dust by abject toil, 

Till misery urge the soul to guilt, 

From which its nature would recoil 1 

The bitterness of poverty, 

The shame that adds the worst to wo,- 
I think upon the life I've known, 

Upon the life that I shall know 

Look through yon street, — a hundred lamps 
Are lighting up the revels there, — 

Hark ! you can hear the distant laugh 
Blending with music on the air. 

The rich dwell there, who know not want ; 

Who loathe that wretchedness whose name 
Is there an unfamiliar sound : — 

Why is not my estate the same 1 

I may have sinn'd, and punishment 
For that most ignorant sin incur ; 

But be the curse upon my head, — 
O, let it not descend to her ! 

Sleep, dear one ! 'tis a weary world , 
Sleep the sweet slumber of the grave 

Vex me no more with thy vain words : 
What worth is that you seek to save 1 

Tears — tears — I shame that I should weep ; 

I thought my heart had nerved my eye •- 
I should be thankful, and I will, — 

There, there, my child, lie xlowm and die ! 



SONG. 

On never another dream can be 

Like that early dream of ours, 
When the fairy Hope lay down to sleep, 

Like a child, among the flowers. 

But Hope has waken'd since, and wept, 

Like a rainbow, itself away ; 
And the flowers have faded, and fallen arouna- 

We have none for a wreath to-day. 

Now wisdom wakes in the place of Hope, 
And our hearts are like winter hours : 

Ah ! afterlife has been little worth 
That early dream of ours. 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



137 



A SUMMER EVENING'S TALE. 

Come, let thy careless sail float on the wind ; 
Come, lean by me, and let thy little boat 
Follow like thee its will ; come, lean by me. 
Freighted with roses which the west has flung, 
Over its waters on the vessel glides, 
Save where the shadowy boughs shut out the sky, 
And make a lovely darkness, while the wind 
Stirs the sad music of their plaining leaves. 
The sKy grows paler, as it burnt away 
Its crimson passion ; and the falling dew 
Seems like the tears that follow such an hour. 
I'll tell thee, love, a tale, — just such a tale 
As you once said my lips could breathe so well ; 
Speaking as poetry should speak of love, 
And asking from the depths of mine own heart 
The truth that touches, and by what I feel 
For thee, believe what others' feelings are. 
There, leave the sail, and look with earnest eyes ; 
Seem not as if the worldly element 
In which thou movest were of thy nature part, 
But yield thee to the influence of those thoughts 
That haunt thy solitude ; — ah, but for those 
I never could have loved thee ; I, who now 
Live only in my other life with thee ; 
Out on our beings' falsehood ! — studied, cold, 
Are we not like that actor of old time, 
"Who wore his mask so long, his features took 
Its likeness 1 — thus we feign we do not feel, 
Until our feelings are forgotten things, 
Their nature warp'd in one base selfishness ; 
And generous impulses, and lofty thoughts, 
Are counted folly, or are not believed : 
And he who doubts or mocks at excellence 
(Good that refines our nature, and subdues,) 
Is riveted to earth by sevenfold chains. 
0, never had the poet's lute a hope, 
An aim so glorious as it now may have, 
In this our social state, where petty cares 
And mercenary interests only look 
Upon the present's littleness, and shrink 
From the bold future, and the stately past, — 
Where the smooth surface of society 
Is polish'd by deceit, and the warm heart 
With all its kind affections' early flow, 
Flung back upon itself, forgets to beat, 
At least for others ; — 'tis the poet's gift 
To melt these frozen waters into tears, 
By sympathy with sorrows not our own, 
By wakening memory with those mournful notes, 
Whose music is the thoughts of early years, 
When truth was on the lip, and feelings wore 
The sweetness and the freshness of their morn. 
Young poet, if thy dreams have not such hope 
To purify, refine, exalt, subdue, 
To touch the selfish, and to shame the vain 
(18) 



Out of themselves, by gentle mournfulness, 
Or chords that rouse some aim of enterprise, 
Lofty and pure, and meant for general good ; 
If thou hast not some power that may direct 
The mind from the mean round of daily life, 
Waking affections that might else have slept. 
Or high resolves, the petrified before, 
Or rousing in that mind a finer sense 
Of inward and external loveliness, 
Making imagination serve as guide 
To all of heaven that yet remains on earth, — 
Thine is a useless lute : break it, and die. 

Love mine, I know my weakness, and I know 
How far I fall short of the glorious goal 
I purpose to myself; yet if one line 
Has stolen from the eye unconscious tears, 
Recali'd one lover to fidelity 
Which is the holiness of love, or bade 
One maiden sicken at cold vanity, 
When dreaming o'er affection's tenderness, 
The deep, the true, the honour'd of my song,- 
If but one worldly soil has been effaced, 
That song has not been utterly in vain. 
All true deep feeling purifies the heart. 
Am I not better by my love for you 1 
At least, I am less selfish ; I would give 
My life to buy you happiness : — Hush, hush ! 
I must not let you know how much I love,- 
So to my tale. — 'Twas on an eve like this, 
When purple shadows floated round, and light, 
Crimson and passionate, o'er the statues fell, 
Like life, for that fair gallery was fill'd 
With statues, each one an eternity 
Of thought and beauty : there were lovely shapes, 
And noble ones ; some which the poet's song 
Had touch'd with its own immortality ; 
Others whose glory flung o'er history's page 
Imperishable lustre. There she stood, 
Forsaken Ariadne ; round her trow 
Wreath'd the glad vine leaves ; but it wore a 

shade 
Of early wretchedness, that which once flung 
May never be effaced : and near her leant 
End oiios, and his spiritual beauty wore 
The likeness of divinity ; for love 
Doth elevate to itself, and she who watch'd 
Over his sleeping face, upon it left 
The brightness of herself. Around the walls 
Hung pictures, some which gave the summer all 
Summer can wish, a more eternal bloom ; 
And others in some young and lovely face 
Imbodied dreams into reality. 
There hung a portrait of St. Rosaxie,- 
She who renounced the world in youth, and maao 
Her heart an altar but for heavenly hopes— 
Thrice bless'd in such sacrifice. Alas ! 
The weakness, yet the strength of earthly ties ! 
Who hath not in the weariness of life 
m 2 



138 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Wish'd for the wings of morning or the dove, 
To bear them heavenward, and have wish'd in 

vain ? 
For wishes are effectual but by will, 
And that too much is impotent and void 
In frail humanity , and time steals by 
Sinful and wavering, and unredeem'd. 

Bent by a casement, whence her eye could 

dwell 
Or on the countenance of that sweet saint, 
Or the fair valley, where the river wound 
Like to a fairy thing, now light, now shade, 
Which the eye watches in its wandering, 
A maiden pass'd each summer eve away. 
Life's closing colour was upon her cheek, 
Crimson as that which marks the closing day : 
And her large eyes, the radiant and the clear, 
Wore all the ethereal beauty of that heaven 
Where she was hastening. Still her rosebud mouth 
Wore the voluptuous sweetness of a spring 
Haunted by fragrance and by melody. 
Her hair was gather'd in a silken net, 
As if its luxury of auburn curls 
Oppress'd the feverish temples all too much ; 
For you might see the azure pulses beat 
In the clear forehead painfully ; and oft 
Would her small hands be press'd upon her brow, 
As if to still its throbbing. Days pass'd by, 
And thus beside that casement would she spend 
The summer evenings. Well she knew her doom, 
And sought to linger with such loveliness : 
Surely it soothed her passage to the grave. 

One gazed upon her, till his very life 
Was dedicate to that idolatry 
With which young Love makes offering of itself. 
In the vast world he only saw her face. 
The morning blush was lighted up by hope, — 
The hope of meeting her ; the noontide hours 
Were counted for her sake ; in the soft wind, 
When it had pass'd o'er early flowers, he caugh 
The odour of her sigh; upon tbe rose 
He only saw the colour of her cheek. 
He ivatch'd the midnight stars until they wore 
Her beauty's likeness — love's astrology. 

His was the gifted eye, which grace still touch'd 
As if with second nature ; and his dreams, 
His childish dreams, were lit by hues from 

heaven — 
Those which make genius. Now his visions 

wore 
A grace more actual, and one worshipp'd face 
Inspired the young sculptor, till like life 
His spirit warm'd the marble. Who shall say 
The love of genius is a common thing, 
Such as the many feel — half selfishness, 
Half vanity 1 — for genius is divine, 
And, like a god, doth turn its dwelling-place 
r nto a temple ; and the heart redeem'd 



By its fine influence is immortal shrine 

For love's divinity. In common homes 

He dies, as he was born, in nothingnes. 

But love, inspiring genius, makes the world 

Its glorious witness ; hence the poet's page 

Wakens its haunting sympathy of pain ; 

And hence the painter with a touch creates 

Feelings imperishable. 'Twas from that hour 

Canova took his inspiration : love 

Made him the sculptor of all loveliness ; 

The overflowing of a soul imbued 

By most ideal grace, the memory 

Which lingers round first passion's sepulchre. 

— Why do I say first love ] — there is no second. 

Who asks in the same year a second growth 

Of spring leaves from the tree, com from the 

field ?— 
They are exhausted. Thus 'tis with the heart :— 
'Tis not so rich in feeling or in hope 
To bear that one be crush'd, the other faded, 
Yet find them ready to put forth again. 
It does not always last ; man's temper is 
Often forgetful, fickle, and throws down 
The temple he can never build again ; 
But when it does last, and that asks for much, — . 
A fix'd yet passionate spirit, and a mind 
Master of its resolves, — when that love lasts, 
It is in noblest natures. After years 
Tell how Castova felt the influence. 
They never spoke : she look'd too spiritual, 
Too pure for human passion ; and her face 
Seem'd hallow'd by the heaven it was so near. 
And days pass'd on : — it was an eve in June — 
How ever could it be so fair a one 1 — 
And she came not : hue after hue forsook 
The clouds, like Hope, which died with them, and 

night 
Came all too soon and shadowy. He rose, 
And wander'd through the city, o'er which hung 
The darkness of his thoughts. At length a strain 
Of ominous music wail'd along the streets : 
It was the mournful chanting for the dead, 
And the long tapers flung upon the air 
A wild red light, and show'd the funeral train : 
Wreaths — what mockeries ! — hung from the 

bier ; 
And there, pale, beautiful, as if in sleep, 
Her dark hair braided graceful with white flowers, 
She lay, — his own beloved one ! 

No more, no more ! — love, turn thy boat to 

land, — 
I am so sorrowful at my own words. 
Affection is an awful thing ! — Alas ! 
We give our destiny from our own hands, • 
And trust to those most frail of all frail things, 
The chances of humanity. 
— The wind hath a deep sound, more stern than 

sweet ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



139 



And the dark sky is clouded ; tremulous, 
A few far stars— how pale they look to-night !- 
Touch the still waters with a fitful light. 
There is strange sympathy between all things, 
Though in the hurrying weariness of life 
We do not pause to note it : the glad day, 
Like a young king surrounded by the pomp 
Of gold and purple, sinks but to the shade 
Of the black night : — the chronicle I told 
Began with hope, fair skies, and lovely shapes, 
And ended in despair. Even thus our life 
In these has likeness ; with its many joys, 
Its fears, its eagerness, its varying page, 
Mark'd with its thousand colours, only tends 
To darkness, and to silence, and the grave ! 



LINES OF LIFE. 



Orphan in my first years, I early learnt 
To make my heart suffice itself, and seek 
Support and sympathy in its own depths. 

Weli, read my cheek, and watch my eye, 

Too strictly school'd are they, 
One secret of my soul to show, 

One hidden thought betray. 

I never knew the time my heart 
Look'd freely from my brow ; 

It once was check'd by timidness, 
'Tis taught by caution now. 

I live among the cold, the false, 

And I must seem like them ; 
And such I am, for I am false 

As those I most condemn. 

I teach my lip its sweetest smile, 

My tongue its softest tone : 
I borrow others' likeness, till 

Almost I lose my own. 

I pass through flattery's gilded sieve, 

Whatever I would say ; 
In social life, all, like the blind, 

Must Iesm to feel their way. 

I check my thoughts like curbed steeds 

That struggle with the rein ; 
I bid my feelings sleep, like wrecks 

In the unfathom'd main. 

I hear them speak of love, the deep, 
The true, and mock the name ; 

Mock at all high and early truth, 
And I too do the same. 



I hear them tell some touching tale, 

I swallow down the tear ; 
I hear them name some generous deed, 

And I have learnt to sneer. 

I hear the spiritual, the kind, 
The pure, but named in mirth ; 

Till all of good, ay, even hope, 
Seems exiled from our earth. 

And one fear, withering ridicule, 

Is all that I can dread ; 
A sword hung by a single hair 

For ever o'er the head. 

We bow to a most servile faith, 

In a most servile fear ; 
While none among us dares to say 

What none will chose to heai\ 

And if we dream of loftier thoughts, 
In weakness they are gone ; 

And indolence and vanity 
Rivet our fetters on. 

Surely I was not born for this ! 

I feel a loftier mood 
Of generous impulse, high resolve, 

Steal o'er my solitude J 

I gazed upon the thousand stars 

That fill the midnight sky ; 
And wish, so passionately wish, 

A light like theirs on high. 

I have such eagerness of hope 

To benefit my kind ; 
And feel as if immortal power 

Were given to my mind. 

I think on that eternal fame, 

The sun of earthly gloom, 
Which makes the gloriousness of deatk, 

The future of the tomb — 

That earthly future, the faint sign 

Of a more heavenly one ; 
— A step, a word, a voice, a L»ok, — 

Alas ! my dream is done. 

And earth, and earth's debasing stain, 

Again is on my soul ; 
And I am but a nameless part 

Of a most worthless whole. 

Why write I this ] because my heart 
Towards the future springs, 

That future where it loves to soar 
On more than eagle wings. 



140 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



The present, it is but a speck 

In that eternal time, 
In which my lost hopes find a home, 

My spirit knows its clime. 

! not myself, — for what am 1 1 — 
The worthless and the weak, 

"Whose every thought of self should raise 
A blush to burn my cheek. 

But song has touch'd my lips with fire, 
And made my heart a shrine ; 

For what, although alloy'd, debased, 
Is in itself divine. 

I am myself but a vile link 

Amid life's weary chain ; 
But I have spoken hallow'd words, 

O do not say in vain ! 

My first, my last, my only wish, 

Say will my charmed chords 
Wake to the morning light of fame, 

And breathe again my words 1 

Will the young maiden, when her tears 

Alone in moonlight shine — 
Tears for the absent and the loved 

Murmur some song of mine 1 

Will the pale youth by his dim lamp, 

Himself a dying flame, 
From many an antique scroll beside, 

Choose that which bears my name ] 

Let music make less terrible 

The silence of the dead ; 
I care not, so my spirit last 

Long after life has fled. 



THE BATTLE FIELD. 



It was a battle field, and the cold moon 

Made the pale dead yet paler. Two lay there ; 

One with the ghastly marble of the grave 

Upon his face ; the other wan, but yet 

Touch'd with the hues of life, and its warm breath 

Upon his parted lips. 



He sleeps — the night wind o'er the battle-field 

Is gently sighing ; 
Gently, though each breeze bear away 

Life from the dying. 

e sleeps, — though his dear and early friend 
A corpse lies by him ; 



Though the ravening vulture and screaming 
crow 
Are hovering nigh him. 

He sleeps, — where blood has been pour'd lika 
rain, 

Another field before him ; 
And he sleeps as calm as his mother's eyes 

Were watching o'er him. 

To*morrow that youthful victor's name 

Will be proudly given, 
By the trumpet's voice, and the soldier's shout, 

To the winds of heaven. 

Yet life, how pitiful and how mean, 

Thy noblest story ; 
When the high excitement of victory, 

The fulness of glory, 

Nor the sorrow felt for the friend of his youth, 

Whose corpse he's keeping, 
Can give his human weakness force 

To keep from sleeping. 

And this is the sum of our mortal state, 

The hopes we number, — 
Feverish, waking, danger, death, 

And listless slumber. 



NEW YEIR'S EVE. 

There is no change upon the air, 

No record in the sky : 
No pall-like storm comes forth to shroud 

The year about to die. 

A few light clouds are on the heaven, 

A few far stars are bright ; 
And the pale moon shines as she shines 

On many a common night. 

Ah, not in heaven, but upon earth, 
Are signs of change exprest ; 

The closing year has left its mark 
On human brow and breast 

How much goes with it to the grave 

Of life's most precious things ! 
Methinks each year dies on a pyre, 
* Like the Assyrian kings 

Affections, friendships, confidence, — 
There's not a year hath died 

But all these treasures of the heart 
Lie with it side by side. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



141 



The wheels of time work heavily ; 

We marvel day by day 
To see how from the chain of life 

The gilding wears away. 

Sad the mere change of fortune's chance, 

And sad the friend unkind ; 
But what has sadness like the change 

That in ourselves we find 1 

I've wept my castle in the dust, 

Wept o'er an alter'd brow ; 
'Tis far worse murmuring o'er those tears, 

" Would I could weep them now !" 

0, for mine early confidence, 

Which like that graceful tree 
Bent cordial, as if each approach 

Could but in kindness be ! 

Then was the time the fairy Hope 

My future fortune told, 
Or Youth, the alchymist, that turn'd 

Whate'er he touch'd to gold. 

But Hope's sweet words can never be 

What they have been of yore : 
I am grown wiser, and believe 

In fairy tales no more. 

And Youth has spent his wealth, and bought 

The knowledge he would fain 
Change for forgetfulness, and live 

His dreaming life again. 

I'm weary, weary : day-dreams, years, 

I've seen alike depart, 
And sullen Care and Discontent 

Hang brooding o'er my heart. 

Another year, another year, — 

Alas ! and must it be 
That Time's most dark and weary wheel 

Must turn again for me 1 

In vain I seek from out the past 

Some cherish'd wreck to save ; 
Affection, feeling, hope, are dead, — 

My heart is its own grave ! 



SONG. 



I riUY thee let me weep to-night, 
'Tis rarely I am weeping ; 

My tears are buried in my heart, 
Like cave-lock'd fountains sleeping. 



But O, to-night, those words of thine, 
Have brought the past before me ; 

And shadows of long-vanish'd years 
Are passing sadly o'er me. 

The friends I loved in early youth, 

The faithless and forgetting, 
Whom, though they were not worth my love, 

I cannot help regretting ; — 

My feelings, once the kind the warm, 

But now the hard, the frozen ; 
The errors I've too long pursued, 

The path I should have chosen ; — 

The hopes that are like failing lights 

Around my pathway dying ; 
The consciousness none others rise, 

Their vacant place supplying ; — 

The knowledge by experience taught, 

The useless, the repelling ; 
For what avails to know how false 

Is all the charmer's telling 1 

I would give worlds, could I believe 

One half that is profess'd me ; 
Affection ! could I think it Thee, 

When Flattery has caress'd me 7 

I cannot bear to think of this, — 

0, leave me to my weeping ; 
A few tears for that grave my heart, 

Where hope in death is sleeping. 



STANZAS 

TO THE AUTHOR OF « MONT BLANC," 
"ADA,"&c. 

Thy hands are fill'd with early flowers, 

Thy step is on the wind ; 
The innocent and keen delight 

Of youth is on thy mind ; — 
That glad fresh feeling that bestows 
Itself the pleasure which it knows, 

The pure, the undefined ; 
And thou art in that happy hour 
Of feeling's uncurb'd, early power. 

Yes, thou art very young, and youth, 
Like light, should round thee fling 

The sunshine thrown round morning's hour 
The gladness given to spring : 

And yet upon thy brow is wrought 

The darkness of that deeper thought, 
Which future time should bring. 



142 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



What can have traced that shadowy line 
Upon a brow so young as thine 1 

'Tis written in thy large dark eyes, 

Fill'd with unbidden tears ; 
The passionate paleness on thy cheek, 

Belying thy few years. 
A child, yet not the less thou art 
One of the gifted hand and heart, 

Whose deepest hopes and fears 
Are omenlike : the poet's dower 
Is even as the prophet's power. 

Thy image floats before my eyes, 

Thy book is on my knee ; 
I'm musing on what now thou art, 

And on what thou wilt be. 
Dangerous as a magic spell, 
Whose good or evil none may tell, 

The gift that is with thee ; 
For Genius, like all heavenly light, 
Can blast as well as bless the sight. 

Thou art now in thy dreaming time : 
The green leaves on the bough, 

The sunshine turning them to gold, 
Are pleasures to thee now ; 

And thou dost love the quiet night, 

The stars to thee are a delight ; 
And not a flower can grow, 

But brings before thy haunted glance 

The poet days of old romance. 

With thine " own people" dost thou dwell, 

And by thine own fireside ; 
And kind eyes keep o'er thee a watch, 

Their darling and their pride. 
I cannot choose but envy thee ; 
The very name of home to me 

Has been from youth denied ; 
But yet it seems like sacred ground, 
By all earth's best affections bound. 

'Tis well for thee ! thou art not made 

Struggle like this to share ; 
111 might that gentle, loving heart 

The world's cold conflict bear; 
Where selfish interest, falsehood, strife, 
Strain through their gladiatorial life ; 

Save that the false ones wear 
Seeming and softness, and a smile, 
As if guilt were effaced by guile. 

T dare not speak to thee of fame, 

That madness of the soul, 
Which flings its life upon one cast, 

To reach its desperate goal. 
Still the wings destined for the sky 
Will long their upward flight to try, 

And seek to dare the whole, 



Till, space and storm and sunshine past, 
Thou find'st thou art alone at last. 

But love will be thy recompense, 
The love that haunts thy line ; 

Ay, dream of love, but do not dream 
It ever will be thine. 

His shadow, not himself, will come ; 

Too spiritual to be his home, 
Thy heart is but his shrine ; 

For vainest of all earthly things, 

The poet's vain imaginings. 

Go, still the throbbing of thy brow, 

The beating of thy heart; 
Unstring thy lute, and close thy page, 

And choose an humbler part ; 
Turn not thy glistening eyes above, 
Dwell only in thy household love, 

Forgetting what thou art ; 
And yet life like what this must be 
Seems but a weary lot for thee. 

Or trust thee to thy soaring wing, 

Awake the gifted la}'- ; 
Fling life's more quiet happiness 

For its wild dreams away. 
'Tis a hard choice : on either side 
Thy heart must with itself divide, 

Be thy doom what it may. 
Life's best to win, life's best to lose, — 
The lot is with thee, maiden, — choose. 

Ah no ! — the choice is not thine own, 

The spirit will rebel ; 
The fire within the poet's heart 

Is fire unquenchable. 
Far may its usual curse depart, 
And light, but not consume, thy heart 

Sweet minstrel, fare thee well ! 
And may for once the laurel wreath 
Not wither all that grows beneath ! 



THE MOUNTAIN GRAVE. 

She sate beside the rock from which arose 
A mountain rivulet's blue wanderings ; 
And there, with careless hand, cast leaves and 

flowers 
To float upon the surface, or to sink, 
As the wind listed, for she took no heed, 
Nor watch'd their progress. Suddenly she ceased 
While pass'd a cloud across her deep blue eyes : 
" Are ye not symbols of me, ye fair flowers 1 
Thus in mere recklessness my wilful hand 
Has wasted the whole beauty of a spring, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



U* 



And I have thrown your fragrant lives away 
In one vain moment's idleness." 'Tis strange 
How the heart, overpress'd with its own thoughts, — 
And what oppresses the young heart like love ? — 
Grows superstitious, finds similitudes 
And boding fears in every change and chance. 
She bow'd her face upon her hands and wept, 
When suddenly her bright hair was flung back, 
Her cheek was turn'd to crimson, and the tears 
Lay like dew on the rose. " Mine Agatha ! 
What ! weeping, love 1 lam not late to-night ; 
Our meeting star but trembles in the sky, 
In light as glistening as thine own sweet eyes." 

His words had a strange sound; she had forgot 
Her sorrow and its cause in the deep joy 
His presence brought. She gazed upon his face, 
As if 'twould vanish if she did not gaze ; 
She stay'd her breath to listen to his words, 
Scarce daring credit her own happiness. 
There stood they, with the rich red light of eve 
Yet lingering, like a glory, on their heads, 
In the snow mirror of the mountain peak ; — 
A bright laburnum grew beside, — its boughs 
Flung over them a golden shower : the wave 
That wander' d at their feet was clear as Hope ; 
Their shapes were outlined in it ; and one star, 
Reflected too, shone like an augury 
Of good between them. — There they leant, while 

hours 
Pass'd, as time had no boundaries. O earth, 
Yet art thou touch'd by heaven, though only 

touch'd, — 
Thy pleasures are but rainbows, which unite 
The glad heavens with thee in their transient 

beauty, 
Then melt away again upon the clouds. 
O youth, and love, which is the light of youth, 
Why pass ye as the morning 1 — life goes on, 
But like a bark that, first in carelessness, 
And afterward in fear of each rough gale, 
Has flung her richest freightage overboard. 
Who is there, though young still, yet having lost 
The warmth, the freshness, morning's dew and 

light, 
Can bear to look back on their earlier hours, 
When faith made its own happiness, and the 

heart 
Was credulous of its delight, and gave 
Its best affections forth so trustingly, 
Content to love, not doubting of return ! 

'Twas Agatha broke the sweet silence first : 
" My father told me he had seen to-day 
The gathering, Heioian, of your hardy troops : 
You led them, mounted on your snow-white 

steed. — 
He bade me fling to-night a double chain 
Of sighs and smiles, for the young warrior's truth 
Was sorely tried by absence. You will go, 



Like our bold river, into other lands, 
On its own proud free course ; whilst I shall send 
After thee hopes and prayers, like the poor leaves 
That I have cast upon the waves to perish." 

She spoke in mirth ; yet as she spoke, her words 
Caught such a sadness in their omen tone, 
In silence Herman took her hand, and gazed 
Upon her face as he would picture it 
Within his inmost soul. A brow more fair 
Ne'er caught the silver softness of moonlight. 
Her cheek was as the mirror of her heart, 
Eloquent in its blushes, and its hues 
Now varied like the evening's ; — but 'tis vain 
To dwell on youthful lovers' parting hour. 
A first farewell, with all its passionate words, 
Its lingering looks, its gushing tears, its hopes 
Scarcely distinguish'd from its fears, its vows, — 
They are its least of suffering ; for the heart 
Feels that it needs them not, yet breathes them 

still, 
Making them oracles. But the last star 
Sinks down amid the mountains : — he must go ; 
By daybreak will his gallant vassals look 
To hear their chieftain's bugle. Watch'd she 

there 
His dark plume cast its shadow on the snows, 
His rapid foot bound on from crag to crag : — 
The rocks have hid him from her eager view, 
But still she hears the echo of his step, — 
That dies too into silence ; then she feels 
Her utter loneliness : — he is quite gone ! 

Long days have pass'd — that evening star hath 

left 
Its throne of beauty on the snow-crown'd hill, 
Yielding its place to winter's thousand lights 1— 
Long days have pass'd : — again the twilight hour 
Smiles in the influence of that lovely star ; 
The bright laburnum's golden wealth is heap'd, 
The spring's first treasure, and beneath its shade 
Rests Agatha alone : — what ! still alone ? 

A few short words will tell what change ha* 

wrought 
In their once love : it is a history 
That would suit half mankind. In its first 

spring, — 
For the heart has its spring of bud and bloom 
Even as has the year, — it found a home 
For all its young affections, gentle thoughts, 
In his true maiden's bosom ; and the life 
He dream'd of was indeed a dream — 'twas made 
Of quiet happiness : but forth he went 
Into the wild world's tumult. As the bloom 
Fades from the face of nature, so the gloss 
Of his warm feelings faded with their freshness ; 
Ambition took the place of Love, and Hope 
Fed upon fiery thoughts, aspiring aims ; 
And the bold warrior, favourite of his king, 
Is that he thought of his first tenderness, 



144 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Thought of it but with scorn, or vain excuse, 
And in her uncomplaining silence read 
But what he wish'd, — oblivion ; and at last 
Her very name had faded, like the flower 
Which we have laid upon our heart, and there 
Have suffer'd it to die. A second spring 
Has loosed the snowy waters, and has fill'd 
The valleys with her joy ; but, Agatha, 
It is not spring for thee ; it has not brought 
Its sunny beauty to thy deep blue eyes, 
Its dew to freshen thy lips' languid rose, 
And its bloom is not for thy cheek. One year, 
And thou didst hide thy misery, and seem, 
With thy gay songs and smiles and gladsome 

words, 
Still in thine aged father's sight the same. 
His pride was wounded by young Herman's false- 
hood, 
But not his happiness ; and when he died, 
It was with blessings breathed in trusting hope 
Upon that dear child's head, whose tenderness 
Had made him half forget the path he trod 
Was hurrying to the grave. But he was dead, 
And Agatha stood in his lonely halls, 
An orphan, last of all her race and name, 
Without one tie of kindred or of love 
To bind her to the earth. Yet few there were 
That dream'd the hidden grief that lurk'd within. 
Too kind, too gentle not to be beloved, 
Many a vassal mourn'd the coming death, 
Whose sign was written on his lady's cheek. 
She died in silence, without sign or word 
That might betray the memory of her fate ; 
But when they heard her last request, to he 
Beneath the shade of the laburnum tree, 
Which grew beside the mountain rivulet, 
Many a cheek grew red, and brow grew dark, 
And many a whisper'd word recall'd the time 
When, in unworldly and in happy youth, 



The valley's chieftain and the mountain girl 
Made it their favourite haunt ; all call'd to mind. 
Then was the morning colour on her cheek, 
Then her life was as summer in its smile, 
And all felt, as they laid her in the grave, 
It was the lorn rest of the broken heart. 

Years pass'd : — the green moss had o'ergrown 

the stone 
Which mark'd the orphan maiden's lowly grave, 
When rode an armed train beside the stream. 
Why does One pause beneath the lonely tree, 
And watch the starlight fall on the white stone 1 
That martial step, that haughty brow, so traced 
With lines of the world's welfare, are not such 
As linger with a ready sympathy 
O'er the foot-prints of sorrow ; yet that cheek 
Was startled into paleness as he read 
Agatha ! — and the mossy date which told 
She had been tenant of that tomb for years. 
Herman, — for he it was had sought the vale, 
But upon warlike mission — if he thought 
Of his once love, it was but how to shun 
The meek reproaching of her mournful eye, 
Or else to think she had like him forgot. 
But dead! — so young! — he had not dream'd of 

this. — 
He knelt him down, and like a child he wept ; — 
Gentle affections struggled with, subdued — 
Tenderness, long forgotten, now burst forth 
Like raindrops from the summer sky. Those 

tears 
Pass'd, and their outward trace ; but in his heart 
A fountain had sprung up which dried no more. 
He went on in his course, proud, bold, and nevo 
The name of Agatha fell from his lips. 
But he died early, and in his last field 
He pray'd the brother of his arms to tak 
His heart, and lay it in the distant gravi 
Where Agatha was sleeping. 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET, 



ITS TALES OF ROMANCE AND CHIVALRY 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



145 



INTRODUCTION. 

The 'title of the Golden Violet is taken from the festival alluded to in the ciose of 
the Troubadour. There are various accounts of the origin of this metrical compe- 
tition : the one trom which rnv idea was principally taken is that mentioned by 

Wartou 

146 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



To-morrow, to-morrow, thou loveliest May, 
To-morrow will rise up thy first-born day ; 
Bride of the summer, child of the spring, 
To-morrow the year will its favourite bring : 
The roses will know thee, and fling back their vest, 
While the nightingale sings him to sleep on their 

breast ; 
The blossoms, in welcomes, will open to meet 
On the light boughs thy breath, in the soft grass 

thy feet. 
To-morrow the dew will have virtue to shed 
O'er the cheek of the maiden* its loveliest red ; 
To-morrow a glory will brighten the earth, 
While the spirit of beauty rejoicing has birth. 

Farewell to thee, April, a gentle farewell, 
Thou hast saved the young rose in its emerald 

cell ; 
Sweet nurse, thou hast mingled thy sunshine and 

showers, 
Like kisses and tears, on thy children the flowers. 
As a hope, when fulfill'd, to sweet memory turns, 
We shall think of thy clouds as the odorous urns, 
Whence colour, and freshness, and fragrance were 

wept; 
We shall think of thy rainbows, their promise is 

kept. 
There is not a cloud on the morning's blue way, 
And the daylight is breaking, the first of the May. 

And never yet hath morning light 
Lovelier vision bought to sight, 
Or lovelier driven away from dreams, — 
— And lovely that which only seems ;— - 
The garden, that beneath it lay, 
From flower and fountain sent the ray 
Reflected, till all round seem blent 
hito one sunny element. 

There in the midst rose marble halls, 
Wreath'd pillars upheld the walls ; 
A fairy castle, not of those 
Made for storm, and made for foes, 
But telling of a gentler time, 
A lady's rule, a summer clime. 
And all spoke joyousness, for there 
Throng'd the gay, the young, the fair, 



* Gathering the May dew. 



It was now their meeting hour, — 
They scatter'd round through grove g.nd bower 
Many a high-born beauty made 
Her seat beneath the chestnut shade ; 
While, like her shadow hovering near, 
Came her darkey ed cavalier, 
Bidding the rose fade by her cheek, 
To hint of what he dared not speak. 
And others wander'd with the lute, 
In such a scene could it be mute i 
While from its wing'd sweetness came, 
The echo of some treasured name. 
And many a grot with laughter rung, 
As gather'd there, these gay and young- 
Flung airy jests like arrows round, 
That hit the mark but to rebound. 

With graceful welcome smiled on all, 
The lady of the festival 
Wander'd amid her guests ; at last, 
Many a courtly greeting past, 
She stray'd into a little grove, 
With cypress branches roof 'd above ; 
Beneath the path was scarcely seen,— 
Alike the walk and marger.t green. 
So dim it was, each precious stone 
The countess wore a meteor shone. 
Yet on she went, for naught her hearl 
In the glad revellings took part : 
Too tender and too sad to share 
In sportive mirth, in pageant glare ; 
Dearer to her was the first breath, 
When morning shakes her early wrcafti, 
And joys in the young smiles of day, 
Albeit they steal her pearls away ■ 
Dearer to her the last pale light 
That lingers on the brow of night, 
As if unwilling to begone, 
And abdicate its lovely throne : 
Dearer to her were these than ail 
That ever shone in lighted hall 

The young, the gay, be they allow'd 
One moment's pleasaunce in the crowd ; 
The dance, the odours, song, and bloom, 
Those soft spells of the banquet-room 
They last not, but the ear, the eye, 
Catch the check'd frown — the hidden sigh, 

147 



148 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Which pierce too soon the shining mask, 
And prove delight may be a task. 

Alas ! when once the heart shall learn 
To gaze on the glad scene, then turn 
To its own depths, and sadly say, — 
" O, what am I, and what are they 1 
Masquers but striving to deceive 
Themselves and others ; and believe 
It is enough, if none shall know 
The cover'd mass of care below." 
Sad lesson for the heart to bear, 
Seeing how pass the young, the fair; 
Forgot, as if they had not been 
The spirit of the stirring scene : 
Or sadder still to watch the bands, 
With kindly looks and fast-link'd hands 
And know how that a word could move 
The fierce extreme cf hate from love, — 
That, sweep but o'er a fleeting year, 
Of all the many gather'd here, 
Now claiming friend's or lover's name, 
Not one may be in aught the same. 

But not like this is Nature's face, 
Though even she must bear the trace 
Of the great curse that clings to all ; 
Her leaves, her flowers, must spring to fall ; 
There hides no darker doom behind, 
Like workings in the human mind, 
And the buds yield but to make way 
For leaves or fruits upon the spray ; — 
Not thus man's pleasures, which depart 
And leave the sear'd or breaking heart. 

On fair Clemeis-za went, her mood 
Deepening with the deep solitude ; 
That gentle sadness which is wrought 
With more of tenderness than thought, 
When memory like the moonlight flings 
A softness o'er its wanderings, — 
When hope a holiday to keep 
Folds up its rainbow wings for sleep, 
And the heart, like a bark at rest, 
Scarce heaves within the tranquil breast, — 
When thoughts and dreams that moment's birth 
Take hues which are not of the earth. 

But she was waken'd from her dream 
By sudden flashing of the wave ; 



The cypress first 



I'd the stream, 



Then oped, as if a spirit gave, 
With one touch of his radiant wand, 
Birth to a scene in fairy land. 
'Twas a small lake, the honey bee 
Cross'd, laden, in security ; 
From it an elfin island rose, 
A green spot made for the repose 



Of the blue halcyon, when an hour 

Of storm is passing o'er its bower. 

One lonely tree upon it stood, 

A willow sweeping to the flood, 

With darkling boughs and lorn decline, 

As though even here was sorrow's sign. 

'Twas even a haunted place ; one part, 

Like that which is in eveiy heart. 

Beyond, the gloom was laugh'd away 

By sparkling wave and dancing spray ; — 

One of those glowing spots that take 

The sunbeams prisoners, and make 

A glory of their own delight, 

Below all clear, above all bright. 

And every bank was fair ; but one 

Most shelter'd from the wind and sun, 

Seem'd like a favourite : the rest 

Bared to the open sky their breast ; 

But this was resting in the shade 

By two old patriarch chestnuts made, 

Whose aged trunks peep'd gray and bare 

Spite of the clustering ivy's care, 

Which had spread over all its wreath, 

The boughs above, the ground beneath ; — 

Oft told and true similitude 

For moralist in pensive mood, 

To mark the green leaves' glad outside, 

Then search what wither'd boughs they hide, 

And here the countess took her seat 

Beneath the chestnut, shelter meet 

For one whose presence might beseem 

The spirit of the shade and stream ; 

As now she lean'd with upraised head, 

And white veil o'er her bosom spread, 

Hiding the gems and chains of gold 

Which too much of rank's baubles told ; 

Leaving her only with the power 

Of nature in its loveliest hour, 

When to its musing look is given 

The influence of its native heaven. 

Her cheek was pale, the hue of thought, 

Like image by the sculptor sought 

For some sweet saint, some muse on whom 

Beauty has shed all but her bloom, 

As if it would have naught declare 

The, strife and stain of clay were there. 

Braided Madonna-like, the wave 

Of the black hair a lustre gave 

To the clear forehead, whose pure snow 

Was even as an angel's brow : 

While there was in her gentler eye 

The touch of human sympathy, — 

That mournful tenderness which still 

In grief and joy, in good and ill, 

Lingers with woman through life's void, 

Sadden'd, subdued, but not destroy'd. 

And gazed the countess on the lake, 
Loving it for its beauty's sake ; 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



149 



Wander' d her look round, till its sight 

Became itself blent with the light ; 

Till, as it sought for rest, her eye 

Now fell upon a green mound nigh. 

With ivy hung and moss o'ergrown, 

Beside it stood a broken stone, 

And on it was a single flower, 

The orphan growth of some chance shower, 

Which brought it there, and then forgot 

All care of the frail nursling's lot, — 

A lily with its silver bells 

Perfum'd like the spring's treasure cells ; 

Yet drooping, pale, as if too late 

Mourning for their neglected state. 

It was the fittest flower to grow 

Over the conscious clay below. 

Bethought the countess of a tale 

Connected with the lonely vale ; 

Some bard, who died before his fame ; 

Whose songs remain'd, but not his name : 

It told his tomb was by the wave, 

In life his haunt, in death his grave. 

Sadly she mused upon the fate 

That still too often must await 

The gifted hand which shall awake 

The poet's lute, and for its sake 

All but its own sweet self resign, — 

Thou loved lute ! to be only thine. 

For what is genius, but deep feeling 

Waken'd by passion to revealing 1 

And what is feeling, but to be 

Alive to every misery, 

While the heart too fond, too weak, 

Lies open for the vulture's beak 1 

Alas ! for him possess'd of all 

That wins and keeps a world in thrall, 

Of all that makes the soul aspire, 

Yet vow'd to a neglected lyre ; 

Who finds, the first, a golden mine, 

Sees the veins yield, the treasures shine, 

Gazes until his eye grows dim, 

Then learns that it is not for him ; 

One who, albeit his wayward mood 

Pines for and clings to solitude, 

Has too much humanness of heart 

To dwell from all his kind apart; 

But seeks communion for the dreams 

With which his vision'd spirit teems ; 

Would fain in other cups infuse 

His own delights, and fondly woos 

The world, without that worldliness 

Which wanting, there is no success ; 

Hears his song sink unmark'd away, — 

Swanlike his soul sinks with its lay, — 

Lifts to his native heaven his eyes, 

Turns to the earth, despairs and dies ; 

Leaving a memory whose reward 

Might lesson many a future bard, 



Or, harder still, a song whose fame 
Has long outlived its minstrel's name. 
" 0, must this be !'' Clk.mknza said, 
" Thus perish quite the gifted dead ! 
How many a wild and touching song 
To my own native vales belong, 
Whose lyrist's name will disappear 
Like his who sleeps forgotten here ! 
Not so ; it shall be mine to give 
The praise that bids the poet live. 
There is a flower, a glorious flower, 
The very fairest of my bower, 
With shining leaf, aroma breath, 
Befitting well 'a victor wreath'; 
The Golden Violet shall be 
The prize of Provence minstrelsy. 
Open I'll fling my castle hall 
To throng of harps and festival, 
Bidding the bards from wide and far 
Bring song of love or tale of war, 
And it shall be mine own to set 
The victor's cro wn of Violet." 



THE FIRST BAY. 

'Tis May again, another May, 
Looking as if it meant to stay ; 
So many are its thousand flowers, 
So glorious are its sunny hours, 
So green its earth, so blue its sky, 
As made for hope's eternity. 

By night with starlike tapers gleaming, 
And rmasic like an odour streaming ; 
By day with portals open flung, 
While bugle note and trumpet rung ; 
Rose Isaure's towers : and gather'd there, 
Again, the gifted, young and fair 
Have at Cleme^za's summons met, 
In contest for the Violet. 

Her heralds had been to distant lands 
To call together the joyeuse bands, 
And they had hasten'd. England had sent 
Her harp across the blue element ; 
The Spaniard had come from the land of romance n 
And the flower of her minstrels had gather'd i< 

France, 
From far and from near ; it was strange to see 
The bards of Erin and Italy 
Mingle together with those that came 
From the highland home they so loved to name 

Hark to the sound of yon silver horn, 
And the swr-ep of the harp to the distance borne ; 
n2 



150 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



' Tis the hour of meeting, and welcome now 
To the gifted hand and the laureli'd brow. 
Young knight, think not of hawk or hound ; 
Fair maiden, fling not thy smiles around ; 
Warrior, regard not. the sword at thy side ; 
Baron, relax thou thy brow of pride; 
Let worldly coldness and care depart, 
And yield to the shell of the minstrel's art. 

'Twas a spacious hall, and around it rose 
Carved pillars as white as the snows ; 
Between, the purple tapestry swept, 
Where, work'd in myriad shades, were kept 
Memories of many an ancient tale, * 
And of many a blooming cheek now pale. 
The dome above like a glory shone, 
Or a cloud which the sunset lingers upon, 
While the tinted pane seem'd the bright resort, 
Where Iris' self held her minstrel court ; 
And beautiful was the colour'd fall 
Of the floating hues round the stately hall. 

In groups around mix'd the gay throng, 
Knight, noble, lady, child of song. 
At one end was upraised a throne, 
On which the countess sat alone ; 
Not with droop'd eye and bow'd-down head, 
And simple white veil round her spread, 
As lean'd she o'er the lonely wave, 
Dreaming of the dead minstrel's grave ; 
But purple robe and golden band 
Bespoke the ladye of the land ; 
Rich gems upon her arm were placed, 
And lit the zone around her waist ; 
But none were in her braided hair, 
One only violet was there, 
The golden flower, which won all eyes, 
Destined to be the minstrel prize. 

They pass'd around the silver urn 
Whose lot must fix the poet's turn ; 
To a young Provence bard it came, — 
He drew, and drew Cleme^za's name. 
And forth at once young Vidal sprung, 
His light lute o'er his shoulder flung, 
Then paused, — for over cheek and brow, 
Like lightning, rush'd the crimson glow ; 
A low sound trembled from that lute, 
His lip turn'd pale, his voice was mute ; 
He sent a hurried glance around, 
As if in search : at last he found 
The eyes without whose light to him 
The very heaven above was dim : 
At once his hand awoke the chords, 
At oncehis lip pour'd tuneful words, 
And gazing on his lady's smile, 
Bade his soft notes arise the while. 



THE BROKEN SPELL. 

THE FIRST PROVENCAL MI^STREl's EAT. 
A FAIRY TALE. 

Where on earth is the truth that may vie 
With woman's lone and long constancy'? 
Lovers there have been who have died 
For the love that they made a warrior's pride ; 
And a lover once, when a world was the prize, 
Threw away his chance for a lady's eyes : 
But not his the love that changes not 
'Mid the trials and griefs of an ilhstarr'd lot ; 
Not like the rainbow, that shines on high 
Brighter and purer as darker the sky. 
But woman's creed of suffering bears 
All that the health and the spirit wears ; 
Absence but makes her love the more, 
For her thoughts then feed on their own sweet 

store ; 
And is not hers the heart alone 
That has pleasure and pride in a prize when won ? 
Her eye may grow dim, her cheek may grow pale 
But tell they not both the same fond tale 1 
Love's lights have fled from her eye and cheek, 
To burn and die on the heart which they seek, 
Alas ! that so often the grave should be 
The seal of woman's fidelity ! 

On the horizon is a star, 
Its earliest, loveliest one by far ; 
A blush is yet upon the sky, 
As if too beautiful to die, — 
A last gleam of the setting sun, 
Like hope when love has just begun ; 
The hour when the maiden's lute, 
And minstrel's song, and lover's suit, 
Seem as that their sweet spells had made 
This mystery of light and shade. 

That last rich sigh is on the gale 

Which tells when summer's day is over, 

The sigh which closing flowers exhale 
Afier the bee, their honey lover, 

As to remind him in his flight 

Of what will be next noon's delight. 

'Tis a fair garden, almond trees 
Throw silver gifts upon the breeze : 
Lilies, each a white-robed bride, 
With treasures of pure gold inside, 
Like marble towers a king has made ; — 
And of its own sweet self afraid, 
A hyacinth's flower-hung stalk is stooping 
Lovelier from its timid drooping : — 
But in the midst is a rose stem, 
The winds' beloved, the garden's gem. 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



151 



No wonder that it blooms so well : 
Thy tears have been on every leaf; 

And, Mirzala, thy heart can tell 

How lasting that which feeds on grief. 

'Twas a branch of roses her lover gave 
Amid her raven curls to wave; 
When they bade farewell, with that gentle sorrow 
Of the parting that sighs, " we meet to-morrow ;" 
Yet tbe maiden knows not if her tears are shed 
Orer the faithless or over the dead. 
She has not seen his face since that night 
When she watch' d his shadow by pale moonlight, 
And that branch has been cherish'd as all that was 

left 
To remind her of love and of hope bereft. 

She was one summer evening laid 
Beneath the tulip tree's green shade, 

When from her favourite rose a cloud 
Floated like those at break of day ; — 

She mark'd its silvery folds unshroud, 
And there a radiant figure lay. 
And in murmurs soft as those 
Which sweep the sea at evening close, 
Spoke the Spirit of the rose : — 
" Mirzala, thy lover sleeps 
While his mistress fur him weeps. 
He is bound by magic spell, 
Of force which woman's love may quell ; 
I will guide thee to the hall 

« Where thy faith may break his thrall. 
Think thou if thy heart can dare 
All that thou must look on there. 
Turn not thou for hope nor fear, 
Till the marble hall appear. 
There thou wilt thy lover see 
I>aad to life, and love, and thee. 
Only truth so pure as thine 
Could approach the charmed shrine. 
Press thy lips to the cold stone, 
He will wake, — the spell be done ! 
Hast thou courage like thy love 1 
Follow thou the snow-white dove." 

And Mirzala rose up, and there 

Was a fair dove on that rose tree, 
With white wings glittering on the air, 

Like foam upon a summer sea. 
She follow'd it until she stood 

By where a little boat lay mooi'd 
To the green willow, from the flood 

But by a water flag secured. 
She enter'd, and it cut the tide ; 

Odours and music fill'd the sail, 
as if a rose and lute had sigh'd 

A mingled breath upon the gale. 



It w r as at first a lovely scene : 

Leaves and branches wreath'd a sciecn, 

Sunbeams there might wander through ; 

Glimpses of a sky of blue, 

Like the hopes that smile to cheer 

The earthliness of sorrow here ; 

And like summer queens, beside, 

Roses gazed upon the tide, 

Each one longing to caress 

Her own mirror'd loveliness ; 

And the purple orchis shone 

Rich, as shines an Indian stone ; 

And the honeysuckle's flower 

Crimson, as a sunset hour ; 

But too soon the blooms are past, — 

When did ever beauty last 1 

And there came a dreaiy shade, 

Of the yew and cypress made, 

Moaning in the sullen breeze ; 

And at length not even these, 

But rocks in wild confusion hurl'd 

Relics of a ruin'd world. 

Wide, more wide, the river grew, 

Blacker changed its dreary hue, 

Till, oppress'd, the wearied eye 

Only gazed on sea and sky — 

Sea of death, and sky of night, 

Where a storm had been like light. 

Mirzala was pale, yet still 

Shrank she not for dread of ill. 
She cross'd the sea, and she gain'd the shore ; 
But little it recks to number o'er 
The weary days, and the heavy fears, 
When hope could only smile through tears, 
The perils, the pains, through w T hich she pass'd, 
Till she came to a castle's gate at last. 

'Twas evening ; but the glorious sky, 
With its purple light and Tyrian dye, 
Was contrast strange to the drear heath 
Which bleak and desolate lay beneath. 
Trees, but leafless all, stood there, 
For the lightning flash had left them bare ; 
The grass lay wither'd, as if the wind 
Of the Siroc had mark'd its red course ; behind 
The bright clouds shone on the river's face, 
But the death-black waters had not a trace 
Of the crimson blaze that over them play'd : 
It seem'd as if a curse were laid 
On the grass, on the river, the tree, and the flower, 
And shut them out from the sunbeam's power ; 
And with the last ray which the sunbeam threw, 
The dove flew up, and vanish'd too. 
And Mirzala knew she had rcach'd that hall 
Where her lover lay sleeping in magic thrall ; 
And she sat her down by a blasted tree, 
To watch for what her late might be. 



152 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



But at midnight the gates roll'd apart with a 
sound 

Like the groan sent forth from the yawning ground. 
On she went with scarce light to show 
That gulf and darkness were below, — > 
Light like the wan blue flames that wave 
Their death-torch o'er the murderer's grave ; 
And flickering shapes beset the way, 
Watching in gloom to seize their prey, 
Most terrible, for that the eye 
Wander'd in dim uncertainty ; 
But Mirzaea press'd fearless on, 
Till every dreary shade was gone. 

At once bursting into day 
There a radiant garden lay. 
There were tall and stately trees. 
With green boughs, in canopies 
For the rose beneath, that smiled 
Like a young and favourite child ; 
With its purple wealth the vine, 
Mix'd with silver jessamine, 
Stretch'd around from tree to tree, 
Like a royal tapestry ; 
Sweet sounds floated on the air, 
Lutes and voices mingled there, 
And a thousand flowers blent 
Into one delicious scent ; 
Singing birds, and azure skies, 
Made a spot like Paradise. 
Mirzaea paused not to lave 
Her pale forehead in the wave, 
Though each fountain was as bright 
As if form'd of dew and light. 
Paused she not for the sweet song, 
On the rich air borne along. 
Fair forms throng'd around with flowers 
Breathing of spring's earliest hours ; 
Others from their baskets roll'd 
Fruits of ruby and of gold. 
Vainly ! nothing could delay, 
Nothing win the maiden's stay. 
And the magic scene again 
Changed to a white marble fane 
And as Mirzaea drew near, 
Saw she two bright forms appear. 
The first wore gorgeous coronet, 
With topaz, pearl, and sapphire set, 
And a diamond zone embraced 
The rich robe around her waist ; 
And as conscious of her power 
In her great and royal dower, 
With a smile that seem'd to say 
Only gold can clear thy way, 
She her casket show'd, where shono 
Precious ore and Indian stone. 
" ! if gold could win his heart, 
would from the search depart : 



All my offering must be 

True and spotless constancy." 

Then to the other shape she turn'd, 

Whose cheek with crimson blushes burn d 

But to think love could be sold 

For a heartless gift of gold. 

From her lily-braided hair 

Took the spirit bud as fair 

As if to summer suns unknown, 

Gave it the maiden, and was gone. 

Then Mirzala stood by a portal barr'd 
Where held the Lion King his guard ; 
But touch'd by that bud the lion grew tame, 
And the chain'd portals asunder came, 
It was darkness all in that magic room, 
But a sweet light stream'd from the lily's bloom. 
And Mirzala look'd on her lover's face, 
And he woke at the touch of her soft embrace. 
Joy, joy for the maiden, her task is done, — 
The spell is broken, her love is won. 



The next who rose had that martial air, 
Such as stately warrior wont to wear ; 
Haughty his step, and sun and toil 
Had left on his cheek their darker soil, 
And on his brow of pride was the scar, 
The soldier's sign of glorious war ; 
And the notes came forth like the bearing bold 
Of the knightly deeds which their numbers told. 



THE FALCON : 

THE LAY OF THE NORMAN KNIGHT. 

I hear a sound o'er hill and plain, 

It doth not pass away. 
Is it the valleys that ring forth 

Their welcome to the day 1 
Or is it that the lofty woods, 

Touch'd by the morn, rejoice 1 
No, 'tis another sound than these, — 

It is the battle's voice. 
I see the martial ranks, I see 

Their banners floating there, 
And plume and spear rise meteor like 

Upon the reddening air. 
One mark'd I most of all, — he was 

Mine own familiar friend ; 
A blessing after him was all 

My distant lip could send. 
Curse on the feeble arm that hung 

Then useless by my side ! 
I lay before my tent and watch'd 

Onwards the warriors ride 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



153 



De Valence he was fust of all, 

Upon his foam -white steed ; 
Never knight curb'd more gallantly 

A fiery courser's speed. 
His silver armour shone like light, 

In the } T oung morning's ray ; 
And around his helm the snowy plume 

Danced like the ocean spray. 
Sudden a bird burst through the air, — 

I knew his falcon's flight ; 
He perch'd beside his master's hand, — 

Loud shouts rose at the sight. 
For many there deem'd the brave bird 

Augur'd a glorious day ; 
To my dark thoughts, his fond caress 

Seem'd a farewell to say. 
One moment and he spread his wings, 

The bird was seen no more ; 
Like the sea waves, the armed ranks 

Swept onwards as before. 
The height whereon I lay look'd down 

On a thick wooded land. 
And soon amid the forest shade 

I lost the noble band. 
The snow-white steed, the silver shield, 

Amid the foliage shone ; 
But thicker closed the heavy boughs, 

And even these were gone. 
Yet still I heard the ringing steps 

Of soldiers clad in mail, 
And heard the stirring trumpet send 

Defiance on the gale. 
Then rose those deadlier sounds that tell 

When foes meet hand to hand, — 
The shout, the yell, the iron clang 

Of jneeting spear and brand. 
I have stood when my own lifeblood 

Pour'd down like winter rain ; 
But rather would I shed its last 

Than live that day again. 
Squire, page, and leech my feverish haste 

To seek me tidings sent ; 
And day was closing as I paced 

Alone beside my tent ; 
When suddenly upon my hand 

A bird sank down to rest, — 
The falcon, — but its head was droop'd, 

And soil'd and stain'd its breast. 
A light glanced through the trees : I knew 

His courser's snowy hide, — 
But that was dash'd with blood ; one bound, 

And at my feet it died. 
I rush'd towards my sword, — alas, 

My arm hung in its sling ; 
But, as to lead my venture, 

The falcon spread its wing. 
I met its large beseeching eye 

Turn'd to mine, as in prayer ; 
(20) 



Ifollow'd, such was its strange power, 

Its circuit through the air. 
It led me on, — before my path 

The tangled branches yield ; 
It led me on till we had gain'd 

The morning's battle-field. 
The fallen confused, and numberless ' 

" grief! it is in vain, 
My own beloved friend, to seek 

For thee amid the slain." 
Yet paused the falcon, where heap'd dead 

Spoke thickest of the fray ; 
There, compass'd by a hostile ring, 

Its noble master lay. 
None of his band were near, around 

Were only foes o'erthrown; 
It seem'd as desperate he rush'd, 

And fought, and fell alone. 
The helm, with its white plumes, was off 

The silver shield blood-stain'd ; 
But yet within the red right hand 

The broken sword remain'd. 
That night I watch'd beside, and kept 

The hungry wolves away, 
And twice the falcon's beak was dipp'd 

In blood of birds of prey. 
The morning rose, another step 

With mine was on the plain ; 
A hermit, who with pious aid 

Sought where life might remain. 
We made De Valence there a grave, 

The spot which now he prest ; 
For shroud, he had his blood-stain'd mail,- 

Such suits the soldier best. 
A chestnut tree grew on the spot ; 

It was as if he sought, 
From the press of surrounding foes, 

Its shelter while he fought. 
The grave was dug, a cross was raised, 

The prayers were duly said, 
While perch'd upon a low-hung bough 

The bird moan'd overhead. 
We laid the last sod on the grave, — 

The falcon dropp'd like lead ; 
I placed it in my breast in vain, 

Its gallant life was fled. 
We bade the faithful creature share 

Its master's place of rest ; 
I took two feathers from its wing, 

They are my only crest. 
Spring leaves were green upon the trees 

What time De Valence fell ; 
Let autumn's yellow forests say 

If I avenged him well. 
And then I laid aside my sword, 

And took my lute to thee, 
And yow'd for my sworn brother's sake 

I would a wanderer be. 



M 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Till for a year I had proclaim' d 

In distant lands his fame, 
And taught to many a foreign court 

De Valence's brave name. 
Never was heart more kind and true, 

Never was hand more bold ; 
Never was there more royal knight.— 

Gentles, my tale is told. 



Strange contrast to each gorgeous vest, 
His rough plaid crost upon his breast, 
And looking worn, and wild, and rude, 
As just from mountain solitude ; 
Though weary brow and drooping eye 
Told wanderer 'neath a distant sky. 
Heedless of all, with absent look, 
-The key of his clairshach he took ; 
But the first breath, O ! it was sweet, 
As river gliding at your feet, 
And leaving, as it murmurs by, 
Your pleasant dream, half thought, half sigh. 



THE DREAM: 

THE LAX OE THE SCOTTISH MINSTREL. 

There are no sounds in the wanderer's ear, 
f o breathe* of the home that he holds so dear ; 
Your gales pass by on the breath of the rose, 
The vines on your sunny hills repose ; 
And your river is clear as its silver tide 
HlxI no task save to mirror the flowers beside. 
Thou art fair, Provence, but not fair to me 
As the land which my spirit is pining to see, 
Where the pine rises darkly, the lord of the 

wood, 
Or stands lone in the pass, where the warrior has 

stood ; 
Where the torrent is rushing like youth in its 

might, 
And the cavern is black as the slumber of night ; 
Where the deer o'er the hills bound, as fleet and 

as free 
A.S the shaft from the bow, as the wave of the sea ; 
Where the heather is sweet as the sleep that is 

found 
By the hunter who makes it his bed on the 

ground ; 
Where the might of the chieftain goes down to 

his son, 
In numbers as wild as the deeds that are done ; 
Where the harp has notes caught from the storm 

and the flood, 
When foemen are gathering together in blood ; 



Yet has others that whisper tux maiden, of love, 

In tones that re-echo the linet and dove ; 

Where the mountain ash guards us from elfin and 

%; 
Where the broom, spendthrift-like, flings its gold 

wreath away ; 
And the harebell shines blue in the depth of the 

vale, 
! dear country of mine, of thee be my tale. 

The lady awoke from the slumber of night, 
But the vision had melted away from her sight. 
She turn'd to her pillow for rest, but again 
The same vision of fear became only more plain. 

She dream'd she stood on a fair hill side, 
And their lands lay beneath in summer pride, 
The sky was clear, and the earth was green, 
Her heart grew light as she gazed on the scene. 
Two fair oak trees most caught her eye, 
The one look'd proudly up to the sky, 
The other bent meekly, as if to share 
The shelter its proud boughs flung on the air. 
There came no cloud on, the face of day, 
Yet even as she look'd they pass'd away, 
Unmark'd as though they had never been, 
Save a young green shoot that had spiung be- 
tween. 
And while she gazed on it, she could see 
That sappling spring up to a noble tree. 
Again she woke, and again she slept, 
But the same dream still on her eyelids kept. 
The morning came at last, but its light 
Seem'd not to her as her mornings bright. 
A sadness hung on her lip and brow, 
She could not shake off, she shamed tg, avow. 

While the hounds that chase the stag and roe 
Were gathering in the court below, 
She walk'd with her lord, and mark'd that on hira 
A somewhat of secret shadow lay dim ; 
And sought she the cause with that sweet art, 
Which is the science of, woman's fond heart, 
That may not bear the loved one to brood 
O'er aught of sorrow in solitude ; 
And with gentle arm in his entwined, 
And witching cheek on his reclined, 
The source of his gloom is to her made known, 
'Tis a dream, — she starts, for she hears her own. 
But his cares, at least, to the summons yield 
Of the baying hound and the cheerful field ; 
At the horn's glad peal, he downwards flung 
From the terraced, wall, and the stirrup sprung. 
And the lady forgot her bodings too, 
As his steed dash'd aside the morning dew, 
So graceful he sate, while his flashing eye 
Seem'd proud of his gallant mastery. 
But the swell of the horn died away on the air, 
And the hunter and hounds were no longer there 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



155 



Then Matilda turn'd to her loneliness, 

With a cloud on her spirit which she might not 

repress. 
She took up her pencil, unconscious she drew 
A heavy branch of the funeral yew ; 
Sho reach'd her lute and its song awoke, 
But the string, as she touch'd it, wail'd and broke ; 
Then turn'd she the poet's gifted leaf, 
But the tale was death, and the words were grief; 
And still, with a power she might not quell, 
The dream of the night o'er her hung like a spell. 
Day pass'd, but her lord was still away ; 
Word came he was press'd to a festal array ; — 
'Twas a moment's thought, — around her was 

thrown 
The muffling plaid, and she hasten'd alone 
To the glen, where dwelt the awful maid 
To whom the spirits of air had said 
Unearthly words, and given a power 
On the wind, and the stars, and the midnight 

hour. 
She reach'd that glen ; not till then she took 
One moment's breath, or one moment's look. 
When paused she in awe — 'twas so lone, so still ; 
Silence was laid on the leaf and the rill, — 
It was stillness as that of the tomb around, 
The beat of her heart was the only sound. 
On one side bleak rocks the barrier made, 
As the first great curse were upon them laid ; 
Drear and desolate, stern and bare, 
Tempests and time had been ravaging there. 
And there gather'd darkly the lowering sky, 
As if fearing its own obscurity ; 
And spectre like, around the vale, 
Pale larches flung their long arms on the gale, 
Till the sward of the glen sloped abruptly away, 
And a gloomy lake under the precipice lay. 
Never was life or sound in its wave, — 
An abyss like that of the depths of the grave. 
On yet she went ; till, sudden as thought, 
By her stood the seer whom she wildly sought. 
She had heard no step, seen no shadow glide, 
Yet there the prophetess was by her side. 
As the skilful in music tone their chords, 
The lady had arm'd her with soothing words ; 
But she looked on the face that fronted her there, 
And her words and their substance melted in air. 
Pale as the corpse on its death-bed reclining ; 
And hands through whose shadow the starbeam 

was shining, 
As tney waved from her forehead the raven cloud 
Of hair that fell to her feet like a shroud ; 
And awful eyes, — never had earth 
To their fearful wanderings given birth, 
Their light and their haunting darkness came 
From gazing on those it is sin to name. 
Bhe spoke, it was low, but it sank on the soul 
With deadlier force than the thunder's roll ; 



Yet her voice was sweet, as to it were left 

The all of human feeling not reft : 

" I heard the words come on the midnight wind , 

They pass'd, but their message is left behind ; 

I watch'd the course of a falling star, 

And I heard the bode of its cry from afar ; 

I talk'd with the spirit of yonder lake ; 

I sorrow'd, and, lady, 'twas for thy sake. 

Part from thy face the sunny hair, 

So young, and yet death is written there. 

No one is standing beside thee now, 

Yet mine eyes can see a noble brow, 

I can see the flash of a clear dark eye, 

And a stately hunter is passing by. 

You will go to the tomb, but not alone, 

For the doom of that hunter is as your own. 

Hasten thee home, and kiss the cheek 

Of thy young fair child, nor fear to break 

The boy's sweet slumber of peace ; for not 

With his father's or thine is that orphan's lot. 

As the sappling sprang up to a stately tree, 

He will flourish ; but thou, not fond mother, foi 

thee. 
Now away, for those who would blast thy sight 
Are gathering fast on the clouds of night : 
Away, while yet those small clear stars shine, 
They'll grow pale at the meeting of me and mine.' 

Alas, for the weird of the wizard maid ! 
Alas, for the truth of the words which she said ! 
Ah, true for aye will these bodings be 
That tell of mortal misery ! 
I've seen my noble chieftain laid low, 
And my harp o'er his grave wail'd its song cf wo 
And again it wail'd for the gentle bride 
Who with hastening love soon slept by his side. 
He pass'd away in the early spring, 
And she in the summer, whose sun could bring 
Warmth and life, in its genial hour, 
To all save the drooping human flower. 
I left the land, I could not stay 
Where the gallant, the lovely, had pass'd away ■ 
Yet now my spirit is pining to greet 
My youthful chief in his parent's seat. 
I saw him once in a foreign land, 
With plume on head, and with spear in nand ; 
And many a lady's eye was bent 
On the stranger knight in the tournament , 
He had his father's stately brow, 
And the falcon eye that flash'd below ; 
But when he knelt as the victor down, 
(Fair was the maiden who gave the crown,) 
A few low words the young warrior said, 
And his lip had his mother's smile and red, 
He is dwelling now in his native glen, 
And there my harp must waken again ; 
My last song shall be for him young, him brave 
Then away to die at my master's grave ! — 



i56 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Led by a child whose sunny air, 
And rosy cheek young Health might wear, 
'When rising from the mountain wave, 
Fresh as the stream its freshness gave ; 
But gentle eyes, with softness fraught, 
As if their tenderness they caught 
From gazing on the pallid brow 
Whose only light was from them now. 
Beautiful it was to see 
Such love in early infancy. 
Far from the aged steps she led, 
Long since the guiding light had fled ; 
And meek and sad the old man grew, 
As nearer life's dark goal he drew : 
All solace of such weary hour 
Was that child's love, and his own power 
O'er music's spirit, and the store 
He treasured up of legend lore. 
She led him gently to his seat, 
And took her place beside his feet, 
Up gazing with fond fixed eye, 
Lest sigh should pass unnoticed by. 
A clear rich prelude forth he rang, 
Brighten'd his look as thus he sang ; 
The colour lit his forehead pale, 
As the master told his ancient tale. 



THE CHILD OF THE SEA: 
\ 

THE EAT OF THE SECOND PROVENCAL BARD. 

It was a summer evening; and the sea 
Scem'd to rejoice in its tranquillity ; 
Rolling its gentle waters to the west, 
Till the rich crimson blush'd upon their breast, 
Uniting lovingly the wave and sky, 
Like Hope content in its delight to die. 
A young queen with her maidens sat and sung 
While or.ean thousands of sweet echoes flung, 
Delighted them to hear their voices blent 
With music from the murmuring element. 
Then cast they on the winds their radiant hair, 
Then gather' d of the pink shells those most rare, 
To gem their flying curls, that each might seem 
A Nereid risen from the briny stream. 
When sudden cried the queen, " Come, gaze with 

me 
At what may yonder in the distance be." 
All gather' d round. A little speck was seen, 
Like a mere shadow, on the billows green. 
Nearer and nearer, more distinct it grew, 
Till came a fragile vessel full in view ; 
As if at random flung to a chance gale, 
Uncheck'd, unguided, flapp'd a silken sail ; 
And. saw they all alone a lady there, 
Her neck and arms to the rude sea-wind bare, 
And her head bow'd as in its last daspair. 



It came no nearer, on the sea it lay ; 

The wind, exhausted, had died quite away. 
They had a fairy boat, in which 'twas sport 
Amid the inland channels to resort ; 
Their fair hands raised the sail, and plied the oai 
And brought the lonely wanderer to their shore : 
Then mark'd they how her scarlet mantle's foil 
Was round a young, a lovely infant roll'd. 
They brought the wearied stranger to their tent, 
Flung o'er her face cool water, gifted scent, 
And touch'd her lips with wine, though all too plain 
That death was darkening in each frozen vein : 
Eager she gazed where the queen stood beside, 
Her hands stretch' d to her own fair boy, and died. 

And thus the babe was left without a name, 
Child of the Sea, without a kindred claim : 
He never felt the want ; that gentle queen 
Nurtured his infancy, as though he had been 
The brother of her own sweet Isaeelee ; 
But as he grew she thought it need to tell 
His history, and gave the cloak whose fold 
Was heavy with rich work and broider'd gold ; 
And also gave his mother's carkanet, 
With precious stones in regal order set. 
In truth he was well worthy of her care ; 
None of the court might match his princely air^— 
And those who boasted of their bearing high 
Quail' d at the flashing of his falcon eye. 
Young as he was, none better ruled the speed 
Or curb'd the mettle of the wayward steed, 
None better knew the hunter's gentle craft, 
None could wing from the bow a truer shaft ; 
And noble was his courtesy and bland, 
Graceful his bearing in the saraband ; 
He knew the learned scroll the clerk displays, 
And touch'd the lute to the fine poet's lays ; 
And many bright eyes would their glances fling 
On the young victor in the filters' ring. 

Young as he was, the seal was on his heart, 
That burning impress which may not depart 
Where it has once been set, Love's fiery seal : 
But little need I dwell on what all feel ; 
Gay, grave, cold, proud, stern, high, say is there 

one 
Whom at some time Love has not breathed upon ? 
i\.nd E glamour, turn'd to fair Isaeelee, 
As to his destiny's best oracle : 
'Twas at midnight, beneath her bower, he sung 
Those gentle words, with which love gifts th« 

tongue. 

THE SOXG. 
* * 

O ! give me but my gallant steed, 
My spurs and sword to serve at need, 
The shield that has my father's crest, 
Thy colours, lady, on my breast, 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



157 



And I will forth to wild warfare, 

And win thee, or will perish there. 

[ am unknown, of a lost line, 

And thou, love, art the flower of thine. 

I know thou art above me far, 

Yet still thou art hope's leading star ; 

For love is like the breathing wind 

That every where may entrance find. 

I saw thee, sure the fairest one 

The morning light e'er look'd upon ; 

No wonder that my heart was moved, 

'Twere marvel if I had not loved. 

Long, long held by a spell too dear, 

Thy smile has kept thy loiterer here. 

Almost it seem'd enough for me 

Of Heaven to only gaze on thee. 

But love lights high and gallant thought, 

A rich prize must be dearly bought. 

Unworthy votary at thy shrine, 

I scorn my falchion's idle shine ; 

To-morrow I will wend away 

To dim it in the battle fray. 

Lady, farewell ! I pray thee give 

One look whereon may absence live, 

One word upon my ear to dwell, 

And, then, sweet lady mine, farewell. 

Then softly open was a casement flung, 
\nd a fair face from out the lattice hung ; 
The trace of heavy tears was on her cheek, 
But dash'd aside, as though the heart were 

weak 
In tenderness, yet it sought strength to show 
An outward firmness, whate'er lurk'd below. 
Twas but a moment's struggle ; and the pride 
That nerves the softness of a hero's bride 
Was on her lofty forehead, as she gave 
A sunny curl beside his plume to wave. 
" I have another gift which you mast take, 
And guard it, Eglamour, well for my sake: 
It is a charmed ring, this emerald stone 
Will be a sign, when thou art from me gone. 
Mark if it changes ; if a spot be seen 
On the now spotless ground of lighted green, 
Danger is around me ; haste thou then to me, 
Thou know'st how fearless is my trust in thee. 
There is a weight to-night upon my heart ; 
Ah ! peace for me can be but where thou art." 
She spoke no more, she felt her bosom swell, 
How could her lip find utterance for farewell ] 
He took the curl, one kiss is on it press'd, 
Then gave it to its sanctuary, his breast ; 
And doff 'd his plumed helm, "Dear lady, now 
Take the last offering of thy lover's vow ; 
And for thy beauty's honour, I will go 
Bareheaded to the battle, weal or wo. 
Never shall crested casque my temples grace 
Until again I look on thy sweet face." 



A shriek burst from her — it was lost in air ; 

She call'd upon his name, — he was not there. 

But leave wc her, her solitude to keep, 

To pray the Virgin's pity, wail and weep 

O'er all the tender thoughts that have such powej 

Upon the constant heart in absent hour ; 

And go we forth with our young knight to see 

What high adventure for his arms may be. 

Onward he rode upon a barbed steed, 

Milk-white as in the maiden's bridal weed. 

Champing his silver bit. From throat to heel 

Himself was clad in Milan's shining steel ; 

The surcoat that he wore was work'd with gold ; 

And fro^ his shoulder fell the scarlet fold 

Of a rich mantle lined with miniver, 

His mother's once, all that he held from her, 

Save the bright chain, with pearl and ruby strung, 

Which rainbow like outside his hauberk hung ; 

His ashen lance lay ready in its rest ; 

His shield was poised beside him, and its crest 

Was a young eaglet trying its first flight, 

The motto, " I must seek to win my right ;" 

Two greyhounds ran beside ; and mortal sight 

Had never look'd upon more gallant knight. 

Bareheaded so his features met the view 

Touch'd by the tender morning's early hue : 

And eyes like the wild merlin's when she springs 

After long prison on her eager wings, 

Fierce in their beauty, with that flashing glance 

Which dazzles as it were a flying lance, 

Giving the sternness of a warrior's air 

To what had else seem'd face almost too fair : 

And, as in mockery of the helm, behind, 

Like plumes, his bright curls danced upon the 

wind ; 
Curls of that tint o'er which a sunbeam flings 
A thousand colours on their auburn rings. 

Two days he journey 'd, till he reach'd a wood, 
A very dwelling-place of solitude ; 
Where the leaves grew by myriads, and. the bougha 
Were fill'd with linnets, singing their sweet vows 
And dreaming, lover like with open eye, 
And envied the gay birds that they might fly 
As with a thought from green tree to green tree, 
And wing their way with their dear loves to be. 
Even as he mused on this, he heard a cry, 
A bitter shriek for mercy pleading high. 
He rush'd and saw two combatants with one 
Whose strength seem'd in th' unequal battle done ; 
And praying, weeping, knelt a maiden near, 
Whose piercing voice it was had reach'd his ear. 
His lance flies, and one felon bites the ground ; 
The other turns, and turns for a death wound. 
Their champion moved the rescued twain to greet; 
Just one embrace, and they are at his feet. 
And gazed Sir Eglamour on their strange dress.. 
But more on the fair dame's great loveliness ; 
o 



158 



MISS LAN DON'S WORKS. 



For, saving one, to him still beauty's queen, 
A face so radiant had he never seen. 
Together, for the sun was high in J une, 
Thev sought a shelter from the sultry noon. 
There was shade all around, but had one place 
Somewhat more softness in its gentler grace ; 
There of fair moss a pleasant couch was made, 
And a small fountain o'er the wild flowers play'd, 
A natural lute, plaining amid the grove, 
Less like the voice of sorrow than of love. 
They told then: history : the maiden came 
From a far heathen land, of foreign name ; 
The Soldan's daughter, but she fled her state 
To share a Christian lover's humble fate : 
That lover was from Italy, his hand 
Had o'er a cunning art a strange command ; 
For he had curious colours, that could give 
The human face, so like, it seem'd to live. 
He had cross'd over land and over sea 
To gaze on the fair Saracen ; and she, 
When seen, was like the visions that were brought 
In unreal beauty on his sleeping thought. 
And love is like the lightning in its might, 
Winging where least bethought its fiery flight, 
Melting the blade, despite the scabbard's guard. 
Love, passionate Love, hast thou not thy reward, 
Despite of all the soil and stain that clings 
When earth thou touchest with thy heavenly 

wings, 
In rich return'd affection, which doth make 
Light of all suffering, for its own dear sake 1 
Together they had fled by sea and land, 
And the youth led her to Italia's strand, 
Where he had a lone home in Arno's vale, 
A fit nest for his lovely nightingale, 
Till stopp'd by those fierce outlaws who had 

paid 
Their life's base forfeit to the victor's blade. 

Mused Eg lam our, in silence, on the art 
Which even to absence pleasure could impart ; 
Ever before the eyes the one loved face, 
Aiding the memory with its present grace. 
Beautiful art, in pity surely sent 
To soothe the banish'd lover's discontent ! 
They pray'd they too his history and name, 
Wherefore and whence their gallant champion 

camel 
And told he of his vow, and of the maid 
For whose sake each high venture was essay'd. 
With earnest tone the painter said his way 
Beside the palace of the princess lay ; 
And pray'd of his deliverer that he might 
Bear off his likeness to his lady's sight. 
And soon saw Eglamour, with glad surprise, 
The colours darken, and the features rise. 
He gazed within the fountain, and the view 
Was not more than the tablet's likeness true. 



At length they parted, as those part, in pain, 
Who rather wish than hope to meet again. 

'Twas night, but night which the imperial moor\ 
Regal in her full beauty, turn'd to noon, 
But still the noon of midnight ; though the ray 
Was clear and bright, it was not that of day ; 
When Eglamour came to a gate ; 'twas roll'd 
On its vast hinges back ; his eyes behold 
" He who counts his life but light, 
Let him hunt my deer to-night." 
Needed no more, honour might be to win, 
Eager our gallant spurr'd his courser in. 
A noble park it was : the sweep of green 
Seem'd like a sea touch'd with the silver sheen 
Of moonlight, with the floating isles of shade 
Lithe coppices of shrubs sweet-scented made ; 
'Twas dotted with small pools, upon whose breast 
The radiance seem'd to have a favourite rest, 
So bright each crystal surface shone ; and, round, 
Lines of tall stately trees flung on the ground 
Huge mass of shade, while others stood alone, 
As if too mighty for companions grown. 
And yielded Eglamour to the delight 
Which ever must be born of such a night. 
When, starting from his dream, he saw stand 

near, 
Bright as the lake they drank from, the white deer. 
Instant the leash was from his greyhounds flung, 
They would not to the chase, hut backwards hung 
To cheer them on he wound his bugle-horn ; 
And, ere the sound was in the distance borne 
Away to silence, rang another strain, 
And furious spurr'd a steed across the plain, 
Huge like its giant rider. As he pass'd, 
His shadow fell, as if a storm had cast 
A sudden night around ; grasp'd his right hand 
A spear, to which our youth's was but a wand ; 
Black as his shadow on the darken'd field 
Was horse and armour ; and his gloomy shield 
Was as a cloud passing before the stars. 
Eglamour set his lance; scarcely it jar 
The mail'd rings of the hauberk : down he bent 
In time to shun the one his foe man sent ; 
Wasting its strength it reach'd the lake beside, 
And like a fallen tree dash'd in the tide. 
Their swords are out like lightning ; one whose 

stroke 
Is as the bolt that fells the forest oak, 
The other with light arm and ready wound. 
At length the black knight's steed rolls on th« 

ground ; 
He rises like a tower. One desperate blow, 
And the blood wells from Eglamour's fair brow 
His shield is dash'd in pieces : but just then, 
Ere the recover'd blow was airn'd again, 
He stakes his life upon a sudden thrust, 
And his fierce foe is leveil'd in the dust. 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



159 



Gazed lie in wonder on each giant limb, 

Vet scarce he deem'd victory was won by him. 

He went on bended knee : " Now, virgin queen, 

Who hast my succour in this danger been, 

Mother of God, these fair white deer shall be 

OfTer'd to-morrow at thy sanctuary." 

He sat down by a fountain near, and tame 

These gentle hinds now at his beckon came ; 

He lean'd on the soft grassy bed and slept, 

And when he waked found they their watch had 

kept. 
Then sprang he on his steed. The sun was high, 
Morning's last blush was fading from the sky 
O'er a fair city ; there with pious will 
He turn'd, his vow'd thanksgiving to fulfil. 
He entcr'd victor ; and around him drew 
The multitude, who could not sate their view 
Gazing upon him who the black knight slew, 
And yet so young, so fair. Though somewhat 

now 
His cheek had lost its custom'd summer glow, 
With paleness from his wound, yet was not one 
Could say his peer they e'er had look'd upon. 
He found a stately church, and, bending there, 
His spoil devoted, — pray'd his lover prayer ; 
When, rising from his knee, he saw a train 
With cross and chaunt enter the holy fane, 
Led by a man, though aged, of stately air, 
With purple robe, though head and feet were bare. 
He ask'd the cause, and he was told, the king 
Thus sought some mercy on his suffering ; 
For that he had, in causeless jealousy, 
Exposed his wife and child to the rude sea. 
Hope thrill'd the bosom of our ocean knight, - 
Anxious he staid and watch'd the sacred rite ; 
He saw the old man kneel before the shrine 
Where was the image of the Maid Divine. 
He pray'd to her that Heaven, now reconciled, 
Would pardon his great fault, and give his child 
Back to his arms. With that the stranger set 
Full in his view the cloak and carkanet. 
One moment gazed the king upon his face ; 
The next, and they are lock'd in fast embrace, 
While fron their mutual eyes the warm tears run. — 
The Virgin Mother hath restored his son. 
Hasty thanksgivings, anxious words were said ; 
Joy for the living, sorrow for the dead, 
Mingled together. O ! for those sweet ties 
By which blood links affection's sympathies ; 
Out on the heartless creed which nulls the claim 
Upon the heart of kindred, birth, and name. 
Together seek they now the regal hall 
So long unknown to anght of festival ; 
Once fill'd with mourning, as now fill'd with joy, 
While thousands gather round the princely boy. 

Open'd the king his treasury, and gave 
His bounty furth free as the boundless wave ; 



Feasting was spread, the dance, the masque, tlia 

song, 
Whatever might to revelry belong : 
Seem'd the young prince as if he had a charm. 
Love to take prisoner, envy to disarm. 
Yet e'en while floating thus on fortune's tide, 
While each delight the past delight outvied, 
Never omitted he at twilight hour, 
When sleep and dew fall on the painted flower, 
There for the night like bosom friends to dwell, 
To kiss the ring of his sweet Isabelle. 
He told his father, whose consent had seal'd 
The gentle secret, half in fear reveal'd. 
True love is timid, as it knew its worth, 
And that such happiness is scare for earth. 
Waited he only for the princely band 
With which he was to seek his foster-land, 
When gazing on the treasured ring one night 
He saw clouds gather on the emerald's light. 
Like lightning he has flung him on the steed 
His hasty spur then urged to fiery speed. 
But leave we him to press his anxious way, 
His band to follow with what haste they may ; 
And turn to the lorn princess who had kept, 
With all a woman's truth, the faith she wept 
Rather than spoke at parting. It was One 
Whose love another faith had bade her shun,— 
Ah ! shame and sign of this our mortal state, 
That ever gentle love can turn to hate, — 
Had caused her all this misery. He brought 
A charge that she with arts unholy wrought : 
For he had seen his rivals picture press' 
To its soft home and altar on her breast 
And hitherto unknown in that far land . 
Was the sweet cunning of the limner's hand. 

It was a fearful charge, all hope was vain, 
And she must die the fire's red death of pain, 
Unless that she could find some gentle knight 
Who would do battle for a maiden's right, 
And win ; but her accuser never yet 
In field or tourney had an equal met. 

The fatal day is come, the pile is raised, 
As eager for its victim fierce it blazed. 
They led her forth ; her brow and neck «'ere 

bare, 
Save for the silken veil of unbound hair ; 
So beautiful, few were there who could brook 
To cast on her sweet face a second look. 
There stood she, even as a statue stands, 
With head droop'd downward, and with clasped 

hands ; 
Such small white hands that match'd her ivory 

feet, 
How may they bear that scorching fire to meet. ' 
On her pale cheek there lay a tear, but one 
Cold as the icicle on carved stone. 



160 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Despair weeps not. Her lip moved as in prayer 
Unconsciously ; as if prayers had been there, 
And they moved now from custom. Triumphing, 
Sir Amice rode around the weeping ring : 
Once, twice, the trumpet challenges : all fear 
To meet th' accuser's never erring spear. 
Her lip grows ghastly pale, closes her eye, 
It cannot meet its last of agony. 

But, hark ! there comes a distant rushing sound, 
The crowd gives way before a courser's bound. 
She turns her face ; her scarce raised eyes behold 
The unhelm'd head shine with its curls of gold. 
Sir Amice knew his rival. What ! so slight, 
So young, would he dare cope with him in fight 1 
Their blades flash out, but only one is red ; 
Rolls on the ground the traitor's felon head, 
The dust around with his lifeblood is dyed. 
And Egeamour darts to his maiden's side. 
Her lip is red, her eyes with tears are dim, 
But she is safe, and she is saved by him. 

My tale is told. May minstrel words express 
The light at noon, or young love's happiness 1 
Enow, I trow, of that sweet dream can tell 
Without my aiding. Gentles, fare ye well. 



Wild and pale was the strange brow 
Of the bard advancing now ; 
Eyeballs with such wandering light 
Like the meteors of the night, 
As if they that fearful look 
From their own dark mountains took, 
Where the evil ones are found — 
Gloomy haunt, and cursed ground ; 
Sank his voice to mutter'd breath, 
The tale of sorrow, sin, and death. 



THE RING: 

THE GERMAN MEISNESIXGEIt's TAEE. 

Both were young, and both were fair : 
She with her shower of golden hair 
Falling like flowers, and her bright blue eye 
Like the sparkling wave the oar dashes by ; 
And he with lip and brow as fine 
As the statues his country has made divine. 

And the pair at the holy altar are kneeling, 
While the priest that bond of love is sealing, 
When pleasures and sorrows are blent in one, 
And Heaven blesses what earth has done. 
They love, they are loved, that youth and maid, 
Yet over 'hem hangs a nameless shade ; 



They are contrasts each : the broider'd gold 

And red gems shine on his mantle's fold ; 

While the young bride's simple russet dress, 

Though well it suits with her loveliness, 

Is not a bridal robe fit for the bride 

Of one so begirt with pomp and pride : 

And on his brow and on his cheek 

Are signs that of wildest passions speak, 

Of one whose fiery will is his law ; 

And his beauty, it strikes on the heart with awe 

And the maiden, hers is no smile to brook 

In meekness the storm of an angry look 

For her forehead is proud, and her eyes deep 

blue 
Hath at times a spirit flashing through, 
That speaks of feeling too fierce to dwell 
In, woman, thy heart's sweet citadel. 

He placed on the golden nuptial band; 
But the ring hath cut the maiden's hand, 
And the blood dripp'd red on the altar stone,— 
Never that stain from the floor hath gone. 
Away he flung, with a curse, that ring, 
And replaced it with one more glittering; 
And Agatha smiled, as pleased to bear 
Gems that a queen might be joyed to wear 
The priest urged that ring had been bless'd in 

vain, — 
And the count and the maiden left the fane. 

Change and time take together their flight, 
Agatha wanders alone by night. 
Has change so soon over passion pass'd, 
So soon has the veil from love been cast 1 
The day at the chase, and the night at the wine, 
Vivaldi has left his young bride to pine, 
To pine if she would : but not hers the eye 
To droop in its weeping, the lip but to sigh ; 
There is rage in that eye, on that lip there is 

pride, 
As it scorn'd the sorrow its scorn couM not hide. 

! frail are the many links that are 
In the chain of affection's tender care, 
And light at first : but, alas ! few knoTT 
How much watching is ask'd to keep Vfe^.m &3. 
The will that yields, and the winning simile 
That soothes till anger forgets the while . 
Words whose music never yet caught 
The discord of an angry thought 
And all those nameless cares that prove 
Their heaviest labour work of love. 
Ay, these are spells to keep the heart, 
When passion's thousand dreams depart 
But none of this sweet witchcraft came 
To fan the young count's waning flame. 
Passionate as his own wild skies, 
Rank and wealth seem'd light sacrifice 






THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



161 



To his German maiden's lowly state ; 

Choose he as chooses the wood-dove his mate : 

But when his paradise was won, 

It was not what his fancy had fed upon. 

Alas ! when angry words begin 
Their entrance on the lip to win : 
When sullen eye and flushing cheek 
Say more than bitterest tone could speak ; 
And look and word, than fire or steel, 
Give wounds more deep, — time cannot heal ; 
And anger digs, with tauntings vain, 
A gulf it may not pass again. 

Her lord is gone to some hunter's rite, 
Where the red wine-cup passes night ; 
What now hath Agatha at home 1 
And she has left it lone to roam. 

But evil thoughts are on her, now 
Sweeps the dark shadow o'er her brow. 
What doth she forth at such an hour, 
When hath the fallen fiend his power 1 

On through the black pine forest she pass'd : 
Drearily moan'd around her the blast ; 
Hot and heavy the thick boughs grew, 
Till even with pain her breath she drew ; 
Flicker'd the moonlight over her path, 
As the clouds had gather'd together in wrath, 
Like the vague hopes whose false lures give birth 
To one-half the miseries haunting our earth. 
Maiden, ah ! where is thy way address'd 1 
Where is the red cross that hung on thy breast, 
Safety and solace in danger and fear ] 
Both are around thee, — why is it net near ] 
Enter not thou yon cursed dell, 
Thy rash step has enter'd. Lost maiden, farewell. 

Closed the huge and shapeless crags around, 
There was not of life a sight or sound ; 
The earth was parch'd the trees were sear'd, 
And blasted every branch appear'd ; 
At one end yawn'd a gloomy cave, 
Black, as its mouth were that of the grave ; 
And dark, as if the waters of death 
Were in its depths, rose a well beneath. 
But the deadliest sight of that deadly place 
Was to gaze on the human wanderer's face : 
Pale it was, as if fell 'despair 
Had written its worst of lessons there; 
The features set like funeral stone, 
All of good or kind from their meaning gone ; 
And the look of defiance to heaven cast, 
As if feeling such look must be the last. 
Down she knelt by the well, to say 
What never prayer may wash away. 
It was not a sound that pass'd along, 
Nor aught that might to our earth belong. 

can 



And her words at once in their terror died, 

For the spirit she call'd on stood by her side ; 

Not one of those fearful shapes that teem 

On the midnight fears of the maiuac's dream. 

But better she could have brook'd to gaze 

On the loathlicst semblance the grave displays, 

Than to meet that brow, whose beauty and powei 

Had somewhat yet of their earlier hour, 

Deeper the present contrast to show ; 

But pride still struggled in vain with wo, 

And in the wild light of the fiery eye 

Was written hell's immortality. 

He spoke : — " Now the vow of thy faith resign, 

And in life or in death Vivaldi is thine. 

Seal with thy blood." She bared her arm, 

And the lifestream fiow'd for the godless charm. 

One single drop on her ring was shed, 

And the diamond shone as the ruby red. 

" Seal'd mine own, now this be the sign 

That in life or in death Vivaldi is thine." 

Farewell, Allemaigne, farewell to thy strand, 
They are bound to another, a southern land. 
As yet she is not to be own'd as his bride, 
For fear'd Vivaldi his kinsmen's pride ; 
But safely their anchor at Venice is cast, 
And the queen of the ocean is reach'd at last. 
Long had Agatha wish'd to see 
The sunny vineyards of Italy 
Little was here of what she had dream'd : 
Funeral-like the gondolas seem'd ; 
While the dark waters, parting beneath the oar, 
Were too like those she had seen before ; 
And the count, with his stern and haughty brow 
Seem'd the shadow of one ever present row. 

Dreary it is the path to trace, 
Step by step, of sin's wild race. 
Pass we on to a lovely night, 
Shone the sea with silver moonlight , 
Who would ever dream, but such time 
Must be sacred from human crime 1 
I see two silent figures glide 
Moodily by the radiant tide ; 
I see one fall, — in Agatha 5 s breast 
Vivaldi's dagger hath found a nest • 
I hear a heavy plunge, the flood, 

! 'tis crimson'd with human blood ; 

1 see a meteor shining fair, 

It is the sweep of golden hair ; 
Float the waters from the shore, 
The waves roll on, I see no more. 

Long years have pass'd, — Vivaldi's iiam*. 
Is foremost in the lists of fame. 
Are there, then, spirits that may steep 
Conscience in such a charmed sleep ] 
No : haggard eye and forehead pale 
Tell sadly of a different tale ; 
q2 



IC2 

And seme said, not his wealth or power 
Could bribe them share his midnight hour. 



ON'S WORKS. 

A.nd sang she in sweet but mournful tone, 
A.3 her heart had the misery it painted known, 



"Pis morn, and shout and trumpet's call 
Proclaim that it is festival ; 
The doge Vivaldi weds to-day 
The bride that owns his city's sway > 
Banner and barge float o'er that bride. 
The peerless Adriatic tide. 

The galle} T s paused, — the ring he took. 
Why starts the doge with such wild look 1 
He bends again, Ins heart-streams creep ; 
A pale hand beckons from the deep ; 
All marvel that he doth not fling 
To the sea-bride the marriage ring. 
He heard the murmur ; none then scann'd, 
Save his own eye, the spectral hand ! 
He drops the ring, then bends again 
To snatch it from that hand in vain. 
He follows what he could not save, 
One false step sinks him in the wave ! 
All rush the victim to restore, 
But never eye beheld him more. 

'Twas strange, for there they found the rim 
Some said it was fit gift to bring, 
And lay upon the Virgin's shrine, 
Of human vanity a sign. 
And there, as if by miracle, 
One" drop of blood beneath it fell ; 
And pale as twilight's earliest dew, 
Lost the bright ring its ruby hue. 
There still may curious eye behold 
The relic. But my tale is told. 



"^ow welcome, fair Marguerite, to thee, 
Fair flower of Provence minstrelsy." 
Came a lovely lady in place, 
Like the twilight star in her pensive grace. 
White daisies were wreath'd in the dark brown 

shade 
Of her tresses, parted in simple braid ; 
Her long eyelash was the shadow of night, 
And the eye beneath was the morning bright ; 
For its colour was that of the diamond dew 
Which hath caught from the glancing light its hue ; 
Her cheek was pale, for its blush soon pass'd, — 
Loveliest tints are not those which last ; 
Then again it redden'd, again was gone, 
Like a rainbow and rose in unison : 
Hex smile was sad, as if nature meant 
Those lips to live, in their own content ; 
But Fate pass'd o'er them her stern decree, 
And taught them what suffering and sorrow might 
be: 



THE QUEEN OF CYPRUS : 

THE PROVENCAL LADx's EAT. 

A summer isle, which seem'd to be 
A very favourite with the sea, 
With blue waves bat as guardians set, 
Wearing them like a coronet ; 
Once sacred to the smile-zoned Queen, 
Whose reign upon the heart hath been, 
And is so still. What need hath she 
Of shrine to her divinity 1 
Each fair face is her visible shrine ; 
She hath been, she will be divine. 
But, roselipp'd Venus, thy sweet power 
Was unown'd in thy myrtle bower, 
Thy marble temple was no more, 
Thy worship gone from thine own shore, 
What time my tale begins : yet still 
Hadst thou left music in the rill, 
As if 't had heard thy footstep fall, 
And from that time grew musical ; 
Scent on the flower, as if thy hair 
Had lost its own rich odour there ; — 
All, the green earth, the sunny clime, 
Were relics of thy lovely time. 

Fair Cyprus, dreamlike 'twas to land 
Where myrtle groves stretch'd from thy strand 
And paid the freshness of the wave 
With fragrance which they sighing gave 
But sunshine seen, but sunshine felt, 
You reach'd the palace where she dwelt , 
Cyprus's maiden queen, whose reign 
Seem'd ancient days restored again, 
When it was only beauty's smile 
Claim'd fealty of Citherea's isle. 
'Mid fair dames of her court, a star, 
The loveliest of the group by far, 
Irene stood. Was it in pride 
Her regal gems were laid aside, 
As if she scorn'd them all, content 
To be her own best ornament ] 

The terrace where they stood look'd down 
On gather'd crowds of her fair town ; 
'Twas a gay scene : on the one side, 
Gardens and groves stretch'd far and wide 
In gay confusion, flower and tree 
Cover'd the green earth to the sea, 
One arm of which begirt the walls 
Where rose Irene's marble halls. 
Upon the terrace, with a band 
Of the isle's loveliest at her hand, 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



163 



Was the young queen. 'Twas as again 
The goddess claim'd her ancient reign, 
So fair she was. At first you thought 
'Twas some divinity, that brought 
Her beauty from her native sides ; 
You met once more those soft dark eyes, 
You felt that though to them were given 
The colour and the light of heaven, 
Yet were they mortal, their deep blue 
Was soften'd by a shadowy hue 
Of melancholy, such as earth 
Will fling upon her fairest birth — 
Woman's foreknowledge of the wo 
That waits upon her path below. 

Is it some festival to-day, 
That hither comes the proud array, 
Which gathers round the gazing crowd, 
And rings the air with plaudits loud ] 
Sweep seven bold galleys to the land, 
Spring from their decks a warrior band, 
Dance their white plumes before the breeze 
Like summer foam on summer seas, 
Flashes the lance like meteor light, 
Hauberk and helm are gleaming bright, 
And spreads the banner its rich fold, 
Where shines on purple, work'd in gold 
A lion, which a maiden's hand 
Holds by a silken rein's command. 
Well mayst thou bend, fair queen, thy brow 
To the brave warriors greeting now ; 
Well have they fought for thee and thine, 
Sweet flower of thy royal line ; 
And well may they catch thy sweet eye, 
And swear beneath its rule to die. 
Yet, young Irexe, on thy side 
Is not all triumph's panting pride ; 
For, like clouds on a troubled sky, 
Ked and white shades alternate fly 
Over thy face ; now like the stone 
Colour hath never breathed upon, 
Now crimson'd with a sudden flush, 
As if thy heart had dyed thy blush. 
The rebel prince is passing near, — 
Thy bearing droops in sudden fear ; 
He passes, and thine eye is dim 
With anxious gazing after him, 
And tears are darkening its blue, 
Shining on the long lash like dew. 
Beautiful weakness ! O, if weak, 
That woman's heart should tinge Ler cheek 
'Tis said to change it for the strength 
That heast and cheek must know at length. 
Many a word of sneer and scorn 
Must, in their harshness have been borne, 
Many a gentle feeling dead, 
And all youth sweet confiding fled, 
Ere learn'd that task of shame and pride, 
The tear to check, the blush to hide. 



'Tis midnight, and a starry shower 
Weeps its bright tears o'er leaf and flower ; 
Sweet, silent, beautiful, the night 
Sufficing for her own delight. 
But other lights than sky and star 
From yonder casement gleam afar 
Their odorous lamps of argentine, 
Shed that sweet ray, half shade half shine. 
Soft as it were but beauty's smile 
That lit her favourite bower the while. 
Back from each open lattice flew 
The curtains, like swoll'n waves of blue 
Star-dropt with silver broidery rare ; 
And every motion seem'd to bear 
A message from the grove beneath,- 
Each message w r as a rose's breath. 
A thousand flowers were round the room, 
All with their gifts of scent and bloom ; 
And at the far end of the hall 
Like music came a lulling fall 
Of w y aters ; at the midnight time 
Play'd from the fount a liquid chime, 
As 'twere the honeydews of sleep 
'Lightning, each lid in rest to steep. 
Leant on a silken couch, which caught 
The airs with fragrant rose breath fraugh 
Lay the young queen. As if oppress'd 
With its rich weight, her purple vest 
Was doff 'd, as if with it were laid 
Aside cares, pomp, and vain parade. 
While, like a cloud in the moonlight, 
Floated her graceful robe of white. 
Just stirr'd enough the scented air 
To lift the sunny wreaths of hair, 
And bear the tresses from the ground, 
Which the attendant maids unbound. 
A cheerful meeting wont to be 
That evening hour's tranquillity. 
There with the young, the frank, the gay 
Irexe would be glad as they, 
Blithe prisoner 'scaping from the state 
Her nature waning with her fate. 
Glad, but yet tender, gentle, meek, 
Her fairy hand was all too weak 
For regal sceptre ; never meant 
To rule moie than the music sent 
From a light lute, whose gentle tone 
Was as an echo to her own. 

But bent and sadden'd is her gaze, 
Her heart is gone to other days ■ 
When summer buds around hei hair 
Were all the crown she had to wear, 
And they were twined by him who now 
Grasp'd fierce at that upon her brow ; 
Her playmate and her early friend. 
And thus can young affection end ! 
And thus can proud ambition part 
The kindliest ties around the hear* i 



164 



S LANDON'S WORKS. 



And like the desert-springs that dry 
The dust beneath the parching sky, 
All too soon waste the sweet revealing 
Of youth's fresh flow of generous feeling. 

Morn came, but with it tidings came 
Half-timid jo}^ half-crimson shame. 
O ! the rose is a telltale flower, 
And watching looks were on the hour, 
On the red blush, the drooping eye, 
The queen wore as the prince pass'd by. 
Policy read the thoughts within, 
Ending where love could but begin. 

Why might not Taxcred share her seat 1 
They led the rebel to her feet. 
Sage counsellor and noble peer 
Spared maiden blush and maiden fear. 
Yielding, yet tremulous the while, 
Her sole reply one downcast smile ; 
While order'd they the moon that night 
Should rise upon the nuptial rite. 
Ill might the youthful maiden brook 
To fix on his her timid look. 
She only felt his lip had press'd 
Her white hand, and hope told the rest. 
Companion of her infancy, 
Less than her friend how could he be 1 
She did not mark the haughty glare 
Which even now his look could wear ; 
The lip of pride as if disdain'd 
The fond heart which yet his remain'd ; 
As scorn' d the empire of the land 
That must be shared with woman's hand. 

The moon upon the bridal shone, 
Tieachery, — Prince Taxcred — he is gone ! 
Confusion marr'd the fair array : 
An armed band are on their way, 
The rebel banner is display'd, 
And thus is trusting faith repaid. 
Irexe flung her marriage veil 
Aside, her cheek was deadly pale. 
But, save that, nothing might declare 
That love or grief were struggling there. 
Wondering they gazed on their young queen, 
So firm her step, so proud her mien. 
Promptly the city was prepared, 
Summon'd to arms the royal guard 
Where bade their strength and bearing show 
To awe, but not attack the foe 
Till further orders. Last of all 
She call'd her council to the hall. 
She enter'd ; it was strange to see 
How soon such utter change could be. 
Pale as if lip and cheek had grown 
Sudden to monumental stone, 
So fix'd, that, but the lighted eye 
Show'd it had yet to close and die, 



It was like the last sleep of death, 

When hue, warmth, light, have pass'd with 

breath. 
Hurriedly had been thrown aside 
The silver robes that deck'd the bride 
A night-black garb around her swept ; 
Drear contrast ! for her hair yet kept 
Amid its wealth of sunny curls 
The bridal snowy braid of pearls. 
She paused not, though her breath seem'l given 
But as the last to waft to heaven, 
And on the vacant throne laid down 
The dove-topp'd wand of rule and crown 
From many never pass'd away 
That sweet voice to their dying day. 

" My hand is all too weak to bear 
A sceptre which the sword must «hare. 
To my bold kinsman I resign 
All sway and sovereignty of mine ; 
Bear him the sceptre of the land. 
No longer fetter'd by that hand." 
Rose the red blush, her accents fell, 
Scarce might they hear her low farewell. 

When as she turn'd to leave the hall, 
Rose kindly murmurs of recall ; 
The crown was hers, and many a brand 
Now waited only her command. 
One word, one look, on them she cast, 
" Your queen's request, her first, her last." 

Silence was deep as in the grave, 
To the new king his homage gave ; 
Arose no shout to greet his name, 
To him no word of welcome came, 
But pass'd he solemnly and sad 
To palace halls no longer glad. 
Naught was there or of shout or song, 
That bear young monarch's praise along ; 
Many there were that bent the knee, 
But many bent it silently. 

They led him to a stately room, 
Yet with somewhat of nameless gloom ; 
Flowers were there, but wither'd all ; 
Music, but with a dying fall ; 
Maidens, but each with veiled face. 
Taxcred gazed round, he knew the place 
'Twas here his interview had been 
With her its young and radiant queen. 
There was her couch ; was she there yet 
He started back : the brow was set 
In its last mould ; that marble check, 
Fair as if death were loth to break 
Its spell of beauty ; the fix'd lid, 
As if the daylight were forbid 
To brighten the blue orbs that kept 
Their azure even while they slept 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET 



1G5 



All other sleeps, save this dark one, 
And this the work that he had done. 

And she was gone, the faithful, — fair, 
In her first moment of life's care ; 
Gone in her bloom, as if the earth 
Felt pity for its loveliest birth, 
And took her like the gentle flower, 
That falls before the earliest shower ; 
With heart too tender, and too weak, — 
What had such heart to do but break ? 



Sudden and harsh the harp-strings rung, 
As rough the hand now over them flung ; 
Loud as a warning, omenlikc, drear, 
Sank the deep tones on each listener's ear. 
'Twas as a Palmer, that seem 'd from the Holy- 
Land, 
That now sway'd the harp with bis stern right 

hand ; 
None around could discover his name, 
Nor tell whence that pilgrim minstrel came. 

THE PILGRIM'S TALE. 

I have gone east, I have gone west, 

To seek for what I cannot find ; 
A heart at peace with its own thoughts, 

A quiet and contented mind. 
I have sought high, I have sought low, 

Alike my search has been in vain ; 
The same lip mix'd the smile and sigh, 

The same hour mingled joy and pain. 
At first I sought mid sceptred kings ; 

Power was, so peace might be with them : 
They cast a look of weariness 

Upon the carelined diadem. 
I ask'd the soldier ; and he spoke 

Of a dear quiet home afar, 
And whisper'd of the vanity, 

The ruin, and the wrong of war. 
I saw the merchant 'mid his wealth ; 

Peace surely would with plenty be : 
But no ! his thoughts were all abroad 

With their frail ventures on the sea. 
I heard a lute's soft music float 

In summer sweetness on the air ; 
But the poet's brow was worn and wan, — 

I saw peace was not written there. 
And then I number'd o'er the ills, 

That wait upon our mortal scene ; 
No marvel peace was not with them, 

The marvel were if it had been. 
First, childhood comes with all to learn, 

And, even more than all, to bear 



Restraint, reproof, and punishment, 

And pleasures seen but not to share. 
Youth, like the Scripture's madman, next, 

Scattering around the burning coal ; 
With hasty deeds and misused gifts, 

That leave their ashes on the soul. 
Then manhood wearied, wasted, worn, 

With hopes destroy'd and feelings dead, 
And worldly caution v worldly wants, 

Coldness, and carelessness instead. 
Then age at last, dark, sullen, drear, 

The breaking of a wornout wave ! 
Letting us know that life has been 

But the rough passage to the grave 
Thus we go on ; hopes change to fears 

Like fairy gold that turns to clay, 
And pleasure darkens into pain, 

And time is measured by decay. 
First our fresh feelings are our wealth, 

They pass and leave a void behind ; 
Then comes ambition, with its wars, 

That stir but to pollute the mind. 
We loathe the present, and we dread 

To think on what to come may be ; 
We look back on the past, and trace 

A thousand wrecks, a troubled sea. 
I have been over many lands, 

And each and all I found the same ; 
Hope in its borrow'd plumes, and care 

Madden'd and mark'd in pleasure's name 
I have no tale of knightly deed : 

Why should I tell of guilt and death 
Of plains deep dyed in human blood, 

Of fame which lies in mortal breath 
I have no tale of lady love, 

Begun and ended in a sigh, 
The wilful folly nursed in smiles 

Though born in bitterness to die. 
I have a tale from Eastern lands, 

The same shall be my song to-day ; 
It tells the vanity of life, — 

Apply its lesson as ye may. 



THE EASTERN KING: 

THE PILGRIM'S TALE. 

He flung back the chaplet, he threw down the 

wine 
"Young monarch, what sorrow or care can be 

thine 1 
There are gems in thy palace, each one like a 

star 
That shines in the bosom of twilight afar ; 
Thy goblets are mantling in purple and light, 
The maidens around thee like morning are bright, 



166 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Ten kingdoms bow down at the sound of thy 

name, 
The lands of far countries have heard of thy fame, 
The wealth of the earth and the spoils of the seas, 
Are thine ; O, young monarch, what ail'st thou, 

with these 1" 

" I'm weary, I'm weary. ! pleasure is pain 
When its spell has been broken again and again. 
I am weary of smiles that are bought and are sold, 
I am weary of beauty whose fetters are gold, 
I am weary of wealth — what makes it of me 
But that which the basest and lowest might be 1 
1 have drain'd the red wine-cup, and what found I 

there ? 
A beginning of madness, no ending of care ! 
I am weary of each, I am weary of all, 
Listless my revel, and lonely my hall. 
Breathe not the song, for its sweetness is flown ; 
Fling not these flowers at the foot of my throne ; 
Veil, maidens, veil your warm cheeks of the rose, 
Ye are slaves of my sceptre, I reck not of those !" 

The monarch rose up with the reddening of 

morn, 
He rose to the music of trumpet and horn ; 
His banner is spread to the sun and the wind, 
In thousands the plain by his warriors is lined. 
The foot ranks go first, their bows in their hand, 
In multitudes gathering like waves on the strand ; 
Behind ride his horsemen, as onward they come, 
Each proud steed is covering his bridle with foam. 
In the midst is the king : there is pride on his 

brow, 
As he looks on the myriads that follow him now ; 
His eye and his sabre are flashing alike, 
Wo, wo for the warrior that dares him to strike ! 

Thousands and thousands are strewn on the 

ground, 
Ahmed comes back a conqueror, but what hath he 

found 1 
The cry of the orphan is loud on his ear, 
And his eye hath beheld the young bride's bitter 

tear, 
And the friend of his youth is left dead on the 

plain, 
And the flower of his nobles return not again. 
There are crowds that are filling the air with his 

name; 
Do ye marvel the monarch is loathing his fame 1 

Again to the sunshine the banners are srjread ; 
Again rings the earth with the warriors' tread ; 
And loud on the wings of the morning are borne 
The voice of the trumpet, the blast of the horn ; 
And eager to gaze on the royal array, 
The people in crowds gather forth on its way. 



Who would deem they were gazing on death and 

on doom, 
That yon purple and gold strew'd the way to the 

tomb ] 
The canopy glitters ; 0, vainest deceit ! 
There the king's robe of state in his coldwinding- 

sheet. 
And he at whose beck waited life, waited death, 
He hath not command on a poor moment's breath. 
A whole people trembled when that he but 

frown' d, 
And his smile was the summer of nations around. 
Now who is there watches for smile or for frown 1 
For the head of another is girt with his crown ; 
And he lieth a heap of powerless clay, 
Where the meanest earthworm at his pleasure 

may prey. 

They bore the monarch on to his tomb, 
Black marble suiting such dwelling of gloom : 
But on it was graven a lesson sublime, 
A voice from the grave appealing to time ; 
Were not voice from the living or dead alike 
On the heart in its foolish pride to strike. 

" Millions bow'd down at the foot of my throne 
The strength of the north and the south were my 

own ; 
I had treasures pour'd forth like the waves of the 

sea; 
Success seem'd the slave of my sceptre to be. 
And pleasures in crowds at my least bidding came 
Every wish that the will in its wildness could 

frame : 
And yet, amid all that fell to my share, 
How much was weariness, how much was care 
I number'd years of pain and distress, 
And but fourteen days of happiness. 
Mortal, nor pleasure, nor wealth, nor power 
Are more than the toys of a passing hour ; 
Earth's flowers bear the foul taint of earth, 
Lassitude, sorrow, are theirs by their birth 
One only pleasure will last, to fulfil, 
With some shadow of good, the Holy One's will. 
The only steadfast hope to us is given, 
Is the one which looks in its trust to heaven." 



There was silence around the stately hall, 
For that song laid the spell of its darkness o'ei 

all; 
Some thought of their hopes now low in the tomb 
Others of hopes that were but in their bloom, 
And trembled to think how frail, if how fair, 
Earth's pleasure's in beauty and being are ; 
Others had thoughts they fear'd to name, 
As that pilgrim could read each heart in its shame 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



1G7 



But word or sign gave he to none, 
And away like a shadow in silence hath gone. 
Rose the countess, and left her throne, 
Signal it was that the meeting was done, 
And spoke her summons, and graceful led 
To where the sumptuous hoard was spread. 

Evening came, and found its hours 
Vow'd to music, mirth, and flowers. 
Wide ten gorgeous halls were flung, 
Each with purple tapestry hung ; 
With wreathes, whose roses where as bright 
As in the first morning light ; 
Mirrors like the glassy plain, 
Where the beauty beam'd again ; 
Pictures whose Italian grace 
Show'd inspiration's finest trace, 
To whose wing'd moods were given 
Moment's visionings of heaven ; 
And, more than all together fair, 
Beauty's living soul was there. 

Follow'd by those who pleasaunce took 
In converse light and curious look, 
The countess led where leaf and flower 
Made one small hall an Eastern bower. 
The blush acacia seern'd to keep 
Watch o'er the rose's purple sleep ; 
And tulips, like the wine-cups stored 
Round a monarch's festal board ; 
And the roof above, as art 
Vied with nature's loveliest part, 
Was so curiously inlaid, 
That there another garden play'd. 
No lamps amid the foliage hung, 
But silver smiles the moonbeams flung ; 
And radiance from each distant room 
Lighted the flowers' and ladies' bloom. 
A harp was there. The haunt was one, 
Where many a summer noon, alone, 
Cleaie^za lent time music's wings ; 
And, dreaming o'er the mournful strings, 
Learn'd other lessons than those taught 
By pride, and wealth, and worldly thought. 
Said the band round that it were shame, 

Such hour should pass unhymn'd away ; 
And many a fair lip smiled its claim, 

As echo sweet to minstrel lay. 
Pray'd they the countess that her hand 
Should first assume the harp's command. 
She paused, then said that she would wake 
One, for that nameless poet's sake ; 
One song snatch'd from oblivion's wave, 
Like the lone lily on his grave. 

so:s-g. 
My heart is like the failing hearth 

Now by my side, 
One by one its bursts of flame 

Have burnt and died 



There are none to watch the sinking blaze. 

And none to care, 
Or if it kindle into strength, 

Or waste in air. 
My fate is as yon faded wreath 

Of summer flowers ; 
They've spent their store of fragrant health 

On sunny hours, 
Which wreck'd them not, which heeded not 

When they were dead ; 
Other flowers, unwarn'd by them 

Will spring instead. 
And my own heart is as the lute 

I am now waking ; 
Wound to too fine and high a pitch 

They both are breaking. 
And of their song what memory 

Will stay behind ? 
An echo, like a passing thought, 

Upon the wind. 
Silence, forgetfulncss, and rust, 

Lute, are for thee : 
And such my lot ; neglect, the grave, 

These are for me. 



" Now take the harp, Eueaxia mine, 
For thy sad song ;" and at the sign 
Came forth a maiden. She was fair 
And young : yet thus can spring-time wear 
The traces of far other hour 
Than should be on such gentle flower. 
Her eyes were downcast, as to keep 
Their secret, for they shamed to weep ; 
Her cheek was pale, but that was lost, 
So often the bright blushes cross'd ; 
And seern'd her mouth so sweet the while, 
As if its nature were to smile ; 
Her very birthright hope, — but earth 
Keeps not the promise of its birth. 
'Twas whisper' d that young maiden's breast 
Had harbour'd wild and dangerous guest , 
Love had been there, — in that is said 
All that of doom the heart can dread. 
! born of Beauty, in those isles 

Which far 'mid Grecian seas arise, 
They call'd thy mother queen of smiles, 

But, Love, they only gave thee sigks. 
She woke the harp : at first her touch 

Seern'd as it sought some fighter strain , 
But the heart breathes itself, and such 

As sutler deep seek mirth in vain-. 



Fatiewell, farewell, I'll dream no rnort> 
'Tis misery to be dreaming ; 

Farewell, farewell, and I will be 
At least like thee in seeming. 



108 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



I will go forth to the green vale, 

Where the sweet wild flowers are dwelling, 
Where the leaves and the birds together sing, 

And the woodland fount is welling. 
Not there, not there, too much of bloom 

Has spring flung o'er each blossom ; 
The tranquil place too much contrasts 

The unrest of my bosom. 
I will go to the lighted halls, 

Where midnight passes fleetest ; 
O ! memory there too much recalls 

Of saddest and of sweetest. 
I'll turn me to the gifted page 

Where the bard his soul is flinging , 
Too well it echoes mine own heart, 

Breaking e'en while singing. 
' . must have rest ; ! heart of mine. 

When wilt thou lose thy sorrow 1 
Never, till in the quiet grave ; 

Would I slept there to-morrow ! 



Rosebud mouth, sunny brow, 
Wore she, who, fairylike, sprung now 
Beside the harp. Careless she hung 
Over the chords ; her bright hair flung 
A sunshine round her. Light laugh'd she 
" All too sad are your songs for me ; 
Let me try if the strings will breathe 
For minstrel of the aspen wreath." 
Lightly the answering prelude fell, 
Thus sang the Lady Isabella. 



Where do purple bubbles swim, 
But npon the goblet's brim 1 
Drink not deep, howe'er it glow 
Sparkles never lie below. 
Beautiful the light that flows 
From the rich leaves of the rose ; 
Keep it, — then ask, where hath fled 
Summer's gift of morning red 1 
Earth's fair are her fleeting things ; 
Heaven, too, lends her angels wings. 
What can charms to pleasure give, 
Such as being fugitive 1 
Thus with love : O ! never tiy 
Further than a blush or sigh ; 
Blush gone with the clouds that share it, 
Sigh pass'd with the winds that bear it. 



As if repentant of her words, 
Blushing she bent her o'er the chords ; 
With fainter tones the harp then rung, 
As thus, with bow'd down head, she sung. 



I hate belied my woman's heart, 
In my false song's deceiving words ; 

How could I say love would depart, 

As pass the light songs of spring birds * 

Vain, vain love would be 

Froth upon a summer sea. 

No, love was made to socrtho and snare 
The ills that wait our mortal birth ; 

No, love was made to teach us where 
One trace of Eden haunts our earth 

Born amid the hours of spring, 

Soothing autumn's perishing. 

Timid as the tale of wo, 

Tender as the wood-dove's sigh, 

Lovely as the flowers below, 
Changeless as the stars on high; 

Made all chance and change to prove, 

And this is a woman's love. 



But met she then young Vidal's eye, 
His half-sad, half-reproacnful sigh : 
His Isabelle ! and could she be 
Votaress of inconstancy 1 



" Well changed, fair lady," laughing said 
A girl beside, whose chestnut hair 

Was wreath'd with the wild vine leaves spread., 
As if that she some woodnymph were ; 

And darker were her brow and cheek, 

And richer in their crimson break, 

Than those of the fair ring beside. 

In sooth, Lolotte had often tried 

The influence of the wind and sun, 

That loved the cheek they dwelt upon 

Too well, to leave it without trace 

They had known such sweet dwelling-place. 

And her bright eyes seem'd as they had won 

The radiance which the summer sun 

Brought to her valleys lone and wild, 

Where she had dwelt. And now half child. 

Half woman, in the gay recess 

Of all youth's morning happiness, 

She came to the Lady of Isaure's towers, 

As fresh and as sweet as the forest bowers 

Where the gladness had pass'd of her earliest 
hours. 

" Now harken thee, Lady Isabelle, 

See if aright I read thy spell, 

And the rule of thy charm'd sway, to keep 

Watch over Love's enchanted sleep." 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



169 



Where, ! where's the chain to fiinj 
One that will bind Cupid's wing, 
One that will have longer power 
Than the April sun or shower 1 
Form it not of Eastern gold, 
All too weighty it to hold ; 
Form it neither all of bloom, 
Never does love find a tomb 
Sudden, soon, as when he meets 
Death amid unchanging sweets : 
But if you would fling a chain, 
And not fling it all in vain, 
Like a fairy form a spell 
Of all that is changeable, 
Take the purple tints that deck, 
Meteorlike, the peacock's neck ; 
Take the many hues that play 
On the rainbow's colour'd way ; 
Never let a hope appear 
Without its companion fear ; 
Only smile to sigh, and then 
Change into a smile again ; 
Be to-day as sad, as pale, 
As minstrel with his lovelorn tale ; 
But to-morrow gay as all 
Life had been one festival. 
If a woman would secure 
All that makes her reign endure, 
And, alas ! her reign must be 
Ever most in fantasy, 
Never let an envious eye 
Gaze upon the heart too nigh ; 
Never let the veil be thrown 
Quite aside, as all were known 
Of delight and tenderness, 
In the spirit's last recess ; 
And, one spell all spells above, 
Never let her own her love. 



But from the harp a darker song 
Is sweeping like the winds along — 
The night gale, at that dreamy hour 
When spirit and when storm have power ; — 
Yet sadly sweet : and can this be, 
Amewaide, the wreck of thee 1 
Mind, dangerous and glorious gift, 
Too much thy native heaven has left 
Its nature in thee, for thy light 

To be content with earthly home : 
It hath another, and its sight 

Will too much to that other roam, — 
And heavenly light and earthly clay 
But ill bear with alternate sway ; — 
Till jarring elements create 

The evil which they sought to shun, 
(22> 



And deeper feel their mortal state, 

In struggling for a higher one. 
There is no rest for the proud mind ; 
Conscious of its high powers confined. 
Vain dreams 'mid its best hopes arise ; 
It is itself its sacrifice. 
Ah ! sad it is, to see the deck 
Dismasted, of some noble wreck ; 
And sad to see the marble stone 
Defaced, and with grey moss o'ergrown • 
And sad to see the broken lute 
For ever to its music mute ! 
But what is lute, or fallen tower, 
Or ship sunk in its proudest hour, 
To awe and mystery combined 
In their worst shape — the ruin'd mind 1 
To her was trusted that fine power 
Which rules the bard's enthusiast hour • 
The human heart gave up its keys 
To her, who ruled its sympathies 
In song whose influence was brought 
From what first in herself had wrought 
Too passionate ; her least emotion 
Swept like the whirlwind o'er the ocean 
Kind, tender, but too sensitive, 

None seem'd her equal love to bear ; 
Affection's ties small joys could give, 

Tried but by what she hoped they wer» 
Too much on all her feelings threw 
The colouring of their own hue ; 
Too much her ardent spirit dream'd 
Things would be such as she had deem'd 
She trusted love, albeit her heart 

Was ill made for love's happiness ; 
She ask'd too much, another's part 

Was cold beside her own excess. 
She sought for praise ; her share of fame\ 
It went beyond her wildest claim : 
But ill could her proud spirit bear 
All that befalls the laurel's share ; — 
O, well they gave the laurel tree 
A minstrel's coronal to be ! 
Immortal as its changeless hue, 
The deadly poison circles through, 
Its venom makes its life ; ah ! still 
Earth's lasting growths are those of ill ; 
And mined was the foundation stone, 
The spirit's regal shrine o'erthrown. 
Aimless and dark, the wandering mind 
Yet had a beauty left behind ; 
A touch, a tone, a shade, the more 
To tell of what had pass'd before. 
She woke the harp, and backward flung 
The cloud of hair, that pall-like hung 
O'er her pale brow and radiant eyes, 
Wild as the light of midnight skies, 
When the red meteor rides the cloud, 
Telling the storm has burst its shroud - 
P 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



A passionate hue was on her cheek ; 
Untranquil colours, such as break 
With crimson light the northern sky : 
Yet on her wan lip seera'd to lie 
A faint sweet smile, as if not yet 
It could its early charm forget. 
She sang, O ! well the heart might own 
The magic of so dear a tone. 



I kkow my heart is as a grave 

Where the cypress watch is weeping 
Over hopes and over thoughts 

In their dark silence sleeping. 
Yet not the less know I that heart 

Was a goal whence proud steeds started, 
Though now it be a ruin'd shrine 

Whose glory is departed. 
For my spirit hath left her earthly home 

And found a nobler dwelling, 
Where the music of light is that of life, 

And the starry harps are swelling. 
Yet ever at the midnight hour 

That spirit within me burneth, 
And joy comes back on his fairy wings, 

And glory to me returneth. 

But a shade pass'd over the maiden's face ; 
Borne darker image her thoughts retrace ; 
And so sadly the tones from the harp-strings swept. 
'Twas as for very pity they wept. 

A faded flower, a broken gem 

Are emblems mine : 
The flower hath lost its loveliness 

With its sunshine ; 
The ruby stone no more is set 

On lady's brow, 
Its beauty of unsullied light 

Is wanting now. 
Like me, no thought of former worth 

From doom will save ; 
They will be flung to earth and air, 

I to the grave. 

The lorn one with her song has pass'd, 
Twas meet such song should be the last. 



Now, gentle Sleep ! thy honey wing, 
And roses, with thy poppies bring. 
Sweet and soft be thy rest to-night ; 
That, at the call of Morning's light, 
May crimson cheeks and radiant eyes, 
Lovely as her own, arise. 



THE SECOND DAY. 

Sweet Spirit of delicious Song, 
To whom, as of true rigi.t, belong 
The myriad music notes that swell 
From the poet's breathing shell ; 
We name thy name, and the heart spring* 
Up to the lip, as if with wings, 
As if thy very motion brought 
Snatches of inspired thought. 

Is it war 1 At once are borne 
Words like notes of martial horn. 
Is it love 1 Comes some sweet tale 
Like that of the nightingale. 
Is it Nature's lovely face 1 
Rise lines touch'd with her own grac6 
Is it some bright garden scene 1 
There, too, hath the minstrel been, 
Linking words of charmed power 
With the green leaf and the flower. 
Is it woman's loveliness ? 
He hath revell'd to excess, 
Caught all spells that can beguile 
In dark eye or rosy smile. 
Is it deed that hath its claim 
Upon earth's most holy fame, 
Or those kindly feelings sent 
But for hearth and home content 1 
Lofty thought, or counsel sage, 
Seek them in the poet's page ; 
Laurel, laud, and love belong 
To thee, thou Spirit sweet of Song 

Not in courtly hall to-day 
Meets the lady's congress gay. 
'Tis a bright and summer sky, — 
They will bear it company ; 
Odours float upon the gale, 
Comrades suiting minstrel taie ; 
Flowers are spreading, carpet meet 
For the beauty's fairy feet. 
Shame to stay in marble hall 
Thus from nature's festival. 

The garden had one fair resort, 
As if devised for minstrel court : 
An amphitheatre of trees, 
Shut from soft cheeks the ruder breeze , 
While all around the chestnuts made, 
With closing boughs, a pleasant shade, 
Where, if a sunbeam wander'd through, 
'Twas like the silver fall of dew ; 
The middle was an open space 

Of softest grass, and those small flowers, 
Daisies, whose rose-touch'd leaves retrace 
The gold and blush of morning's hours. 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



171 



To-day the Countess had for throne 
An ancient trunk with moss o'ergrown ; 
And at her feet, as if from air 
A purple cloud had fallen there, 
Grew thousand violets, whose sighs 
Breathed forth an Eastern sacrifice ; 
And, like a canopy, o'erhead 
A Provence rose luxuriant spread, 
And its white flowers, pale and meek, 
Seem'd sisters to the lady's cheek. 

And ranged in a graceful order round, 
A fairy court upon fairy ground, 
Group'd the bright band ; and, like a tent, 
Leaves and bloom over all were blent, 
Flinging bright colours, but changing fast, 
As ever the varying sunbeams pass'd ; 
And in the midst grew a myrtle tree, 
There was the minstrel's place to be, 
And its buds were delicate, frail, and fair, 
As the hopes and joys of his own heart are. 

Dark was the brow, and the bearing proud, 
Of the bard who first stept forth from the crowd ; 
A small cloak down from his shoulder hung, 
And a light guitar o'er his arm was slung ; 
Many a lady's casement had known 
The moonlight spell of its magic tone : 
But the fire of youth from his cheek had pass'd, 
And its hopes and its dreams had faded as fast ; 
The romance of his earlier time was over, 
The warrior had half forgotten the lover ; 
And the light grew dark in his radiant eyes, 
As he told his tale of high emprize. 



THE YOUNG AVENGER- 

THE SPANISH MINSTREL'S TALE. 

The warrior's strength is bow'd by age, the 

warrior's step is slow, 
And the beard upon his breast is white as is the 

winter snow ; 
Yet his eye shines bright, as if not yet its last of 

fame were won ; 
Six sons stand ready in their arms to do as he has 

done. 

" Now take your way, ye Laras bold, and to the 

battle ride ; 
For loud upon the Christian air are vaunts of 

Moorish pride : 
Four six white steeds stand at the gate ; go forth, 

and let me see 
Who will return the first and bring a Moslem 

head to me." 



Forth they went, six gallant knights, all mail'd 

from head to heel ; 
Is it not death to him who first their fiery strength 

shall feel 1 
They spurr'd their steeds, and on they dash'd, as 

sweeps the midnight wind ; 
While their youngest brother stood and wept that 

he must stay behind. 

" Come here, my child," the father said, " and 

wherefore dost thou weep 1 
The time will come when from the fray naupht 

shall my favourite keep ; 
When thou wilt be the first of all amid the hostile 

spears." 
The boy shook back his raven hair, and laugh'd 

amid his tears. 

The sun went down, but lance nor shield reflected 

back his light ; 
The moon rose up, but not a sound broke on the 

rest of night. 
The old man watch'd impatiently, till with morn 

o'er the plain 
There came a sound of horses' feet, there came a 

martial train. 

But gleam'd not back the sunbeam glad from 

plume or helm of gold, 
No, it shone upon the crimson vest, the turban's 

emerald fold. 
A Moorish herald ; six pale heads hung at his 

saddle-bow, 
Gash'd, changed, yet well the father knew the lines 

of each fair brow. 

" ! did they fall by numbers, or did they basely 

yield 1" 
" Not so ; beneath the same bold hand thy children 

press'd the field. 
They died as Nourreddin would wish all foes 

of his should die ; 
Small honour does the conquest boast when won 

from those who fly 

" And thus he saith, ' This was the sword that 

swept down thy brave band, 
Find thou one who can draw it forth in all thy 

Christian land.' 
If from a youth such sorrowing and scathe thcat 

hast endured, 
Dread thou to wait for vengeance till his summers 

are matured." 

The aged chieftain took the sword, in vain his 

hand essay'd 
To draw it from its scabbard forth, or poise the 

heavy blade; 



172 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



He flung it to his only child, now sadly standing 

by. 
" Now weep, for here is cause for tears ; alas ! 

mine own are dry." 

Then answer'd proud the noble boy, " My tears 

last morning came 
For weakness of my own right hand ; to shed 

them now were shame : 
I will not do my brothers' names such deep and 

deadly wrong ; 
Brave were they unto death, success can but to 

God belong." 

And years have fled, that boy has sprung unto a 
goodly height, 

And fleet of foot and stout of arm in his old fa- 
ther's light ; 

Yet breathed he never wish to take in glorious 
strife his part, 

And shame and grief his backwardness was to that 
father's heart. 

Cold, silent, stern, he let time pass, until he rush'd 
one day, 

Where mourning o'er his waste of youth the 
weary chieftain lay. 

Unarm'd he was, but in his grasp he bore a heavy 
brand, 

" My father, I can wield this sword ; now knight- 
hood at thine hand. 

For years no hour of quiet sleep upon my eyelids 

came, 
For NocrRitEDDix had poison'd all my slumber 

with his fame. 
I have waited for my vengeance ; but now, alive 

or dead, 
I swear to thee by my brothers' graves that thou 

shalt have his head." 

It was a glorious sight to see, when those two 

warriors met : 
The one dark as a thunder-cloud, in strength and 

manhood set ; 
The other young and beautiful, with lithe and 

graceful form, 
JBut terrible as is the flash that rushes through the 

storm. 

And eye to eye, and hand to nand, in deadly strife 

they stood, 
And smoked the ground whereon they fought, hot 

with their mingled blood ; 
Till droop the valiant infidel, fainter his blows and 

few, 
While fiercer from the combat still the youthful 

Christian grew. 



Nourreddin falls, his sever'd head, it is young 

Lara's prize : 
But dizzily the field of death float's in the victor's 

eyes. 
His cheek is as his foeman's pale, his white lip's 

gasp for breath : 
Ay, this was all he ask'd of Heaven, the victory 

and death. 

He raised him on his arm, " My page, come thou 

and do my will ; 
Canst thou not see a turban'd band upon yon dis 

tant hill ? 
Now strip me of my armour, boy, by yonder river' 

side, 
Place firm this head upon my breast, and fling me 

on the tide." 

That river wash'd his natal halls, its waters bore 

him on, 
Till the moonlight on the hero in his father's 

presence shone. 
The old chief to the body drew, nis gallant boy 

was dead, 
But his vow of vengeance had been kept, he bore 

Nourreddin's head. 



'Twas sad to gaze on the wan brow 
Of him who now awoke the lute, 
As one last song life must allow, 

Then would those tuneful lips be mute. 
His cheek was worn, what was the care 
Had writ such early lesson there 1 
Was it Love, blighted in its hour 
Of earliest and truest power 
By worldly chills which ever fling 
Their check and damp on young Love's wing 
Or unrequited, while the heart 
Could not from its fond worship part 1 
Or was it but the wasting wo 
Which every human path must know ; 
Or hopes, like birds, sent forth in vain, 
And seeking not their ark again ; 
Friends in their very love unjust, 
Or faithless to our utmost trust ; 
Or fortune's gifts, to win so hard ; 
Or fame, that is its own reward 
Or has no other, and is worn 
'Mid envy, falsehood, hate, and scorn ? 

All these ills had that young bard kno^n 
And they had laid his funeral stone. 
Slowly and sad the numbers pass'd, 
As thus the minstrel sung his last. 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



173 



THE ROSE: 

THE ITAXIAX MIXSTIIEl's TALE. 

The Count Goxfali held a feast that night, 
And colour'd lamps sent forth their odorous 

light 
Over gold carvings and the purple fall 
Of tapestry ; and around each stately hall 
Were statues, pale and finely shaped and fair, 
As if all beauty save her life were there ; 
And, like light clouds floating around each room, 
The censers roli'd their volumes of perfume ; 
And scented waters mingled with the breath 
Of flowers, which died as if they joy'd in death ; 
And the white vases, white as mountain snow, 
Look'd yet more delicate in the rich glow 
Of summer blossoms hanging o'er each side, 
Like sunset reddening o'er a silver tide. 
There was the tulip with its rainbow globe ; 
And like the broidery on a silken robe 
Made for the beauty's festal midnight hours, 
The sparkling jessamine shook its silver showers ; 
Like timid hopes the lily shrank from sight ; 
The rose leant as it languish'd with delight, 
Yet, bridelike, drooping in its crimson shame ; 
And the anemone, whose cheek of flame 
Is golden, as it were the flower the sun 
In his noon-hour most loved to look upon. 

At first the pillar'd halls were still and lone, 
As if some fairy palace all unknown 
To mortal eye or step. This was not long ; 
Waken'd the lutes, and swell'd a burst of song, 
And the vast mirrors glitter'd with the crowd 
Of changing shapes. The young, the fair, the 

proud, 
Came thronging in ; and the gay cavalier 
Took some fair flower from the fairest near, 
And gave it to the darkeyed beauty's hand, 
To mark his partner for the saraband ; 
And graceful steps pass'd on, whose tender tread 
Was as the rose leaf in the autumn shed ; 
And witching words, raising on the young cheek 
Blushes that had no need of words to speak. 
Many were lovely there ; but, of that many, 
Was one who shone the loveliest of any, 
The young Oltxpia. On her face the dyes 
Were yet warm with the dance's exercise, 
The laugh upon her full red lip yet hung, 
And, arrowlike, fiash'd light words from her 

tongue. 
She had more loveliness than beauty : hers 
Was that enchantment which the heart confers ; 
A mouth sweet from its smiles, a glancing eye, 
Which had o'er all expression mastery ; 
Laughing its orb, but the long dark lash made 
Somewhat of sadness with its twilight shade, 



And suiting well the upcast look which seem'd 
At times as it of melancholy dream'd ; 
Her cheek was as a rainbow, it so changed, 
As each emotion o'er its surface ranged ; 
And every word had its companion blush, 
But evanescent as the crimson flush 
That tints the daybreak ; and her step was light 
As the gale passing o'er the leaves at night ; 
In truth those snow feet were too like the wind, 
Too slight to leave a single trace behind. 
She lean'd against a pillar, and one hand 
Smooth'd back the curls that had escaped the band 
Of wreath'd red roses, — soft and fitting chain 
In bondage such bright prisoners to retain. 
The other was from the white marble known 
But by the clasping of its emerald zone : 
And lighted up her brow, and flash'd her eye, 
As many that were wandering careless by 
Caught but a sound, and paused to hear what 

more 
Her lip might utter of its honey store. 
She had that sparkling wit which is like light, 
Making all things touch'd with its radiance bright ; 
And a sweet voice, whose words would chain all 

round, 
Although they had no other charm than sound. 
And many named her name, and each with 

praise ; 
Some with her passionate beauty fill'd their gaze, 
Some mark'd her graceful step, and others spoke 
Of the so many hearts that own'd the yoke 
Of her bewildering smile ; meantime, her own 
Seem'd as that it no other love had known 
Than its sweet loves of nature, music, song, 
Which as by right to woman's world belong, 
And make it lovely for Love's dwelling-place. 
Alas ! that he should leave his fiery trace ! 
But this bright creature's brow seem'd all too fair, 
Too gay, for Love to be a dweller there ; 
For Love brings sorrow : yet you might descry 
A troubled flashing in that brilliant eye, 
A troubled colour on that varying cheek, 
A hurry in the tremulous lip to speak 
Avoidance of sad topics, as to shun 
Somewhat the spirit dared not rest upon ; 
An unquiet feverishness a change of place, 
A pretty pettishness, if on her face 
A look dwelt as in scrutiny to seek 
What hidden meanings from its change might 

break. 

One gazed with silent homage, one who caught 
Her every breath, and blush, and look, and 

thought ; 
One whose step mingled not with the gay ciowd 
That circled round her as of right allow'd, 
But one who stood aloof with that lone pride 
Which ew;r to deep passion is allied. 
p2 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Half-scorning, yet half-envying the gay ring 
That gather'd round with gentle blandishing, 
He stood aloof ; and, cold and stern and high, 
Look'd as he mock'd at their idolatry : 
Yet long'd his knee to bend before the shrine 
Of the sweet image his heart own'd divine ; 
While, half in anger that she had not known 
What even to himself he would not own. 
He knew not how a woman's heart will keep 
Themiystery of itself, and like the deep 
Will shine beneath the sunbeam, flash and flow 
O'er the rich bark that perishes below. 
She felt he gazed upon her, and her cheek 
Wore added beauty in its crimson break ; 
And softer smiles were on her lip, like those 
The summer moonlight sheds upon the rose ; 
And her eye sparkled, like the wine-cup's brim, 
Mantling in light, though it turn'd not to him. 
Again the dancers gather'd ; from them one 
Took gayly her fair hand, and they are gone. 
Leoxi follow'd not, yet as they pass 
How could Oltmpia's light step be the last 1 
Yet pass'd she quickly by him, and the haste 
From her wreath'd hair one fragrant rose dis- 
placed. 
Leojti saw it fall ; he is alone, 
And he may make the fairy' gift his own. 
He took the flower, and to his lip 'twas press'd, 
One moment, and 'tis safe within his breast ; 
But while he linger'd dreaming o'er its bloom, 
Oltmpia's step again is in the room 
With the young cavalier, who urged her way, 
And said her rose beside the column lay, 
For there he miss'd it, and some flattering word 
Fill'd up the whisper which he only heard. 
Leoni flung it down in carelessness, 
A3 ne had mark'd them not, and held it less 
From knowledge of his act than vacant thought, 
While the mind on some other subject wrought. 
In haste he left them both, but he could hear 
The pleading of the gallant cavalier 
For that rose as a gift. He might not tell 
What answer from the maiden's lip then fell, 
But when they met again he mark'd her hair 
Where it had wreath'd, — the rosebud was not 

there. 
They pass'd and repass'd : he, cold, silently, 
As was his wont ; but she, with flashing eye, 
And blush lit up to crimson, seem'd to wear 
More than accustom'd gladness in her air. 
Ah ! the heart overacts its part ; its mirth, 
Like light, will all too often take its birth 
'Mid darkness and decay ; those smiles that press, 
Like the gay crowd round, are not happiness : 
For peace broods quiet on her dovelike wings, 
And this false gayety a radiance flings, 
Dazzling but hiding not ; and some who dwelt 
Upon her meteor beauty, sadness felt ; 



Its very brilliance spoke the fever'd breast ; 
Thus glitter not the waters when at rest. 

The scene is changed, the maiden is alone 
To brood upon Hope's temple overthrown ; 
The hue has left her lip, the light her eye, 
And she has flung her down as if to die. 
Back from her forehead was the rich hair swept, 
Which yet its festal braid of roses kept. 
She was in solitude ; the silent room 
Was in the summer's sweet and shadowy gloom 
The sole light from the oratory came, 
Where a small lamp sent forth its scented flame 
Beneath the Virgin's picture ; but the wind 
Stole from the casement, for the jasmine twined. 
With its luxuriant boughs, too thickly grew, 
To let the few dim starbeams wander through. 
In her hand was a rose ; she held the flower 
As if her eye were spellbound by its power. 
It was spellbound ; coldly that flower repress'd 
Sweet hopes, — ay, hopes, albeit unconfess'd. 
Check'd, vainly check'd, the bitter grief recurs — 
That rose flung down because that rose was hers f 
And at the thought paleness in blushes fled, 
Had he, then, read her heart, and scorn'd when 

read 1 
! better perish, than endure that thought. 
She started from her couch ; when her eye caught 
The Virgin's picture. Seem'd it that she took 
Part in her votary's suffering ; the look 
Spoke mild reproof, touch'd with grave tenderness, 
Pitying her grief, yet blaming her excess. 
Olympia turn'd away, she might not bear 
To meet such holy brow, such placid air, 
At least not yet ; for she must teach her breast 
A lesson of submission, if not rest, 
And still each throbbing pulse, ere she might 

kneel 
And pray for peace she had not sought to feel. 

She sought the casement, lured by the soft light 
Of the young moon, now rising on the night. 
The cool breeze kiss'd her, and a jasmine spray 
Caught in her tresses, as to woo her stay. 
And there were sights and sounds that well might 

fling 
A charmed trance on deepest suffering. 
For stood the palace close on the sea shore ; 
Not like the northern ones, where breakers roar, 
And rugged rocks and barren sands are blent, — 
At once doth desolate and magnificent ; 
But here the beach had turf, and trees that grew 
Down to the waterside, and made its blue 
Mirror for their dark shapes. Is naught so fair 
But must there come somewhat of shadow there 1 
Whate'er thou touches there must be soma 

shade, 
Fair earth, such destinv for thee is made. 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



175 



It was a night to gaze upon the sea, 
Marvel, and envy its tranquillity ; 
It was a night to gaze upon the earth, 
And feel mankind were not her favourite birth ; 
It was a night to gaze upon the sky, 
Pine for its loveliness, and pray to die. 
Oltmpia felt the hour ; from her cheek fled 
Passion's un tranquil rose, she bow'd her head : 
For the thick tears like hasty childhood's came ; 
She hid her face, for tears are shed with shame. 
Her heart had spent its tempest, like the cloud 
When summer rain bursts from its stormy shroud ; 
Pals, sad, but calm, she turn'd, and bent the knee, 
In meekest prayer, Madonna fair, to thee. 
Where might the maiden's soul, thus crush'd and 

riven, 
Turn from its mortal darkness, but to Heaven ] 
It is in vain to say that love is not 
The life and colour of a woman's lot. 
It is her strength ; for what, like love's caress, 
Will guard and guide her own weak tenderness 1 
It is her pride, fleeting and false the while, 
To see her master suing for her smile. 
Calls it not all her best affections forth, — 
Pure faith, devotedness, whose fruitless worth 
Is all too little felt 1 O ! man has power 
Of head and hand, — heart is a woman's dower. 

Youth, beauty, rank, and wealth, all these com- 
bined, — 
Can these be wretched 1 Mystery of the mind ! 
Whose happiness is in itself, but still 
Has not that happiness at its own will. 

And she was wretched ; she, the young, the fair, 
The good, the kind, bow'd down in her despair. 
Ay, bitterest of the bitter, this worst pain, — 
To know love's offering has been in vain ; 
Rejected, scorn'd, and trampled under foot, 
Its bloom and leaves destroy'd, not so its root. 
" He loves me not," — no other word or sound 
' An echo in Oeymfia's bosom found, 
She thought on many a look, and many a tone, 
From which she gather'd hope, — now these were 

gone, 
Life were too burthensome, save that it led 
To death ; and peace, at least, was with the dead. 
One pang remain'd; perchance, though uncon- 

fess'd, 
Some secret hope yet linger'd in her breast ; 
But this too was destroy'd. She learn'd next morn 
Sea winds and waters had Leoui borne 
Afar to other lands ; and she had now 
But only to her hapless fate to bow. 

She changed, she faded, she the young, the gay, 
Like the first rose Spring yields to pale decay. 
Still her lip wore the sweetness of a smile, 
But it forgot its gayety the while. 



Her voice had ever a low gentle tone, 

But now 'twas tremulous as Sorrow's own , 

Her step fell softer as it were subdued 

To suit its motion to her alter'd mood ; 

As if her every movement, gesture, look, 

Their bearing from the spirit's sadness took , 

And yet there was no word which told that grief 

Prey'd on the heart as blight plays on the leaf. 

But meeker tenderness to those around, 

A soothing, sharing love, as if she found 

Her happiness in theirs ; more mild, more kind, 

As if a holier rule were on her mind. 

I cannot choose but marvel at the way 

In which our lives pass on, from day to day 

Learning strange lessons in the human heart, 

And yet like shadows letting them depart. 

Is misery so familiar that we bung 

Ourselves to view it as a usual thing ? 

Thus is it ; how regardless pass we by 

The cheek to paleness worn, the heavy eye ! 

We do too little feel each others' pain ; 

We do relax too much the social chain 

That binds us to each other ; slight the care 

There is for grief in which we have no shaie. 

Olyxpia felt all this ; it loosed one mo o 
Of her heart's ties, and earth's illusions wore 
The aspect of their truth, a gloomy show 
But what it well befits the soul to know, 
It taught the lesson of how vain the toil 
To build our hopes upon earth's fragile soil. 

! only those who suffer, those may know 
How much of piety will spring from wo. 

Days, weeks, and months pass'd onwards, and 

once more 
Leojjt stood upon his native shore. 
Slight change there was in him: perchance has 

brow 
Wore somewhat of more settled shadow now ; 
Somewhat of inward grief, too, though icpressM, 
Was in his scornful speech and bitter jest ; 
For misery, like a masquer, mocks at all 
In which i'c has no part, or one of gall, 

1 will say that he loved her, but say not 
That his, like hers, was an ill-blighted lot ; 
Forever in man's bosom will man's pride 
An equal empire with his love divide. 

It was one glorious sunset, lone and mute, 
Save a young page who sometimes waked his luti 
With snatches of sad song ; Leoni paced 
His stately hall, and much might there be traced 
What were the workings of its owner's mind. 
Red wine was in a silver vase enshrined, 
But rudely down the cup was flung, undrain'd, 
So hastily, the leaf below was stain'd ; 
For many an open'd volume lay beside, 
As each for solace had in vain been tried : 



176 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



And now, worn, wearied, with his solitude, 

He strode, half-sa£, half-listless in his mood, 

Listening the lute or the deep ocean wave, 

When an attendant enter'd in and gave 

A. packet to his hand. Careless he gazed, 

A nd broke the seal. Why ' the red flush has 

raised 
Its passion to his brow — what ! is the name 
There written 1 — from Oltmpia, then, it came. 

" One word, Leoni, 'tis my first and last, 
And never spoken but that life is past. 
It is earth's lingering dreaming, that I pine 
To know these lines will meet one look of thine ; 
If possible upon thy heart to fling 
One gentle memory, one soft thought to cling 
To thy more mournful hours ; to bid thee take 
A pledge too dearly treasured for thy sake, 
And one of mine. Ah ! this may be forgiven ; 
'Tis the last weakness of the bride of Heaven, 
Which I shall be or e'er this comes to tell 
How much thou hast been loved. Farewell, fare- 
well !" 
He took her gift : well known the pledges 
there, 
A wither'd rose, a tress of silken hair. 



Sukxt and blue was the minstrel's eye, 
Like the lake when noontide is passing by ; 
And his hair fell down in its golden rings, 
As bright and as soft as his own harp-strings. 
Yet with somewhat wild upon lip and cheek, 
As forth the enthusiast spirit would break 
To wander at times through earth and air, 
And feed upon all the wonders there. 
A changeful prelude his light notes rung, 
As remembering all they had ever sung : 
Now the deep numbers roll'd along, 
Like the fiery sweep of a battle song ; 
Now sad, yet bold, as those numbers gave 
Their last farewell to the victor's grave ; 
Then was it soft and low, as it brought 
The depths of the maiden's lovelorn thought : — 
Harp of Erin ! hath song a tone 
Not to thy gifted numbers known 1 — 
But the latest touch was light and calm, 
As the voice of a hymn, the night-falling balm ; 
Holy and sweet, as its music were given 
Less from a vision of earth than of heaven. 



THE HAUNTED LAKE: 

THE IRISH MINSTREx's LEGESTD. 

Rose up the young moon ; back she flung 
The veil of clouds that o'er her hung : 



Thus would fair maiden fling aside 
Her bright curls in her golden pride : 
On pass'd she through the sky of blue, 
Lovelier as she pass'd it grew ; 
At last her gentle smiles awake 
The silence of the azure lake. 
Lighted to silver, waves arise, 
As conscious of her radiant eyes. 
Hark ! floats around it music's tone, 
Sweeter than mortal ear hath known : 
Such, when the sighing night-wind grieves 
Amid the rose's ruby leaves, 
Conscious the nightingale is nigh, 
That too soon his reluctant wing 
Must rival song and rival sigh 

To his own fair flower bring ; 
Such as the lute, touch'd by no hand 

Save by an angel's, wakes and weeps , 
Such is the sound that now to land 
From the charmed water sweeps. 
Around the snowy foam-wreaths break, 
The spirit band are on the lake. 
First, a gay train form'd of the hues 
Of morning skies and morning dews ; 
A saffron light around them play'd, 
As eve's last cloud with them delay'd ; 
Such tints, when gazing from afar, 
The dazed eye sees in midnight star. 
They scatter'd flowers, and the stream 

Grew like a garden, each small billow 
Shining with the crimson gleam 

The young rose flung upon its pillow ; 
And from their hands, and from their hair, 
Blossom's and odours fill'd the air ; 
And some of them bore wreathed shells, 
Blush-dyed, from their coral cells, 
Whence the gale at twilight brought 
The earliest lesson music caught : 
And gave they now the sweetest tone, 
That unto seaborn lyre was known ; 
For they were echoes to the song 

That from spirit lips was fleeting, 
And the wind bears no charm along 

Such as the shell and voices meeting 
On pass'd they to the lulling tune, 
Meet pageant for the lady moon. 
A louder sweep the music gave : 
The chieftain of the charmed wave, 
Graceful upon his steed of snow, 
Rises from his blue halls below ; 
And rode he like a victor knight 
Thrice glorious in his arms of light. 
But, ! the look his features bear 
Was not what living warriors wear , 
The glory of his piercing eye 
Was not that of mortality ; 
Earth's cares may not such calm allow, 
Man's toil is written on nis brow : 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



177 



But here the face was passionless, 

The holy peace of happiness, 

With that grave pity spirits feel 

In watching over human weal ; 

An awful beauty round him shone 

But for the good to look upon. 

Close by his side a maiden rode, 

Like spray her white robe round her fiow'd ; 

No rainbow hues about her clung, 

Such as the' other maidens flung ; 

And her hair hath no summer crown, 

But its long tresses floating down 

Are like a veil of gold which cast 

A sunshine to each wave that past. 

She was not like the rest : her cheek 

Was pale and pure as moonlight snows ; 
Her lip had only the faint streak 

The bee loves in the early rose ; 
And her dark eye had not the blue 

The others had clear, wild, and bright ; 
But floating starry, as it drew 

Its likeness from the radiant night 
And more she drew my raised eye 
Than the bright shadows passing by ; 
A meeker air, a gentler smile, 
A timid tenderness the while, 
Held sympathy of heart, and told 
The lady was of earthly mould. 
Blush'd the first blush of coming day, 
Faded the fairy band away. 
They pass'd and only left behind 
A lingering fragrance on the wind, 
And on the lake, their haunted home, 
One long white wreath of silver foam. 
Heard I. in each surrounding vale 
What was that mortal maiden's tale : 
Last of her race, a lonely flower, 
She dwelt within their ruin'd tower. 
Orphan without one link to bind 
Nature's affection to her kind ; 
She grew up a neglected child, 
As pure, as beautiful, as wild 
As the field flowers which were for years 
Her only comrades and compeers. 
Time pass'd, and she, to woman grown, 
Still, like a wood bird, dwelt alone. 
Save that, beside a peasant's hearth, 
Tales of the race which gave her birth 
Would sometimes win the maiden's ear ; 
And once, in a worst hour of fear, 
When the red fever raged around, 
Her place beside the couch was found 
Of sickness, and her patient care, 
And soothing look, and holy prayer, 
And skill in herbs, had power sublime 
Upon the sufferer's weary time : 
But, saving these, her whiter day 
Was pass'd within the ruins gray ; 
(23) 



And ever summer noons were spent 

Beside the charmed lake, and there 
Her voice its silver sweetness sent 

To mingle with the air. 
Thus time pass'd on. At length, one day 
Beside her favourite haunt she lay, 
When rush'd some band who wish'd to maa* 
Her prisoner for her beauty's sake. 

She saw them ere they gain'd her seat, 

Ah ! safety may she gain 1 
Though mountain deer be not more fleet, 

Yet here flight is in vain. 
The lake — O, it is there to save ! 
She plunges — is it to a grave ] 
Moons waned ; again is come the night 
When sprites are free for earthly sight. 
They see the mortal maiden ride 
In honour by the chieftan's side, 
So beautiful, so free from sin, 
Worthy was she such boon to win : 
The spirit race that floated round 
Were not more pure, more stainless found 
Her utmost loveliness and grace 
Were sole signs of her human race ; 
Happy, thus freed from earthly thrall, 
She skims the lake, fairest of all. 



Scarlet robe broider'd with gold ; 
A turban's snowy, but gem-set fold, 
And its heron plume fasten'd by diamond clasp 
Rubies red on his dagger-hasp ; 
Eyes dark as a midnight dream, 
Yet flashing wild with starry beam : 
Swarthy cheek untouch'd by red, 
Told far had Ciemex za's summons sped : 
Since the Moorish bard had brought his claim, 
'Mid these Northern halls, to the meed of fanis 



THE WREATH: 

TALE OF THE MOORISH BARD. 

The earliest beauty of the rose, 
Waking from moonlight repose, 
In morning air and dew to steep 
The blush of her voluptuous sleep ; 
This was her cheek : and for her eye, 
Gaze thou upon the midnight sky, 
And choose its fairest star, the one 
Thou deem'st most lovely and most lone 
Her lip, ! never flower of spring 
Had smile of such sweet blandishing 



178 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Ay, beautiful she was as light 
Descending on the darken' cl sight ; 
But these were not the spells that gave 
Leila the heart of her charmed slave ; 
But all those sweet gifts that win, 
Like sunshine, instant entrance in ; 
Those gentle words and acts that bind 
In love our nature with our kind. 

She dwelt within a palace fair 
Such as in fairy gardens are ; 
There grew her father's cypress tree, 
No other monument had he. 
He bade that never funeral stone 
Should tell of glory overthrown, — 
What could it say, but foreign sky 
Had seen the exile pine and die 1 

The maiden grew beside the tomb ; 
Perhaps 'twas that which touch'd her bloom 
With somewhat of more mournful shade 
Than seems for youth's first budding made. 
It was her favourite haunt, she felt 
As there her all of memory dwelt. 
Alone, a stranger in the land 
Which was her home, the only band 
Between her and her native tongue 
Was when her native songs she sung. 

Leila, thou wert not of our name ; 

Thy Christian creed, thy Spanish race, 
To us were sorrow, guilt, and shame, 

No earthly beauty might efface. 
Yet, lovely Infidel, thou art 
A treasure clinging to my heart : 
A very boy, I yet recall 
The dark light of thine eye's charm'd thrall ; 
Beneath thy worshipp'd cypress leant, 
And flowers with thy breathing blent, 
Less pure, less beautiful than thou, 
I see thee ; and I hear the now 
Singing sweet to the twilight dim — 
Could it be sin 1 — thy vesper hymn. 

Burnt a sweet light in that fair shrine, 
At once too earthly, too divine ; 
The heart's vain struggle to create 
An Eden not for mortal state. 

Love, who shall say that thou art not 
The dearest blessing of our lot ] 
Yet not the less, who may deny 
Life las no. sorrow like thy sigh ? 
A fairy gift, and none may know 
Or will it work to weal or wo. 

Spite of the differing race and creed, 
Their fathers had been friends in need ; 



And, all unconsciously at first, 
Love in its infancy was nursed ; 
Companions from their earliest years, 
Unknown the hopes, the doubts, the fears, 
That haunt young passion's early hour, 
Spared but to come with deadlier power, 
With deeper sorrow, worse unrest, 
When once love stood in both confest. 

The ground she trod, the air she breathed 
The blossoms in her dark hair wreath'd, 
Her smile, her voice, to Mirza's eyes 
More precious seem'd than Paradise. 

Yet was the silence sweet unbroken 
By vows in which young love is spoken. 
But when the heart has but one dream 
For midnight gloom or noontide beam, 
And one, at least, knows well what power 
Is ruling, words will find their hour ; 
Though after growth of grief and pain, 
May wish those words unsaid again. 

'Twas sunset, and the glorious heaven 
To Leila's cheek and eye seem'd given ; 
The one like evening crimson bright, 
The other fili'd with such clear light, 
That, as she bent her o'er the strings, 
Catching music's wanderings, 
Look'd she well some Peri fair, 
Born and being of the air. 
Waked the guitar beneath her hand 
To ballad of her Spanish land ; 
Sad, but yet suiting twilight pale, 
When surely tenderest thoughts prevail. 



Ma id ex, fling from thy braided hair 
The red rosebud that is wreathed there ; 
For he who planted the parent tree 
Is now what soon that blossom will be. 

Maiden, fling from thy cheek of snow 
The chain where the Eastern rubies glow ; 
For he who gave thee that jewell'd chain 
Lies in his wounds on the battle plain. 

Maiden, fling thou aside thy lute, 
Be its chords, as thy own hopes, mute ; 
For he who first taught thy lips that strain 
Never will listen its music again. 

Give those roses to strew on his grave, 
That chain for a mass for the soul of th brave 
And teach that lute, thou widow'd dove, 
A dirge for the fall of thy warrior love. 

" Alas ! that ever, " Leila said, 

" The fond should mourn above the dead. 






THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



W 



Thus all too early desolate, 
Without one hope or wish from fate ; 
Save death, what can the maiden crave 
Who weeps above her lover's grave V 
Darken'd her eyes with tearful dew, 
Wore her soft cheek yet softer hue ; 
And Minzi who had lean'd the while, 
Feeding upon her voice and smile, 
Felt as if all that fate could bring 
Were written on that moment's wing. 
One moment he is at her knee, 
" So, Leila, wouldst thou weep for me ?" 
Started she, as at lightning gleam, — 
" 0, Mirza, this I did not dream. 
Moslem and Moor, may Spanish maid 
Hearken such words as thou hast said 1 
My father's blood, my father's creed, 
Now help me in my hour of need !" 

Still knelt he at the maiden's feet, 
Still sought he those dear eyes to meet. 
" Cruel, and is there nothing due 
To love so fervid and so true V 
As with conflicting thought oppress'd, 
She droop'd her head upon his breast ; 
Watch'd he the tears on her pale face, 
When started she from that embrace. 
" I know the weakness of my heart : 
Mirza, in vain, for we must part. 
Farewell, and henceforth I will be 
Vow'd to my God and prayers for thee." 

He strove to speak, but she was gone, 
He stood within the grove alone, 
And from that hour they met no more : 
But what to either might restore 
Or peace or hope ; the gulf between, 
They must forget what they had been. 
Forget — O ! never yet hath love 
Successfully with memory strove. 
I then was Mirza's page ; and strange 
T t was to me to watch the change 
That over him like magic wrought. 
Apart from all, in silent thought 
f le would pass hours ; and then his mood, 
Vs wearied of such solitude, 
Uter'd to gayety ; that mirth, 
Desperate as if it knew its birth, 
Was like an earth flame's sudden breath, 
sprung from the ruin'd soil beneath. 

They had not met, since to the maid 
'•lis first rash vow of love was said ; 
But heard we how, by penance, prayer, 

She strove to wash away the sin, 
That ever Infidel had share 

A Christian maiden's breast within : 
And there perchance were other tears 
Than those which flow'd from holy fears. 



I know not what vain dream had sprung 

In Mirza. Is it that despair, 
Ere the last veil aside is flung, 

Unable its own words to bear, 
Will borrow from hope's charmed tongue 7 
To her a wreath he bid me take, 
Such as in our fair garden wake 
Love's hopes and fears, — ! suiting well 
Such gentle messages to tell. 
That wreath I to the lady brought, 

I found her in her hall alone, 
So changed, your sculptors never wrought 

A form in monumental stone 
So cold, so pale. The large dark eye 

Shone strangely o'er the marble cheek ; 
The lips were parted, yet no sigh 

Seem'd there of breathing life to speak * 
The picture at whose feet she knelt, 

The maiden Mother and her Child, 
The hues which on that canvass dwelt, 

With more of human likeness smiled. 
Awful the face, however fair, 
When death's dark call is written there. 
I gave the wreath, I named his name, 
One moment the heart's weakness came ; 
Written in crimson on her brow, | 

The very blossoms caught the glow ; 
Or grew they bright but from the fall 
Of tears that lit their coronal 1 
The next, the dark eye's sudden rain, 
The cheek's red colour pass'd again, 
All earthly feelings with them died ; 
Slowly she laid the gift aside. 
When will my soul forget the look 
With which one single stem she took 
From out the wreath ] — a tulip flower; 
But, touch'd as by some withering powe.', 
The painted leaves were drooping round 
The rich but burning heart they bound. 
She spoke, — ! never music's tone 
Hath sadder, sweeter cadence known : — 
" With jarring creed, and hostile line, 

And heart with fate at enmity, 
This wasting flower is emblem mine, 

'Tis faded, it hath but to die." 

I took those leaves of faded bloom 
To Mirza ; 'twas of both the doom. 
He died the first of the battle line, 
When red blood dims the sabre's shine ; 
He died the early death of the brave, 
And the place of the battle was that of his gra*« 
She died as dies a breath of song 
Borne on the winds of evening along , 
She fell as falls the rose in spring, 
The fairest are ever most perishing, 
Yet lingers that tale of sorrow and love 
Of the Christian maid and her Moslem lov<j 



180 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



A tale to be told in the twilight hour, 
For the beauty's tears in her lonely bower. 



Rose the last minstrel ; he was one 
Well the eye loves to look upon. 
Slight, but tall, the gallant knight 
Had the martial step he had used in fight ; 
Dark and rich curl'd the auburn hair 
O'er a brow, like the ocean by moonlight, fair ; 
His island colour was on his cheek, 
Enough of youth in his health to speak ; 
But shaded it was with manly brown, 
From much of toil and of peril known : 
Frank was his courtesy, and sweet 
The smile he wore at fair lady's feet ; 
Yet haughty his step, and his mien was high 
Half-softness, half-fire his falcon eye. 
England, fair England, hath earth or sea, 
Land of hearth and home, aught to liken with 
thee! 



SIR WALTER MANNY AT HIS FA- 
THER'S TOMB : 

THE ENGLISH KNIGHt's BALLAD. 

' O ! show me the grave where my father is laid, 

Show his lowly grave to me ; 
A hundred pieces of broad red gold. 

Old man, shall, thy guerdon be." 

With torch in hand, and bared head, 

The old man led the way ; 
And cold and shrill pass'd the midnight wind 

Through his hair of silvery gray. 

A stately knight follow'd his steps, 

And his form was tall and proud ; 
But his step fell soft, and his helm was off, 

And his head on his bosom bow'd. 

They pass'd through the cathedral aisles, 

Whose sculptured walls declare 
The deeds of many a noble knight ; 

De Manny's name was not there. 

t'hey pass'd next a low and humble church, 

Scarce seen amid the gloom ; 
There was many a grave, yet not even there. 

Had his father found a tomb. 

They traversed a bleak and barren heath, 

Till they came to a gloomy wood, 
Where the dark trees droop'd, and the dark grass 

grew, 
As cursed with the sight of blood. 



There stood a lorn and blasted tree, 
As heaven and earth were its foes, 

And beneath was a piled up mound of stones, 
Whence a rude gray cross arose. 

" And lo !" said the ancient servitor, 

" It is here thy father is laid ; 
No mass has bless'd the lowly grave 

Which his humblest follower made. 

" I would have wander'd through every land 
Where his gallant name was known, 

To have pray'd a mass for the soul of the dead, 
And a monumental stone. 

" But I knew thy father had a son, 
To whom the task would be dear : 

Young knight, I kept the warrior's grave 
For thee, and thou art here." 

Sir Walter grasp'd the old man's hand 

But spoke he never a word ; — 
So still it was, that the fall of tears 

On his mailed vest was heard. 

! the heart has all too many tears ; 

But none are like those that wait 
On the blighted love, the loneliness 

Of the young orphan's fate. 

He call'd to mind when for knighthood's badge 

He knelt at Edward's throne ; 
How many stood by a parent's side, 

But he stood there alone ! 

He thought how often his heart had pmed, 
When his was the victor's name ; 

Thrice desolate, strangers might give, 
But could not share his fame. 

Down he knelt in silent prayer 

On the grave where his father slept ; 

And many the tears, and bitter the thoughts, 
As the warrior his vigil kept. 

And he built a little chapel there ; 

And bade the death-bell toll, 
And prayers be said, and mass be sung, 

For the weal of the warrior's soul. 

Years pass'd, and ever Sir Walter was first 

Where warlike deeds were done ; 
But who would not look for the gallant knight 

In the leal and loyal son. 



Sooth: to say, the sight was fair, 
When the lady unbound from her raven hab 
The Golden Violet. O praise ! 
Dear thou art to the poet's lays. 



THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 



181 



Many a flash from each dark eye pass'd, 
Many a minstrel's pulse throbb'd fast 
As she held forth the flower. 



The dream is past, hush'd is my lute. 
At least, to my awaking, mute ; 
Past that fair garden and glad hall, 
And she the lady queen of all. 
Leave we her power to those who deign 
One moment to my idle strain : 
Let each one at their pleasure set 
The prize — the Golden Violet. 
Could I choose where it might belong, 
'Mid phantoms but of mine own soi ■» : 

My task is ended ; it may seem 
But vain regret for morning dream, 
To say how sad a look is cast 
Over the line we know the last. 
The weary hind at setting sun 
Rejoices over labour done, 
The hunter at the ended chase, 
The ship above its anchoring-place 
The pilgrim o'er his pilgrimage, 
The reader o'er the closing page ; 
All, for end is to them repose. 
The poet's lot is not with those : 
His hour in Paradise is o'er ; 

He stands on earth, and takes his share 
Of shadows closing round him more, 

The feverish hope, the freezing cart ; 
And he must read in other eyes, 
Or if his spirit's sacrifice 
Shall brighten, touch'd with heaven's own tiro, 
Or in its ashes dark expire. 
Then even worse, — what art thou, fame ? 
A various and doubtful claim 
One grants and one denies ; what none 
Can wholly quite agree upon. 
A dubious and uncertain path 
At least the modern minstrel hath ; 
How may he tell, where none agree, 
What may fame's actual passport le * 

For me, in sooth, not mint fiU/ii^e 

On its own powers to rely ; 
But its chords with all wills to 8^r., 

It were an easier iaek to try 
To blend in one each varying tone 
The midnight wind hath ever known. 
One saith that tale of battle brand 
Is all too rude for my weak hand ; 
Another, too much sorrow flings 
Its pining cadence o'er my strings. 
So much to win, so much to lose, 
No marvel if I fear to choose. 



How can I tell of battle field, 
I never listed brand to wield ; 
Or dark ambition's pathway try, 
In truth I never look'd so high ; 
Or stern revenge, or hatred fell, 
Of what I know not, can I tell 1 
I soar not on such lofty wings, 
My lute has not so many strings ; 
Its dower is but a humble dower, 

And I who call upon its aid, 
My power is but a woman's power, 

Of softness and of sadness made. 
In all its changes my own heart 
Must give the colour, have its part. 
If tl:n I know myself what keys 
Yield to my hand their sympathies, 
I should say h is Chose whose tone 
Is woman's love and sorrow's own ; 
Such notes as float upon the gale, 
When twilight, tender nurse and pale, 
Brings soothing airs and silver dew 
The panting roses to renew ; 
Feelings whose truth is all their worth, 
Thoughts which have had their pensive birth 
When lilies hang their heads and die, 
Eve's lesson of mortality. 
Such lute, and with such humble wreath 
As suits frail string and trembling breath, 
Such, gentle reader, woos thee now. 

! o'er it bend with yielding brow : 
Read thou it when some soften'd mood 
Is on thy hour of solitude ; 

And tender memory, sadden'd thought, 
On the world's harsher cares have wrought. 
Bethink thee, kindly look and word 
Will fall like sunshine o'er each chord ; 
That, light as is such boon to thee, 
'Tis more than summer's noon to me : 
That, if such meed my suit hath won, 

1 shall not mourn my task is done. 



TVOTES TO THE GOLDEN VIOLET. 

Page 154. 
Clairshach is the name of a small species of 
harp ane : .3iitly used in the Highlands. See Annot 
Lyle's so/ig in the " Legend of Montrose." 

Page 154. 
The Dream. This tale is founded on more 
modern tradition than that of the distant age to 
which my minstrel belongs : the vision, the pro- 
phecy, and untimely death of the youthful pair sire 

actual facts ; and the present Campbell, Esq. 

Laird of Glensaddaell Anglice Melancholy Valley, 
is the very child whose health and prosperity have 
realized the prediction of his birth. 
7 



1S2 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Page 65. 
The Pilgrim's Tale. In one, I think, of Dr. 
Mavcr's beautiful essays (read years ago with de- 
light,) mention is made of an Eastern monarch 
who, after years of power, pride, and pleasure, left 
it to be recorded in his archives, that in all those 
years he had known but fourteen days of happi- 
ness. 

Page 176. 
The Haunted Lake is founded on the Irish 
tradition of O'Donoghue, mentioned in one of 
ooro's charming melodies. I trust the slight 



liberties taken with the story will be pardons-l on 
the plea of poetical variety. 

The tulip symbol, alluded to in page 179, beara 
the allegorical construction of eternal separation in 
the beautiful language of Eastern flowers. 

Page 180. 
Sir Walter Manny. The most touching inci- 
dent on which this little poem is founded is a 
historic fact, and as such recorded in Mills's !£:*• 
toiy of Chivalry ; pages to which my debt of ^!b 
gation and delight is more freely though now 
regretfully rendered, in the knowledge that :t w 
gratitude, not flattery, wbi?k is sj^ken of the ctead 



E R I N N A. 



INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. 



Among the obligations I owe to " The Brides of Florence," and to the information contained in its 
interesting notes, I must refer particularly for the origin of the present poem. In one of those notes is 
the first, indeed the only account I ever met with of Erinna. The following short quotation is suffi- 
cient for my present purpose : — Erinna was a poetess from her cradle, and she only lived to the com- 
pletion of her eighteenth year. — Of Erinna very little is known ; there is in the Grecian Anthology a 
sepulchral epigram by Antipater on this young poetess." A poem of the present kind had long floated 
on my imagination ; and this gave it a local habitation and a name. There seemed to be just enough 
known of Erinna to interest ; and I have not attempted to write a classical fiction ; feelings are what I 
wish to narrate, not incidents ; my aim has been to draw the portrait and trace the changes of a highly 
poetical mind, too sensitive perhaps of the chill and bitterness belonging even to success. The feelings 
which constitute poetry are the same in all ages, they are acted upon by similar causes. Erinna is an 
ideal not a historical picture, and as such I submit it less to the judgment than to the kindness of my 
friends. 



Was she of spirit race, or was she one 

Of earth's least earthly daughters, one to whom 

A gift of loveliness and soul is given, 

Only to make them wretched 1 



There is an antique gem, on which her brow 
Retains its graven beauty even now. 
Her hair is braided, but one curl behind 
Floats as enamour'd of the summer wind ; 
The rest is simple. Is she not too fair 
Even to think of maiden's sweetest care 1 "' 
The mouth and brow are contrasts. One so fraught 
With pride, the melancholy pride of thought 
Conscious of power, and yet forced to know 
How little way such power as that can go ; 
Regretting, while too proud of the fine mind, 
Which raises but to part it from its kind : 
But the sweet mouth had nothing of all this ; 
It was a mouth the rose had lean'd to kiss 
For her young sister, telling, now though mute, 
How soft an echo it was to the lute. 
The one spoke genius, in its high revealing; 
The other smiled a woman's gentle feeling. 
It was a lovely face: the Greek outline 
Flowing, yet delicate and feminine ; 
The glorious lightning of the kindled eye, 
Raised, as it communed with its nativ8 sky. 
A lovely face, the spirit's fitting shrine ; 
The one almost, the other quite divine. 



Mi hand is on the lyre, which never more 
With its sweet commerce, like a bosom friend, 
Will share the deeper thoughts which I could trust 
Only to music and to solitude. 
It is the very grove, the olive grove, 
Where first I laid my laurel crown aside, 
And bathed my fever'd brow in the cold stream ; 
As if that I could wash away the fire 



Which from that moment kindled in my heart 
I well remember how I flung myself, 
Like a young goddess, on a purple cloud 
Of light and odour — the rich violets 
Were so ethereal in bloom and breath : 
And I, — I felt immortal, for my brain 
Was drunk and mad with its first draught of fame 
'Tis strange there was one only cypress tree, 
183 



184 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



And then, as now, I lay beneath its shade. 
The night had seen me paee my lonely room, 
Clasping the lyre T had no heart to wake, 
Impatient for the day : yet its first dawn 
Came cold as death ; for every pulse sank down, 
Until the very presence of my hope 
Became to me a fear. The sun rose up ; 
I stood alone 'mid thousands ; but I felt 
Mine inspiration ; and, as the last sweep 
Of my song died away amid the hills, 
My heart reverberate the shout which bore 
To the blue mountains and the distant heaven 
Ehinxa's name, and on my bended knee, 
Olympus, I received thy laurel crown. 

And twice new birth of violets have sprung, 
Since they were first my pillow, since I sought 
In the deep silence of the olive grove 
The dreamy happiness which solitude 
Brings to the soul o'erfiU'd with its delight : 
For I was like some young and sudden heir 
Of a rich palace heap'd with gems and gold, 
Whose pleasure doubles as he sums his wealth 
And forms a thousand plans of festival ; 
Such Were my myriad visions of delight. 
The lute, which hitherto in Delphian shades 
Had been my twilight's solitary joy, 
Would henceforth be a sweet and breathing bond 
Between me and my kind. Orphan unloved, 
I had been lonely from my childhood's hour, 
Childhood whose very happiness is love : 
But that was over now ; my lyre would be 
My own heart's true interpreter, and those 
To whom my song was dear, would they not bless 
The hand that waken'd it 1 I should be loved 
For the so gentle sake of those soft chords 
Which mingled others' feelings with mine own. 

Vow'd I that song to meek and gentle thoughts. 
To tales that told of sorrow and of love, 
To all our nature's finest touches, all 
That wakens sympathy : and I should be 
Alone no longer ; every wind that bore, 
And every lip that breathed one strain of mine, 
Henceforth partake in all my joy and grief. 
! glorious is the gifted poet's lot, 
And touching more than glorious : 'tis to be 
Companion of the heart's least earthly hour ; 
The voice of love and sadness, calling forth 
Tears from their silent fountain : 'tis to have 
Share in all nature's loveliness ; giving flowers 
A life as sweet, more lasting than their own ; 
And catching from green wood and lofty pine 
Language mysterious as musical ; 
Making the thoughts, which else had only been 
Like colours on the morning's earliest hour, 
Immortal, and worth immortality , 
v iclding the hero that eternal name 



For which he fought ; making the patriot's deed 
A stirring record for long after time ; 
Cherishing tender thoughts, which else had pass'd 
Away like tears ; and saving the loved dead 
From death's worst part — its deep forgetfulness. 

From the first moment when a falling leaf, 
Or opening bud, or streak of rose-touch'd sky, 
Waken'd in me the flush and flow of song, 
I gave my soul entire unto the gift 
I deem'd mine own, direct from heaven ; it was 
The hope, the bliss, the energy of life ; 
I had no hope that dwelt not with my lyre, 
No bliss whose being grew not from my lyre, 
No energy undevoted to my lyre. 
It was my other self, that had a power ; 
Mine, but o'er which I had not a control. 
At times it was not with me, and I felt 
A wonder how it ever had been mine : 
And then a word, a look of loveliness, 
A tone of music, call'd it into life ; 
And song came gushing, like the natural tears, 
To check whose current does not rest with us. 

Had I lived ever in the savage woods, 
Or in some distant island, which the sea 
With wind and wave guards in deep loneliness ; 
Had my eye never on the beauty dwelt 
Of human face, and my ear never drank 
The music of a human voice ; I feel 
My spirit would have pour'd itself in song, 
Have learn'd a language from the rustling leaves 
The singing of the birds, and of the tide. 
Perchance, then, happy had I never known 
Another thought could be attach'd to song 
Than of its own delight. ! let me pause 
Over this earlier period, when my heart 
Mingled its being with its pleasures, fill'd 
With rich enthusiasm, which once flung 
Its purple colouring o'er all things of earth, 
And without which our utmost power of thought 
But sharpens arrows that will drink our blood. 
Like woman's soothing influence o'er man, 
Enthusiasm is upon the mind ; 
Softening and beautifying that which is 
Too harsh and sullen in itself. How much 
I loved the painter's glorious art, which forms 
A world like, but more beautiful than this ; 
Just catching nature in her happiest mood 
How drank I in fine poetry, which makes 
The hearing passionate, fill'd with memories 
Which steal from out the past like rays from 

clouds ! 
And then the sweet songs of my native vale, 
Whose sweetness and whose softness call'd to 

mind 
The perfume of the flowers, the purity 
Of the blue sky ; 0, how they stirr'd my soul ' 



ERINN A. 



185 



Amid the many golden gifts which neaven 
Has left, like portions of its light, on earth, 
None hath such influence as music hath. 
The painter's hues stand visible before us 
In power and beauty ; we can trace the thoughts 
Which are the workings of the poet's mind : 
But music is a mystery, and viewless 
Even when present, and is less man's act, 
And less within his order ; for the hand 
That can call forth the tones, yet cannot tell 
Whither they go, or if they live or die, 
When floated once beyond his feeble ear ; 
And then, as if it were an unreal thing, 
The wind will sweep from the neglected strings 
As rich a swell as ever minstrel drew. 

A poet's word, a painter's touch, will reach 
The innermost recesses of the heart, 
Making the pulses throb in unison 
With joy or grief, which we can analyze ; 
There is the cause for pleasure and for pain : 
But music moves us, and we know not why 1 
We feel the tears, but cannot trace their source. 
Is it the language of some other state, 
Born of its memory 1 For what can wake 
The soul's strong instinct of another world, 
Like music 1 Well with sadness doth it suit, 
To hear the melancholy sounds decay, 
And think (for thoughts are life's great human 

Jinks, 
And mingle with our feelings,) even so 
Will the heart's wildest pulses sink to rest. 

How have I loved, when the red evening fill'd 
Our temple with its glory, first, to gaze 
On the strange contrast of the crimson air, 
Lighted as if with passion, and flung back, 
From silver vase and tripod rich with gems, 
To the pale statues round, where human life 
Was not, but beauty was, which seem'd to have 
Apart existence from humanity : 
Then, to go forth where the tall waving pines 
Seem'd as behind them roll'd a golden sea, 
Immortal and eternal ; and the boughs, 
That darkly swept between me and its light, 
Were fitting emblems of the worldly cares 
That are the boundary between us and heaven ; 
Meanwhile, the wind, a wilful messenger 
Lingering amid the flowers on his way, 
At intervals swept past in melody, 
The lutes and voices of the choral hymn 
Contending with the rose-breath en his wing ! 
Perhaps it is these pleasures' chiefest charm, 
They are so indefinable, so vague. 
From earliest childhood all too well aware 
Of the uncertain nature of our joys, 
It is delicious to enjoy, yet know 
No after consequence will be to weep. 
Pride misers with enjoyment, when we have 
(24) 



Delight in things that are but of the mind : 
But half humility when we partake 
Pleasures that are half wants, the spirit pines 
And struggles in its fetters, and disdains 
The low base clay to which it is allied. 
But here our rapture raises us : we feel 
What glorious power is given to man, and find 
Our nature's nobleness afid attributes, 
Whose heaven is intellect ; and we are proud 
To think how we can love those things of earth 
Which are least earthly ; and the soul grows pure 
In this high communing, and more divine. 

This time of dreaming happiness pass'd by, 
Another spirit was within my heart ; 
I drank the maddening cup of praise, which grew 
Henceforth the fountain of my life ; I lived 
Only in others' breath ; a word, a look, 
Were of all influence on my destiny : 
If praise they spoke, 'twas sunlight to my soul . 
Or censure, it was like the scorpion's sting. 

And a yet darker lesson was to learn — 
The hollowness of each ; that praise, which is 
But base exchange of flattery ; that blame, 
Given by cautious coldness, which still deems 
'Tis safest to depress ; that mockery, 
Flinging shafts but to show its own keen aim ; 
That carelessness, whose very censure's chance ; 
And, worst of all, the earthly judgment pass'd 
By minds whose native clay is unredeem'd 
By aught of heaven, whose every thought falls 

foul 
Plague spot on beauty which they cannot feel 
Tainting all that it touches with itself. 

dream of fame, what hast thou been to me 
But the destroyer of life's calm content ! 

1 feel so more than ever, that thy sway 
Is weaken'd over me. Once I could find 
A deeper and dangerous delight in thee ; 
But that is gone. I am too much awake. 
Light has burst o'er me, but not morning's light ; 
'Tis such light as will burst upon the tomb, 
When all but judgment's over. Can it bo, 
That these fine impulses, these lofty thoughts, 
Burning with their own beauty, are but given 
To make me the low slave of vanity, 
Heartless and humbled 1 my own sweet power, 
Surely thy songs were made for more than this ! 
What a worst waste of feeling and of life 

Have been the imprints on my roll of time, 
Too much, too long ! To what use have I turn'd 
The golden gifts in which I pride myself] 
They are profaned ; with their pure ore I made 
A temple resting only on the breath 
Of heedless worshippers. Alas ! that ever 
Praise should have been what k has been to me 
The opiate of my heart. Yet I have dream'd 



186 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Of things which cannot be ; the bright, the pure, 

That all of which the heart may only dream ; 

And I have mused upon my gift of song, 

And deeply felt its beauty, and disdain'd 

The pettiness of praise to which at times 

My soul was bow'd ; and I have scorn' d myself 

For that my cheek could burn, my pulses beat 

At idle words. And yet, it is in vain 

For the full heart to press back every throb 

Wholly upon itself. Ay, fair as are 

The visions of a poet's solitude, 

There must be something more for happiness ; 

They seek communion. It had seem'd to me 

A miser's selfishness, had I not sought 

To share with others those impassion'd thoughts, 

Like light, or hope, or love, in their effects. 

When I have watch'd the stars write on the sky 

In characters of light, have seen the moon 

Come like a veil'd priestess from the east, 

While, like a hymn, the wind swell'd on mine ear, 

Telling soft tidings of eve's thousand flowers, 

Has it not been the transport of my lute 

To find its best delight in sympathy 1 

Alas ! the idols which our hopes set up, 

They are Chaldean ones, half gold, half clay ; 

We trust, we are deceived, we hope, we fear, 

Alike without foundation ; day by day 

Some new illusion is destroy'd, and life 

Gets cold and colder on towards its close. 

Just like the years which make it, some are 

check' d 
By sudden blights in spring ; some are dried up 
By fiery summers ; others waste away 
In calm monotony of quiet skies, 
And peradventure these may be the best : 
They know no hurricanes, no floods that sweep 
As a God's vengeance were upon each wave ; 
But then they have no ruby fruits, no flowers 
Shining in purple, and no lighted mines 
Of gold and diamond. Which is the best, — 
Beauty and glory, in a southern clime, 
Mingled with thunder, tempest ; or the calm 
Of skies that scarcely change, which, at the least, 
If much of shine they have not, have no storms 1 
I know not : but I know fair earth or sky 
Are self-consuming in their loveliness, 
And the too radiant sun and fertile soil 
In their luxuriance run themselves to waste, 
And the green valley and the silver stream 
Become a sandy desert. O ! the mind, 
Too vivid in its lighted energies, 
May read its fate in sunny Araby. 
How lives its beauty in each Eastern tale, 
Its growth of spices, and its groves of balm ! 
They are exhausted ; and what is it now 1 
A wild and burning wilderness. Alas ! 
For such similitude. Too much this is 
The fate of this world's loveliest and best. 



Is there not a far people, who possess 
Mysterious oracles of olden time, 
Who say that this earth labours with a curse, 
That it is fallen from its first estate, 
And is now but the shade of what it was '? 
I do believe the tale. I feel its truth 
In my vain aspirations, in the dreams 
That are revealings of another world, 
More pure, more perfect than our weary one, 
Where day is darkness to the starry soul. 

heart of mine ! my once sweet paradise 
Of love and hope ! how changed thou art to me I 
I cannot count thy changes : thou hast lost 
Interest in the once idols of thy being ; 
They have departed, even as if wings 
Had borne away their morning ; they have left 
Weariness, turning pleasure into pain, 
And too sure knowledge of their hollowness. 

And that too is gone from me; that which 

was 
My solitude's delight ! I can no more 
Make real existence of a shadowy world. 
Time was, the poet's song, the ancient tale 
Were to me fountains of deep happiness, 
For they grew visible in my lonely hours, 
As things in which I had a deed and part ; 
Their actual presence had not been more true : 
But these are bubbling sparkles, that are found 
But at the spring's first source. Ah ! years may 

bring » 
The mind to its perfection, but no more 
Will those young visions live in their own light , 
Life's troubles stir life's waters all too much, 
Passions chase fancies, and, though still we dream, 
The colouring is from reality. 

Farewell, my lyre ! thou hast not been to me 
All I once hoped. What is the gift of mind, 
But as a barrier to so much that makes 
Our life endurable, — companionship, 
Mingling affection, calm and gentle peace, 
Till the vex'd spirit seals with discontent 
A league of sorrow and of vanity, 
Built on a future which will never be ! 

And yet I would resign the praise that now 
Makes my cheek crimson, and my pulses beat, 
Could I but deem that when my hand is cold, 
And my lip passionless, my songs would be 
Number'd 'mid the young poet's first delights ; 
Read by the darkeyed maiden in an hour 
Of moonlight, till her cheek shone with its 

tears ; 
And murmur'd by the lover when his suit 
Calls upon poetry to breathe of love. 
I do not hope a sunshine burst of fame, 
My lyre asks but a wreath of fragile flowers. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



187 



I have tol I passionate tales of breaking hearts, 
Of young cheeks fading even before the rose ; 
M) T songs have been the mournful history 
Of woman's tenderness and woman's tears ; 
I have touch'd but the spirit's gentlest chords, — 
Surely the fittest for my maiden hand ; — 
And in their truth my immortality. 

Thou lovely and lone star, whose silver light, 
Like music o'er the waters, steals along 
The soften'd atmosphere ; pale star, to thee 
I dedicate the lyre, whose influence 
I would have sink upon the heart like thine. 



In such an hour as this, the bosom turns 
Back to its early feelings ; man forgets 
His stern ambition and his worldly cares, 
And woman loathes the petty vanities 
That mar her nature's beauty ; like the dew, 
Shedding its sweetness o'er the sleeping flowers 
Till all their morning freshness is revived, 
Kindly affections, sad, but yet sweet thoughts 
Melt the cold eyes, long, long unused to weep. 
O lute of mine, that I shall wake no more 1 
Such tearful music linger on thy strings, 
Consecrate unto sorrow and to love j 
Thy truth, thy tenderness, be all thy fame ' 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE CONISTON CURSE : 



A TOHELSHTRE LEGEND. 



There is a tradition of such a curse attached to one of the 
old mansions in the north of England ; I am not aware of 
any cause for the malediction. This will, I trust, be suffi- 
cient excuse for placing its origin in a period when such a 
circumstance was most likely to have taken place ; when 
enough of superstition remained for terror to have produced 
its fulfilment. 



Thex knelt upon the altar steps, but other looks 

were there 
Than the calm and inward looks which suit the 

evening hour of prayer ; 
Many a cheek was deadly pale, while some were 

fiush'd with red, 
And hurriedly and falteringly the holy words were 

said. 

They knelt their last, they sang their last ; for deep 

the king hath sworn, 
The silent cells should strangely change before the 

coming morn : 
The cloister'd votary henceforth is free from vow or 

veil, 
Her gray robes she may doff, and give her bright 

hair to the gale. 

And pardon be to them, if some, in their first hour 

of bloom, 
Thought all too lightly in their hearts 'twas not so 

hard a doom ; 
For they were young, and they were fair, and little 

in their shade 
Knew they of what harsh elements the jarring 

world was made. 



There knelt one young, there knelt one fair, but 

unlike those around, 
No change upon her steady mien or on her brow 

was found, 
Save haughtier even than its wont now seem'd 

that lady's face, 
And never yet was brow more proud among her 

haughty race. 

Betroth'd to one who fell in war, the last of all 

her name, 
In her first youth and loveliness the noble maiden 

came ; 
Vigil and prayer, and tears perchance, had worn 

her bloom away, 
When held that youthful prioress in St. Edith's 

shrine her sway. 

She gave her broad lands to its use, she gave her 

golden dower, — 
Marvel ye that ill she brook'd the chance that ruled 

the hour 1 
And it may be more fiercely grew her pious zeal 

allied 
To this her all of earthly power — her all of earthly 

pride. 

Comes from the aisle a heavy sound, such steps as 

tread in steel, 
The clash of sword, the ring of shield, the tramp 

of armed heel. 
The prioress bade her nuns upraise the vesper's 

sacred tone, 
She led the hymn, but mute the rest— no voice 

rose but her own : » 

For open now the gates were flung, m pour'd the 

soldier train, 
And shout and shriek, and oath and prayer, rang 

through the holy fane. 



188 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Then forth the prioress stepp'd, and raised the red 

cross in her hand — 
No warrior of her race e'er held more fearless battle 

brand. 

" Now turn, Sir John De Coniston, I bid thee 

turn and flee, 
Nor wait till Heaven, by my sworn lips, lay its 

dread curse on thee ! 
Turn back, Sir John De Coniston, turn from 

our sainted shrine, 
And years of penance may efface this godless deed 

of thine." 

Rough was Sir John De Coniston, and hasty in 

his mood, 
And, soldierlike, then answer'd he, in angry speech 

and rude : 
'' I would not back although my path were lined 

with hostile swords, 
And deem'st thou I will turn aside for only 

woman's words 1" 

She raised her voice, the curse was pass'd ; and to 

their dying day 
The sound, like thunder in their ears, will never 

pass away ; 
Still haunted them those flashing eyes, that brow 

of funeral stone, 
When the words were said, she veil'd her face — 

the prioress was gone. 

No more in that calm sanctuary its vestal maids 

abide, 
Save one, Sir John De Coniston, and that one is 

thy bride ; 
The sister band to other homes at will might 

wander free, 
And their lonely prioress had fled a pilgrim o'er 

the sea. 

Seven years St. Edith's votary has wander'd far 

and near, 
Barefoot and fasting, she has call'd on every saint 

to hear : 
Seven years of joy and festival have pass'd away 

like hours, 
Since that priory had changed its state to a baron's 

lordly towers. 

There was revelling in that stately hall, and in his 

seat of pride 
The Lord of Coniston was placed, with his lady 

by his side ; 
And four fair children there were ranged beside 

their parents' knee, 
All glad and beautiful — a sight for weary eyes to 

see. 



Rang the old turrets with the pledge — "Now 

health to thee and thine ; 
And long and prosperous may thy name last in thy 

gallant line !" 
When a voice rose up above them ail, and thai 

voice was strange and shrill, 
Like autumn's wind when it has caught winter's 

first shriek and chill ; 

And forth a veil'd figure stepp'd, but back she 

flung her veil, 
And they knew St. Edith's prioress by her brow 

so deadly pale ; 
No sickly paleness of the cheek whence health 

and hope have fled, 
But that deadly hue, so wan, so cold, which only 

suits the dead. 

"The prey of the ungodly is taken by God's 

hand — 
I lay the endless curse of change upon this doomed 

land : 
They may come and possession take, even as thou 

hast done, 
But the father never, never shall transmit it to his 

son. 

" Yet I grieve for the fair branches, though of sucfc 

evil tree ; 
But the weird is laid, and the curse is said, and it 

rests on thine and thee." 
Away she pass'd, though many thought to stay 

her in the hall, 
She glided from them, and not one had heard her 

footstep fall. 

And one by one those children in their earliest 

youth declined, 
Like sickening flowers that fade and fall before the 

blighting wind ; 
And their mother she too pined away, stricken by 

the same blast, 
Till Sir John De Coniston was left, the lonely 

and the last. 

He sat one evening in his hall, still pride was on 

his brow, 
And the fierce spirit lingering there nor time nor 

grief could bow ; 
Yet something that told failing strength was now 

upon his face, 
When enter'd that dark prioress, and fronted him 

in place. 

" Sir Jo hit, thy days are number'd, and never 

more we meet 
Till we yield our last dread reckoning before God's 

judgment-seat ! 



My words they are the latest sounds thine ear shall 

ever take — 
Then hear me curse again the land which is 

cursed for thy sake. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Not such dreams as visit the bower 

Of the gay at the close of the festal hour. 



189 



"0, Coniston, thy lands are broad, thy stately 
towers are fair, 

Yet wo and desolation are for aye the tenants 
there ; 

For Death shall be thy keeper, and two of the 
same race 

Shall ne'er succeed each other in thy fated dwelling- 
place !" 

The curse is on it to this day : now others hold 
the land ; 

But be they childless, or begirt with a fair infant 
band, 

Some sudden death, some wasting ill, some sick- 
ness taints the air, 

And touches all, — no master yet has ever left an 
heir. 



THE OMEN. 

" O how we miss the young and bright, 
With her feet of wind, her eyes of light, 
Her fragrant hair like the sunny sea 
On the perfumed shores of Araby, 
Her gay step light as the snow-white deer, 
And her voice of song ! O ! we miss her here. 
There is something sad in the lighted hall ; 
Without her can there be festival ! 
There is something drear in the meteor dance, 
When we do not catch her laughing glance. 
But pledge we her health." Each one took up, 
In that ancient hall, the red wine-cup : 
Each started back from the turbid wine — 
What could have dimm'd its purple shine 1 
Each turn'd for his neighbour's look to express 
The augury himself dared not to guess. 

Swept the vaulted roof along, 
A sound like the echo of distant song, 
When the words are lost, but you know they 

tell 
Of sorrow's coming and hope's farewell. 
Such sad music could only bear 
Tale and tidings of long despair. 
Pass'd the sound from the ancient hall ; 
You heard in the distance its plaining fall, 
Till it died away on the chill night-wind : 
But it left its fear and its sadness behind ; 
And each one went to his pillow that night 
To hear fearful sound, and see nameless sight; 



But next morning rose : 'twas a cheerful time 
For the sunshine seem'd like the summer prime, 
While the bright laurel leaves round the casements 

spread, 
And the holly with berries of shining red, 
The heaven of blue, and the earth of green, 
Seem'd not as if the winter had been. 
Welcomed they in the Christmas morn, 
With the sound of the carol, the voice of the 

horn. 
There was white snow lay on the distant hill, 
The murmuring river was cold and still ; 
But their songs were so glad that they miss'd not 

its tune, 
And the hearth-fire was bright as an August noon 
As if youth came back with the joyous strain, 
The aged lord welcomed in the train ■ 
Of guest and vassal ; for glad seem'd he 
To make and to share their festivity. 

Though he may not see his Edith's brow, 
Though far away be his fair child now, 
Over the sea, and over the strand, 
In the sunny vales of Italian land, 
He may reckon now the days to spring. 
When her native birds and she will take whig. 
Blithe and beautiful, glad to come 
With the earliest flowers to their own dear home 
Pass a short space of dark cold days, 
Of drear nights told by the pinewood's blaze, 
And the snow showers will melt into genial rain, 
And the sunshine and she be back again. 
And when she returns with her sweet guitar, 
The song and the tale she has learn'd afar, 
And caught the sweet sound to which once he 

clung, 
The southern words of her mother's tongue, 
With her soft cheek touch'd with a rosier dye, 
And a clearer light in her deep dark eye 
He will not mourn that the winter hour 
Has pass'd unfelt by his gentle flower. 
It is Christmas day — 'tis her natal morn, 
Away be all thoughts of sorrowing borne : 
There is no prayer a vassal can frame 
Will fail to-day, if breathed in her name ; 
Henceforth that guest is a bosom friend, 
Whose wish a blessing' for her may send. 

Her picture hung in that hall, where to-duy 
Gather'd the guests in their festal array. 
Twas a fragile shape, and a fairy face, 
A cheek where the wild rose had sweet birth 

place ; 
But all too delicate was the red, 
Such rainbow hues are the soonest fled ■ 



190 



MISS LANDON S WORKS. 



The sweet mouth seem'd parted with fragrant air, 
A kiss and a smile were companions there : 
Never was wild fawn's eye more bright, 
Like the star that heralds the morning's light ; 
Though that trembling pensiveness it wore 
Which bodes of a lustre too soon to be o'er. 
But to mark these signs long gazing took ; 
Seem'd it at first but that your look 
Dwelt on a face all glad and fair, 
'Mid its thousand curls of sunny hair. 
They raised the cup to pledge her name ; 
Again that strange sad music came, 
But a single strain, — loud- at its close 
A cry from the outer crowd arose. 

All rush'd to gaze ; and, winding through 
The length of the castle avenue, 
There was a hearse with its plumes of snow, 
And its night-black horses moved heavy and slow. 
One moment, — they came to the festal hall, 
And bore in the coffin a velvet pall. 
A name was whisper'd ; the young, the fair, 
Their .Edith was laid in her last sleep there. 
It was her latest prayer to lie 
In the churchyard beneath her native sky ; 
She had ask'dand pined for her early home, 
She had come at last, — but how had she come ! 
O ! that aged lord, how bore he this grief, 
This rending off of his last green leaf 1 
He wasted away as the child that dies 
For love of its absent mother's eyes ; 
Ere the spring flowers o'er her grave were 

weeping, 
The father beside his child was sleeping. 



ONE DAY. 



And this the change from morning to midnight. 



The sunshine of the morning 

Is abroad upon the sky, 
And glorious as that red sunshine 

The crimson banners fly ; 
The snow-white plumes are dancing, 

Flash casques and helms of gold : 
'Tis the gathering of earth's chivalry, 

Her proud, her young, her bold. 
The fiery steeds are foaming, 

Sweeps by the trumpet blast, 
I hear a long and pealing shout, 

The soldier bands are past. 

The sunshine of the morning 

Is abroad upon the sea ; 
\nd mistress of the wave and wind 

Yon vessel seems to be. 



Like the pine tree of the forest 

Her tall mast heavenward springs. 
Her white sails bear her onwards 

Like the eagle's rushing wings. 
That deck is nobly laden, 

For gallant hearts are there ; 
What danger is they would not face, 

The deed they would not dare 1 

The sunshine of the morning 

Is abroad upon the hills, 
With the singing of the greenwood leave* 

And of a thousand rills. 
There springs the youthful hunter 

With his winged spear and bow, 
He hath the falcon's flashing eye, 

The fleet foot of the roe. 
He goes with a light carol, 

And his own heart is as fight ; 
On, on he bounds from rock to rock, 

Rejoicing in his might. 

The sunshine of the morning 

Is abroad upon yon fane, 
There 'mid his country's monuments 

Dreams the young bard his strain. 
Stand there on marble pedestal 

The great of olden time : 
Marvel ye minstrel's brow is flush'd 

With thoughts and hopes sublime 1 

The moonshine of the midnight 

Is abroad upon the plain, 
Where gather'd morning's glorious ranks. 

There welter now the slain. 
Thousands are sunk there dying, 

Pillow'd upon the dead ; 
The banner lies by the white plume, 

But both alike are red. 

The moonshine of the midnight 

Is abroad upon the seas, 
The waves have risen in their might 

To battle with the breeze. 
That ship has been the victim ; 

Stranded on yon bleak coast, 
She has lost her mast, her winged sails, 

And her deck its warlike boast. 
O'er her bravest sweep the waters, 

And a pale and ghastly band 
Cling to the black rock's side, or pace 

Like ghosts the sullen strand. 

The moonshine of the midnight 

Is abroad upon the hills ; 
No hunter's step is ringing there. 

No horn the echo fills. 
He is laid on a snow pillow, 

Which his red heartblood has dyed ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



191 



One false step, and the jagged rock 
Enter'd the hunter's side. 

The moonshine of the midnight 

Is shining o'er the fane, 
Where the bard awoke the morning song 

He'll never wake again. 
Go thou to yon lone cavern, 

Where the lonely ocean sweeps 
There, silent as its darkness, 

A maniac vigil keeps. 
'Tis the bard ; his curse is on him, 

His fine mind is o'erthrown, 
Contempt hath jarr'd its tuneful chords, 

Neglect destroy'd its tone. 

These are but few from many 

Of life's checker'd scenes ; yet these 
Are but as all, — pride, power, hope, 

Then weakness, grief, disease. 
O, glory of the morning ! 

O, ye gifted, young, and brave ! 
What end have ye, but midnight ; 

What find ye, but the grave 1 



LOVE'S LAST LESSON. 

Teach it me, if you can, — forgetfulness ! 
I surely shall forget, if you can bid me ; 
I who have worshipp'd thee, my god on earth, 
I who have bow'd me at thy lightest word. 
Your last command, " Forget me," will it not 
Sink deeply down within my inmost soul 1 
Forget thee ! — ay, forgetfulness will be 
A mercy to me. By the many nights 
When I have wept for that I dared not sleep, — 
A dream had made me live my woes again, 
Acting my wretchedness, without the hope 
My foolish heart still clings to, though that hope 
Is like the opiate which may lull a while, 
Then wake to double torture ; by the days 
Pass'd in lone watching and in anxious fears, 
When a breath sent the crimson to my cheek, 
Like the red gushing of a sudden wound ; 
By all the careless looks and careless words 
Which have to me been like the scorpion's 

stinging ; 
By happiness blighted, and by thee, forever ; 
By the eternal work of wretchedness ; 
By all my wither'd feelings, ruin'd health, 
Crush'd hopes, and rifled heart, I will forget thee ! 
Alas ! my words are vanity. Forget thee ! 
Thy work of wasting is too surely done. 
The April shower may pass and be forgotten, 
The rose fall and one fresh spring in its place, 
And thus it may be with light summer love. 



It was not thus with mine : it did not spring, 

Like the bright colour on an evening cloud, 

Into a moment's life, brief, beautiful ; 

Not amid lighted halls, when flatteries 

Steal on the ear like dew upon the rose, 

As soft, as soon dispersed, as quickly pass'd ; 

But you first call'd my woman's feelings forth, 

And taught me love ere I had dream'd love's nama 

I loved unconsciously ; your name was all 

That seem'd in language, and to me the world 

Was only made for you ; in solitude, 

When passions hold their interchange together, 

Your image was the shadow of my thought ; 

Never did slave, before his Eastern lord, 

Tremble as I did when I met your eye, 

And yet each look was counted as a prize ; 

I laid your words up in my heart like pearls 

Hid in the ocean's treasure cave. At last 

I learn'd my heart's deep secret : for I hoped, 

I dream'd you loved me ; wonder, fear, delight, 

Swept my heart like a storm ; my soul, my life, 

Seem'd all too little for your happiness ; 

Had I been mistress of the starry worlds 

That light the midnight, they had all been yours, 

And I had deem'd such boon but poverty, 

As it was, I gave all I could — my love, 

My deep, my true, my fervent, faithful love ; 

And now } t ou bid me learn forgetfulness : 

It is a lesson that I soon shall learn. 

There is a home of quiet for the wretched, 

A somewhat dark, and cold, and silent rest, 

But still it is rest, — for it is the grave. 

She flung aside the scroll, as it had part 
In her great misery. Why should she write ? 
What could she write 1 Her woman's pride for 

bade 
To let him look upon her heart, and see 
It was an utter ruin ; — and cold words, 
And scorn and slight, that may repay his own, 
Were as a foreign language, to whose sound 
She might not frame her utterance. Down shs 

bent 
Her head upon an arm so white that tears 
Seem'd but the natural melting of its snow, 
Touch'd by the flush'd cheek's crimson ; yet life- 
blood 
Less wrings in shedding than such tears as those. 

And this then is love's ending ! It is like 
The history of some fair southern clime. 
Hot fires are in the bosom of the earth, 
And the warm'd soil puts forth its thousand 

flowers, 
Its fruits of gold, summer's regality, 
And sleep and odours float upon the air : 
At length the subterranean element 
Breaks from its secret dwelling-place, and lays 



192 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



All waste before it ; the red lava stream 

Sweeps like the pestilence ; and that which was 

A garden in its colours and its breath, 

Fit for the princess of a fairy tale, 

Is as a desert, in whose burning sands, 

And ashy waters, who is there can trace 

A sign, a memory of its former beauty ] 

It is thus with the heart ; love lights it up 

With hopes like young companions, and with joys 

Dreaming deliciously of their sweet selves. 

This is at first ; but what is the result 1 
Hopes that lie mute in their own sullenness, 
For they have quarrell'd even with themselves ; 
And joys indeed like birds of Paradise :* 
And in their stead despair coils scorpionlike 
Stinging itself; and the heart, burnt and crush'd 
With passion's earthquake, scorch'd and wither'd 

up, 
Lies in its desolation, — this is love. 

What is the tale that I would tell 1 Not one 
Of strange adventure, but a common tale 
Of woman's wretchedness ; one to be read 
Dai/y in many a young and blighted heart. 
The lady whom I spake of rose again 
From the red fever's couch, to careless eyes 
Perchance the same as she had ever been. 



* la Eastern tales, the bird of Paradise never rests on 
eartn.. 



But O, how alter'd to herself ! Sue felt 
That birdlike pining for some gentle home 
To which affection might attach itself, 
That weariness which hath but outward part 
In what the world calls pleasure, and that chill 
Which makes life taste the bitterness of death.. 

And he she loved so well, — what opiate 
Lull'd consciousness into its selfish sleep 1 — 
He said he loved her not ; that never vow 
Or passionate pleading won her soul for him ; 
And that he guess'd not her deep tenderness. 

Are words, then, only false 1 are there no looks 
Mute but most eloquent ; no gentle cares 
That win so much upon the fair weak things 
They seem to guard 1 And had he not long read 
Her heart's hush'd secret in the soft dark eye 
Lighted at his approach, and on the cheek 
Colouring all crimson at his lightest look ? 
This is the truth ; his spirit wholly turn'd 
To stern ambition's dream, to that fierce strife 
Which leads to life's high places, and reck'd n)i 
What lovely flowers might perish in his path. 

And here at length is somewhat of revenge : 
For man's most golden dreams of pride and power 
Are vain as any woman dreams of love ; 
Both end in weary brow and wither'd heart, 
And the grave closes over those wnose hopes 
Have lain there long before. 



THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



193 



INTRODUCTION. 



The idea of the following poem was 
taken from a picture by Mr. M'Clise, 
called "The Vow of the Peacock," ex- 
hibited at Somerset House. I have at- 
tempted to attach a narrative to the brilliant 
scene represented by the painting. 

The fact of a lady in distress applying 
to some renowned knight for assistance; 



belongs as much to the history of chivalry 
as to its romance. Vows on the heron, 
the pheasant, and the peacock, to do some 
deeds of arms, were common in the olden 
time. My story, founded on this pictu- 
resque custom, is entirely fanciful, though 
its scenes and manners are strictly histo- 
rical. L. E. L 



194 



THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK. 



1 he present ! it is but a drop from the sea 
in. the mighty depths of eternity. 
I love it not — it taketh its birth 
Too near to the dull and the common earth. 
It is worn with our wants, and steep'd with our 

cares, 
The dreariest aspect of life it wears ; 
Its griefs are so fresh, its wrongs are so near, 
That its evils of giant shape appear ; 
The curse of the serpent, the sweat of the brow, 
Lie heavy on all things surrounding us now. 
Fill'd with repining, and envy, and strife, 
What is the present — the actual of life 1 
The actual ! it is as the clay to the soul, 
The working-day portion of life's wondrous whole ! 
How much it needeth the light and the air 
To breathe their own being, the beautiful, there ! 
Like the soil that asks for the rain from the sky, 
And the soft west wind that goes wandering by, 
E'er the wonderful world within will arise 
And rejoice in the smile of the summer's soft eyes. 

The present — the actual — were they our all — 
Too heavy our burthen, too hopeless our thrall ; 
But heaven, that spreadeth o'er all its blue cope, 
Hath given us memory, — hath given us hope ! 
And redeemeth the lot which the present hath 

cast, 
By the fame of the future, the dream of the past. 
The future ! ah, there hath the spirit its home, 
In its distance is written the glorious to come. 
The great ones of earth lived but half for their 

day; 
The grave was their altar, the far-off their way. 
Step by step hath the mind its high empire won ; 
We live in the sunshine of what it hath done. 

The present ! it sinketh with sorrow and care, 
That but for the future, it never could bear ; 
We dwell in its shadow, we see by its light, 
And to-day trusts to-morrow, it then will be bright. 

The maiden who wanders alone by the shore, 
And bids the wild waters the dear one restore ; 
Yet lingers to listen the lute notes that swell 
As the evening winds touch the red lips of the 

shell. 
She thinks of the time when no longer alone 
Another will thank those sweet shells for their 

tone 



They soothed her with music, the soft and the 

deep, 
That whisper'd the winds, and the waves wcie 

asleep. 
Such music, hope brings from the future to still 
Humanity vex'd with the presence of ill. 

The past ! ah, we owe it a tenderer -3ebt, 
Heaven's own sweetest mercy is not to forget ; 
Its influence softens the present, and flings 
A grace, like the ivy, wherever it clings. 
Sad thoughts are its ministers — angels that keep 
Their beauty to hallow the sorrows they weep. 
The wrong, that seem'd harsh to our earlier mood, 
By long years with somewhat of love is subdued ; — 
The grief, that at first had no hope in its gloom, 
Ah, flowers have at length sprung up over the 

tomb. 
The heart hath its twilight, which softens the 

scene, 
While memory recalls where the lovely hath been. 
It builds up the ruin, restores the gray tower, 
Till there looks the beauty still from her bower. 
It leans o'er the fountain, and calls from the wave 
The naiad that dwells with her lute in the cave ; — 
It bends by the red rose, and thinketh old songs ; — 
That leaf to the heart of the lover belongs. 
It clothes the gray tree with the green of its 

spring, 
And brings back the music the lark used to sing. 
But spirits yet dearer attend on the past, 
When alone, 'mid the shadows the dim hearth has 

cast; 
Then feelings come back, that had long lost their 

tone, 
And echo the music that once was their own. 
Then friends, whose sweet friendship the world 

could divide, 
Come back with kind greetings, and cling to our 

side. 
The book which we loved when our young love 

was strong ; — 
An old tree long cherish'd ; a nursery song ; — 
A walk slow and pleasant by field and by wood ; — 
The winding 'mid water-plants of that clear flood, 
Where lilies, like fairy queens, Iook'd on their 

glass,— 
That stream we so loved in our childhood to pass. 

195 



196 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



! world of sweet phantoms, how precious thou 

art! 
The past is perpetual youth to the heart. 

The past is the poet's, — that world is his own ; 
Thence hath his music its truth and its tone. 
He calls up the shadows of ages long fled, 
And light, as life lovely, illumines the dead. 
And the beauty of time, with wild flowers and 

green, 
Shades and softens the world-worn, the harsh and 

the mean. 
He lives, ne creates, in those long vanish'd 

years — 
He asks of the present but audience and tears. 

Years, years have past along 
Since the sword, and since the song 
Made alike the bright and bold — 
What one wrought — the other told. 
When the lady in her bower 
Held her beauty's conscious power ; 
When the knight's wild life was spent 
Less in castle than in tent ; 
When romance, excitement, strife, 
Flung the picturesque o'er life. 

Lo, the past yields up an hour 
To the painter's magic power — 
Master'd into life and light, 
Breathing beautiful and bright, — 
One bright hour in glory dyed 
Of the old chivalric pride. 

With war music round them pour'd, 
With the sunshine on the sword, 
With the battlemented towers, 
Crimsoning in the morning hours, 
Girdled by their southern clime, 
Stand a group of olden time. 
They are gather'd, — wherefore now ! 
'Tis the Peacock's noble vow ! 
Vow that binds a knightly faith 
Sure as love and strong as death. 

Doth that kneeling bright- hair'd dame 
Succour or protection claim 1 
Is she wrong, is she forsaken 1 
Wherefore must that vow be taken 1 
What wild tale of old romance 
Haunteth that bright lady's glance 1 
What proud deed of coming fight 
Bares the blade of yonder knight 1 
Dare I give the colours words, — 
Ask their music from the chords 1 



Iif sooth it was as fair a court 
As ever in a morn of May, 

Amid the greenwood's glad resort, 
Made a perpetual holiday. 



'Tis true she was a queen no more, 
But still her robe the ermine bore ; 
And in her hand, and in her eye, 
Was that which spoke of courts gone-by • 
For Catherine look'd what she had been, 
At once the beauty and the queen. 
Both had their grief, whose memory throws 
A deeper charm around repose. 

She knew the worth of quiet hours, 
Past true and loving hearts among, 

Whose history might be writ on flowers, 
Or only chronicled in song. 

Methinks, were it my lot to choose, 
As my lot it will never be, 

I'd colour life with those same hues 
That, lady ! colour'd life for thee. 
Thou, to whom life enough was known — 
The moonlit bower, the court, the throne , 
The heart that maketh its own snare, 
Passion and power, and grief and care ; 
Till the soul, sadden'd and subdued, 
Rejoiced in haunted solitude. 

Youth is too eager, forth it flings 
Itself upon exulting wings, 
Which seek the heaven they ask too near — 
One wild flight ends the bright career ; 
With broken wing and darken'd eye, 
Earth claims again its own to die. 
No ! solitude asks by-gone hours 
Wherewith to fill its silent bowers, — 
Memories that linger o'er the past, 
But into softer shadow cast, 
Like lovely pictures that recall 
One look, but that most dear of all. 

When life's more fierce desires depart, 
Aware how false and vain they are, — 

While youth ^yet lingers at the heart, 
And hope, although it looks afar, — 
Then takes the lute, its softest tone, 
Its murmurs of emotions gone. 
Then charms the picture most, it brings 
So many unforgotten things. 
Then breathes within the gifted scroll, 
A deeper meaning to the soul, — 
For that itself hath learnt before 
The truth and secret of its lore. 

Few know such blessed breathing time 
As she, whose home beside the sea, 

Beneath that lovely summer clime, 
Seems such a fairy dream to me. 

Within a fair Italian hall, 
Round which an olive wood extends, 

With, summer for her festival, — 
For camp and court a few tried friends, 

The Queen of Cypress dwelt, — the last 
That ever ruled that lovely isle ; 



THE VOW OFTHE PEACOCK. 



197 



The sceptre from her hand she cast, 
\nd Venice wore her crown the while, 
Whose winged lion loved to sweep 
Sole master of his bride — the deep. 
Her history is upon her face ; 
Titian hath kept its pensive grace. 

Divinest art, that can restore 
The lovely and the loved of yore ! 
Her cheek is pale, her mouth is wrought 
With lines that tell of care and thought, 
But sweet, and with a smile, that seems 
To brood above a world of dreams. 
And with an eye of that clear blue, 
Like heaven when stars are shining through, 
The pure, the spiritual, the clear, 
Whose light is of another sphere. 
It was an eve when June was calling 

The red rose to its summer state, 
When dewlike tears around are falling — 

Such tears as upon pity wait. 
The woods obscured the crimson west, 

Which yet shone through the shadowy screen 
Like a bright sea in its unrest, 

With gold amid the kindling green. 
But softer lights and colours fall ' 
Around the olive-shelter'd hall, 
Which, opening to a garden, made 
Its own, just slightly broken, shade. 

Beneath a marble terrace spread, 
Vein'd with the sunset's flitting red. 
And lovely plants, in vases, there 

Wore colours caught in other skies ; 
Sweet prisoners, such — because so fair, 

Made captives for their radiant eyes. 
And in the centre of that room 

A fountain, like an April shower, 
Brought light — and bore away perfume 

To many a pale and drooping flower, 
That, wearied with the sultry noon, 
Languish'd at that sweet water's tune. 

The silvery sigh of that soft strain 
Had lull'd the lady and her train ; 
And she — her thoughts were far away — 
Gone back unto that earlier day, 
When heart and hope alike were young. 
The tears within her eyelids sprung, 
They mingled with the fountain stream — 
It was too sweet, too sad a dream. 
" What," said she, " is the singer mute 1 
Come young Azaho, take thy lute, 
And tell me of those ancient days 
Thou dost so love to sing and praise. 
Hast thou no legend, minstrel mine, 
Of my own old heroic line ; 
Some tale of Cyprus, ere her strand 
Was won to the Venetian's land 1 



Ah ! ocean's loved and loveliest ark, 
Thou did'st not always own St. Mark ! 
Hast thou no chronicle to tell 
Of that fair land I love so well 1 " 

A pale and silent youth was he 
W r ho took the lute upon his knee. 
But now his inmost heart was stirr'd ; 
He rose at his sweet sovereign's word : 
A word to whose low tones were given 
All he dream'd music was in heaven. 
Ah ! love and song are but a dream, 
A flower's faint smile on life's dark stream. 
He sang — he loved ; though heart and strain 
Alike might love and sing in vain. 
Looks not the lover, nor the bard, 
Beyond the present's sweet reward ; 
Enough to feel the heart is full 
With hopes that charm, and dreams that lull 

One such impassion'd hour is worth 
A thousand common days of earth ; 
They know not how intense the beating 
Of hearts where love and song are meeting. 

He took the lute — he gave it words, 
And breathed his spirit on the chords. 
The world, save one sweet face, was dim ; 
And that shone o'er his lute and him. 



THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK 

There is a city, that for slaves, 
Has kings, and nations, winds, and waves 
St. Mark is conscious of her power, 
His winged lion marks her tower. 
But that the bold republic stood, 
And bought her empire with her blood, 
The crescent's pale and silver lines 
Would shine where now the red cross shines 
But victory is a chained thing, 
Beneath her haughty lion's wing. 

One eve the sun was redly shining, 
Crimson, as it is now declining, 
When e'en the dark canals were bright 
A moment with that rosy light ; 
How glorious did its colours sweep, 
As if in triumph o'er the deep. 

One wander'd there, whose gazing eye 
Deserved to mirror such a sky. 
He of the laurel and the lyre, 
Whose lip was song, whose heart was flre- 
The gentle Petrarch — he whose fame 
Was worship of one dearest name. 
The myrtle planted on his grave, 
Gave all the laurel ever gave ; 
The life that lives in others' breath — 
Love's last sweet triumph over death. 

r 2 



198 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



And tell me not of long disdain, 
Of hope unblest — of fiery pain, — 
Of lute and laurel vow'd in vain. 

Of such the common cannot deem ; 
Such love hath an ethereal pride ! 

I'd rather feed on such a dream, 
That win a waking world beside. 

He wander'd, lonely, while his gaze 
Mused o'er the sunset's failing rays ; 
When, lo ! he saw a vessel ride, 
As if in triumph o'er the tide. 
Amid her sails were green boughs wreathing, 
And music from her deck was breathing ; 
And from the mast a banner's fold 
Flung forth its purple and its gold. 
Now joy in Venice ! — she has brought 
Glad tidings of a battle fought : 
The last of a victorious war, 
She brings them triumph from afar. 
Yet, further on, the dim and dark, 
On the horizon hangs a bark ; 
A sad, small speck : o'er which a cloud 
Hangs heavy, like a funeral shroud ; 

While others mark'd the ship that came 
From fields of battle and of fame ; 
And told, with loud acclaim, the while 
The conquest proud of Candia's isle. 
The poet linger'd last to mark 
The progress of that lonely bark. 
He watch'd the worn and weary sail ; 
I would that he had told its tale ! 
Then, honour'd like a thing divine, 
I had not dared to make it mine. 

Upon that deck a lady stands, 
The fairest that e'er wrung her hands ; 
Or bow'd a radiant brow to weep 
(her her wide unpitying deep. 
And leave we Venice to her hour 
Of festival, and pride, and power, 
To learn whate'er the cause can be 
That brings such maiden o'er the sea. 

The Queen of Cyprus is the maid 
But banish'd from her throne and land ; 

She comes to seek for foreign aid, 
Against a false and factious band. 
Ah, minstrel song hath many wings ! 
From foreign lands its wealth it brings. 

And it had brought, o'er sea and sky, 
The tidings of Leoni's fame, 

Till hope and honour seem'd to lie 
Beneath the shadow of his name. 

Irene's ear had often heard 
The glory given to his sword ; 
And when she fled her prison-tower, 
Ah ! such a bird, for such a bower, 



It was to seek the sea-beat strand 
Where dwelt the hero and his band ; 
And ask that succour no true knight 
Ere yet denied to lady bright. 

They landed where a little bay 
Flung o'er the shelving sands its spray ; 
And mingled with the rain, which kept 
Perpetual moan, as if it wept. 
While winds, amid the hollow caves, 
Told the sad secrets of the wav«s. 

It was a gloomy night — and, pale, 
That young queen drew her morning veil, 
Which ill could screen that slender form 
From the rude beating of the storm. 
A convent rear'd upon the height, 
Gave shelter from the closing night. 
Thankful was that bright head to rest, 
For charity's sweet sake, their guest. 

It was a mournful sight to see 

That youthful brow lie down 
Without its purple canopy, 

Without its royal crown ; 
A rugged pallet which was laid 

Upon the floor of stone, 
Thro' whose dark chinks the night winds play'd 

With low, perpetual moan ; 
A death's head telling from the wall — 
" Thy heart beats high — but this ends all !" 
A crucifix, a pictured saint, 
With thin worn lip and colours faint, 
All whereon youth loves not to dwell, — 
Were gather'd in that gloomy cell. 

I said, 'twas sad to see such head 
Laid lowly in so rude a bed ; 
Eyes, long accustom'd to unclose 
Where sigh'd the lute, where breathed the rose, 
Not for the lack of state or gold, 
But for the history which it told. 

The youthful sleeper slumbering there, 
With the pale moonlight in her hair ; 
Her childlike head upon her arm, 
Cradling the soft cheek, rosy warm ; 
The sweet mouth opening like a flower, 
Whose perfume fills the midnight hour ; 
Her white hands clasped, as if she kept 
A vigil even while she slept : 
Or, as her rest too long delaying, 
Slumber stole over her while praying. 
Yet this is not the dreamless sleep 
That youth should know ; — the still, the deep ! 
See, on her cheek the unquiet red 
A sudden crimson flush has shed ! 
And now it fades, as colours die, 
While watching twilight's transient sky. 
And now 'tis deadly pale in hue ; 
On the wan forehead stands the dew ! 






THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK. 



199 



The small white hands are clench'd and 

wrung : 
She wakes ! how wild a look is flung 
From those blue eyes which, strange and wide, 
Glance, like the deer's from side to side ! 
She listens ; but she cannot hear, 
So loudly beats her heart with fear. 
Gradual she knows the lonely cell — 
She hears the midnight's bell ; 
She sees the moonlight on the pane, 
And, weary, drops her head again. 

Alas ! the steps of that young queen 
Upon life's rudest path have been. 
An orphan ! ah, despair is heard 
In but the echo of that word ! 
Left in her infancy, alone, 
On that worst solitude — a throne, 
111 suited was that small snow hand 
To sway the sceptre, or the brand. 
In truth, the Cypriote need a lord 
Who curbs a steed, and wears a sword ; 
And a bold chieftain of their line 
Had victor come from Palestine : 
Fierce, ruthless, false, the crown he sought, 
Nor reck'd how dearly it was bought. 
Till lately had Irene been 
In outward state and show a queen ! 
And she had been a toy and tool, 
To grace each adverse faction's rule. 
But when the bold usurper's claim 
Ask'd royal place, and royal name ; 
Made captive in a treacherous hour, 
She pined within a sea-beat tower. 

At length a small and faithful band 
Escape and rescue bravely plann'd ; 
They set the royal captive free, 
And bore the maiden o'er the sea ! 
And now the lady comes to ask 
Of chivalry its glorious task : 
Aid at the brave Leoni's hand, 
To win her back her father's land. 
Three days have pass'd, for she was worn 
With all that slender frame had borne ; 
But tidings came that Venice gave 
A general welcome to the brave, 
And that a hundred hearts were bent 
Upon the morrow's tournament. 
Leoni, too, had raised his spear, 
Impatient for the high career, 
Where deeds of honour would be done, 
In honour of the triumph won. 

The following morn that sacred shrine 
Saw toys and gauds unwonted shine. 
The ivy o'er the lattice hung 
Back, for a freer light was flung. 
O'er the gray pallet were unroll'd 
Silks heavy with the weight of gold. 



The caskets are unlock'd, that show 
Pearls glittering like untrodden snow : 
The diamond, like stars at night ; 
The emerald which has caught the light 
Of early sunbeams, when they pass 
Over the dewy morning grass. 

The Queen of Cyprus, she has now 
No empire but her own sweet bicw — 
No other influence than what lies 
In the deep azure of her eyes. 
But she who hath such look and mien 
Is still the hearts' enthroned queen. 
Her maiden train, with curious care, 
Knit the rich tresses of her hair ; 
And never king had carved gold 
Like those bright lengths together roll'd, 
With sunshine gather'd in each fold. 
The velvet robe with gold was laced, 
And jewels bound the slender waist : 
They suited well her high degree, 
And queenlike look and step had she ! 
She saw her graceful shadow fall 
O'er the small mirror in the wall ; 
Then like the swan with statelier swell, 
She past the threshold of her cell. 
No knight could see that lip and eye, 
And boon, which they might ask, deny ! 
Thy smile securing thy behest, 
Go, lady, in thy loveliest. 

The morning ! 'tis a glorious time, 
Recalling to the world again 

The Eden of its earlier prime, 
Ere grief, or care, began their reign. 
When every bough is wet with dews, 
Their pure pale lit with crimson hues ; 
Not wan, as those of evening are, 
But pearls unbraided from the hair 
Of some young bride who leaves the glow 
Of her warm cheek upon their snow. 
The lark is with triumphant song 
Singing the rose-touch'd clouds among : 
'Tis there that lighted song has birth, 
What hath such hymn to do with earth 1 

Each day doth life again begin, 
And morning breaks the heart within, 
Rolling away its clouds of night, 
Renewing glad the inward light. 

Many a head that down had lain, 
Impatient with its twelve hours' pain, 
And wishing that the bed it prest, 
Were, as the grave's, a long last rest, 
Has sprung again at morning's call, 
Forgiving, or forgetting all ; 
Lighting the weary weight of thought 
With colours from the daybreak brought 
Reading new promise in the sky, 
And hearing Hope, the lark on high. 



aoo 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



But what must morning be to those 
Who sleep impatient of repose, 
The hand upon the spear and shield 
Which wait the morrow's glorious field. 
The tournament, where Venice asks 
All who delight in honour's tasks. 
The Count Leoni sees his band 
With helm on head and spear in hand, 
And proud, he mark'd the sunbeams shine 
Over the long embattled line, 
And said, exulting, " They are mine !" 
No chief were he who could have eyed 
Such soldiers without chieftain's pride ! 
Plumed, and full arm'd from head to heel, 
They sat like statues carved in steel. 
He of that body was the soul, 
To lead, to curb, inspire, control. 

And wherefore does the warrior wait 1 
His steed is pawing at the gate, — 
His page is with his helmet near, — 
He has kiss'd his cousin's farewell tear. — 
He lingers — for a dwarf that seems 
More like a creature framed in dreams, 
Mid midnight's strange fantastic strife, 
Than being form'd of actual life, 
Has pray'd him for a moment there 
To listen to a lady's prayer. 
And ever true knight owns the claim 
Whose suit is urged in woman's name. 
Stately as night, and fair as day, 
The lovely lady made her way 
Through armed ranks, that bent to he* - 
As if she were a conqueror : 
Then bending on her graceful knee 

Her lowly suit she made, 
And pray'd him of his courtesy 

To give an orphan aid ; 
And leave the tourney for the far, 
And fatal scenes of actual war. 

The colour kindled on his cheek, 
A moment and he could not speak ; 

Then silence hastily broke he, 
And said, " 0, fairest dame ! 

Henceforth my sword is vow'd to thee, 
And asks no other fame. 
I pray thee rise, it were more meet 
For me to kneel before thy feet, 
And vow to thee, as at a shrine, 
That heart and hand, and sword are thine.' 
Hope kindled in Irene's eyes, 
Yet from her knee she would not rise, 
But spoke again : " If true art thou, 
Take thou the Peacock's sacred vow." 
Her listening maidens caught the word, 
And forth they brought the royal bird ; 
The glorious bird, to whom is given 
The colour of an eastern heaven. 



Of all the fowls that sweep the air 
None with the Peacock may compare ; 
Not only for its loveliness, 
Though queens in vain might ask such dress* 
But o'er those painted plumes are cast 
So many shadows from the past, — 
Those gorgeous ships which wont to bring 
The wealth of Ophir to that king 
Who ransack'd earth and swept the main, 
To find their pleasures were in vain. 
Or from those purple feathers peep 
Faces which they have lull'd to sleep, 
Cheeks of pale beauty, and dark eyes 
Wherein their eastern heaven lies ; 
But tearful in their sleep, with dreams 
Of unforgotten mountain streams. 
Ah, childhood ! lovely art thou, seen 
When care and passion intervene, 
And thou dost smile as smiles a star.- 
Calm, happy, undisturb'd, but far. 
And such a memory thou hast stirr'd 
Within my heart, enchanted bird ! 
I see a little garden nook, 
It has a lorn deserted look ; 
Conscious of better days, and pride 
To its neglected state denied : 
Yet is it lovely, or to me 
Lovely at least it seem'd to be. 

Laurels stood shining in the sun — 
A golden green, half light, half gloom ; 

Some early flowers to seed had run, 
But some were only just in bloom ; 
And straggling over path and bed, 
The careless ones shone white and red. 
Spoilt children they, who wander on 
Till summer and themselves are gone. 
But in the midst a plot of grass 
"Was to the sunshine as a glass ; 
It had been turf, but weeds and flowers 
Had sprung through long neglected hours. 

There stood an aged trunk, 'twas gray 
With moss and nature's slow decay. 
Yet there a peacock used to come 
He chose it for his summer home ; 
A brave, bright bird, whose graceful head 
Stoop'd daily to my hand for bread. 
Then would he take his glittering stand, 
While to the sun his plumes expand. 
So from th' empurpled waves arise 
Such colours when the dolphin dies 
I loved it for its beauty's blaze, 
I love it now for by-gone days. 
Whene'er I see that bird it brings 
A world of long-forgotten things, — 
Romantic fancies, boldly plann'd, 
For childhood is a fairy land, 
And scorns to work by common means, 
The fair woof of its future scenes ; 



THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK. 



201 



Hopes which, like dewdrops o'er the plain, 
The very sunshine turns to rain ; 
Affections long since past away. — 
But this is vain — on with my lay. 

The golden dish is richly chased 
On which the royal bird is placed ; 
And lovely are the bearers twain, 
Who there the gorgeous weight sustain. 

The one is fair, as that meek flower 
The lily, hiding in her bower ; 
Fair as the north — whose sky and snows 
Give softest white and purest rose. 

The other — such soft shadows weave 
The sweet shapes of a southern eve. 
The fringed lashes darkly bend 
Where moonbeams and where meteors blend,- 
Eyes, full of danger and delight, 
Where softness and where fire unite. 

Before the armed knight they stand, 
ITien flashes forth his eager brand ; 

So help him God ! as he shall fight 
For honour and his lady's right ; 
So help him God ! as he shall be 
True to his faith, his sword, and thee. 
She watch'd him while he swore — that queen 
So fair a knight had ne^er seen — 
The past, to which she turn'd, grew dim, 
How could she think, and not of him 1 

! sweet and sudden fire that springs 
With but a look to light its wings ; 
How false to say thou needest time 
The bright ascent of hope to climb ; 
A star thou art, that may not be 
Reckon'd by dull astronomy ! 
Henceforth Irene's heart must keep 
A treasure ! — silent, still, and deep. 
A torture ! — no one Love hath known, 
Only the lovely and the lone. 
His very favourites but possess 
Gleams of unquiet happiness. 

Love's gifts are like the vein of gold 

That intersects earth's darker mould ; 

The gold is gain'd, the coin is wrought ; 

But how much trouble has it brought 1 
Alas ! not hers the only gaze 
Which too deep tenderness betrays : 
Nor hers the only ear that hung 
On the war music of his tongue. 
A girl behind Leoni stands, 
His scarf is in her trembling hands ; 
Scarce hath she power to bid each fold 
Hang graceful with its blue and gold ; 
She droops beneath her shrouding veil, 
Her lip, her cheek, are touch'd with pale •, 
A fear hath enter'd at her heart,-r- 
Take life, so that fear also part. 
C26) 



His ward and cousia she has grown 

Within Leoni's halls ; 
A flower which no rude wind hath blown 

O'er which no shadow falls. 
So gradual has the maiden sprung 

To womanhood's sweet prime ; 
So soft the shadow round her flung 

By that enchanted time, 
That still she seems the child to be 

Who wander'd at his side, 
Beneath the summer's greenwood tree 

And by the sea's blue tide ; 
And heaping treasure for her bower 
Of singing shell and breathing flower 
But on her brow there is a shade 
Scarcely for early April made : 
But 'tis the heart that marks the hour ; 
And hers, in passion and in power, 
Has long outgrown the simple fears 
And buoyant hopes of childhood's years. 
Love gathereth knowledge ; and that tree 
Hath good and ill in its degree ; 
With many an unaccustom'd guest 
It stirs the spirit in its rest. 
Emotions generous, deep, and strong, 
That bear the fever'd soul along ; 
Shame, hidden in a rosy cloud, 
By its own sweet self disallow'd ; 
Fancies that make their own distress, 
And doubts that question happiness. 
Love brings all these — he cannot bring 
Again its freshness to the spring. 

Orphan, or ere her footsteps knew 
The weary earth they were to tread ; 

The love which with her stature grew, 
Caught something mournful from the dead 
And her young spirit quench'd its tone 
Too much with dwelling on the gone. 
She sat beside her mother's grave, 
And thought of him, the loved, the brave ; 
He who had been the only guide 
Of his betroth'd and orphan bride. 
Thus had she grown, a lonely child 
Like the woodflower, as sweet and wild ; 
The darling and delight of all 
Within the old ancestral hall ; 
None look'd beyond the brow the while, 
Which still was sweet with childhood's smile 

How often has the maiden felt, 
When at Leoni's feet she knelt, 
Unquiet thoughts her joy disturb, 
And shadowy fears she could not curb ; 
Still in her soul the whisper came, 
" I love him— is his love the same V 1 
Love's instinct prompt at once to reach 
All that experience soon must teacn ; 



202 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Then flinging down th^e chain and gem 
He deem'd she must delight to wear : 

How could she care for toys like them ; 
How could he think that she could care 1 

Then would he raise the golden head 
Whose bright hair droop'd around his knee 

And question what she wish'd instead, 
And promised what she wish'd should be. 

And, like a petted child, carest 
The eyes which she had downcast kept, 

Grew yet more tearful thus addrest, 
In wonder wherefore she had wept. 

She did not know herself; so much 
Does the young heart itself deceive : 

If love — she did not dream it such, — 
She only felt that she must grieve ; 

And marvell'd with a sweet surprise 
Tears were so ready in her eyes. 

She blush'd them off, and put on mirth ; 
The mask youth ever wears to hide 

The deeper feelings that have birth 
In shame, in passion, and in pride. 

At the first look Leoni turn'd 
Upon the fair and stranger dame, 
Her inmost heart within her burn'd, 
A light upon her darkness came. 
Past, present, future, seem'd to fling 
Their weight upon that moment's wing ; 
A shadow fell upon the air, 
The presence of one great despair. 

Small time has she for thought ; to day 
The courteous hostess she must play. 
TLe gather'd bands are glad to hear 
Of nobler warfare for their spear. 
All kindle in one mutual flame, 
For such a cause and such a dame ; 
All crowd within that ancient hall 
To share the parting festival. 
To-morrow with the morning breeze, 
Their gallant fleet will cut the seas. 

The banquet shall be spread to-night ; 
The cup shall circle now 

For that fair lady and her knight, 
And for " the Peacock's Vow." 

Amenai'de hath ta'en her seat 
Beside the radiant stranger's feet ; 

Wliose purple canopy on high — 
The golden step and chair ; 

But most that regal form and eye 
Her regal state declare. 

Leoni serves her on his knee, 
But, with a fairy smile, 

She says such homage must not be, 
And she his guest the while. 

With softest look and courteous word 
She bid him carve the royal bird. 



He carves it with a curious skill 
And when his task was done, 

The little flame was burning st*U 
That from its bright beak shone. 

He pledged the purple cup that night, 
His soul drank brighter wine 

Than ever fill'd a cup with light 
Or made the hour divine ; 

As if its passing shade had caught 
All treasures that a life had sought. 

Ah, no — a deeper joy he drank 
Than ever floated or. the bowl, 

A joy, that colour'd while it sank 
In sweet enchantment on the soul. 

The rosy thraldom of the vine 
Would vanish with the morning's shrine : 

But he who wakes from such a dream, 
Wakes never more to dream again ; 

The hues have died on life's dull stream, 
Which seeks that earlier light in vain. 

But who e'er turn'd from beauty's ray 
For fear of future shade ; 

Or who e'er flung a rose away 
Because that rose might fade. 

It was a newborn joy to watch 
Those blue eyes sink beneath his own ; 

The colour of the blush to catch, 
The colour which his gaze had thrown 

Upon a cheek, else pale and fair 
As lilies in the summer air. 

Amena'ide sat watching by, 
With kindled cheek and flashing eye ; 
She saw before the rest, — to her 
Her own heart was interpreter. — 
She knew the fix'd, yet timid look, 
As if the soul some treasure took ; — 

She knew the soft, yet eager tone ; 
So had she look'd, so had she spoken : 

The past now made the present known 
By many a sad familiar token. 

Ah ! those who love can well divine 
The slightest look, the merest sign. — 

And she was gay, — though love is strong, 
Yet pride is stronger still ; 

She felt, but show'd not of her wrong — 
It master'd not her will. 
Strange ! her young heart could have such 

power 
Upon its most impassion'd hour. 
Ah ! call it by some dearer name — 
The effort made by maiden shame 
Its agony cf soul to hide, 
It is too deep, too soft for pride. 

Upon her cheek a burning red, 
But richly beautiful, is shed ; 

So kindles on the funeral pyre 
The flame by perfume fed : — 



THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK. 



203 



How few remember that sweet fire 
Is rising o'er the dead. 
And clouds grow crimson with the glow 
Of the poor human dust below. — 
The light which that young cheek illumed 
Came from all precious things consumed ; 
Hopes, dreams, ere those bright hues depart, 
Sent from the ashes of the heart. 
The stranger queen had lifted up 
In her small hands the' golden cup, 
And drank her timid thanks to all 
Gather' d within Leoni's hall ; 
But he — he saw that azure eye 
Grow softer as it pass'd him by, 
And indistinct her voice became 
Beneath the music of his name. 
She left the hall, she past like light ; 
So in the east comes sudden night. 
She past — so graceful glides the swan 
Some lone and lovely lake upon. 

And sought her chamber, — it was fair 
With perfume on the midnight hour ; 

Amcnaide, with graceful care, 
Had made it like a fairy's bower. 
She placed within the fragrant light — 
Then bade her weary guest good-night. 
A moment more and she was gone : 
Both were so glad to be alone, 

But soon Irene's eyelids close 
'Mid those sweet visions which repose, 
Gathering their fragrant life by day 
From violet bells and hawthorn spray — 
I hold that in the noontide hours 
Sweet dreams are treasured up in flowers. 
But for Amenaide, her head 
Reposed not on its silken bed ; 
Ah ! what have eyes to do with sleep 
That seek, and vainly seek, to weep 1 
No dew on the dark lash appears, — 
The heart is all too full for tears. 
Awhile she paced her stately room — 
She felt its heat, she felt its gloom — 
The tapestry o'er the walls that hung 
Flung shadows it had never flung ; 
She loathed each old familiar thing, — 

Her missal with its golden band ; 
The lute, whose scarcely silent string 

Yet trembled with her last command ; 
The song she sang last night — such song 
Would never more to her belong ; 
Her books, her flowers — o'er all was cast 
The bitter presence of the past. 

The silken curtains back she drew, 
And back the moonlit lattice threw ; 
In came the soft and fragrant air, — 
Ln came the moonlight soft and fair, — 



It soothed her not, — that tranquil sky 
Scem'd as it said, " despair, and die ! 
She gazed upon the lovely night, — 
She sicken'd at its unshared light. 
! that a single cloud had thrown 
Its shadow sharing with her own. 
Ah ! loving weakness of the soul, 
That asks the wild waves as they roll, — 
That asks the light winds as they sweep.— 
To share the human tears we weep : 
Not all in vain is such a prayer — 
They soothe, although they may not share,. 

But 'twas too soon for the sweet sense 
Of Nature's hallowing influence ; 
Her silent and subduing power 
Is felt upon a later hour ; 
Not on the first dream-haunted mooa 
Of youth's impassion'd solitude. 
It was Amenai'de's first sorrow : — 
To such there seemeth no to-morrow. 

As yet she knew not how such tears 
Are half forgot in future years : 
How life effaces as it goes 
The keenest pang of earlier woes. 
How careless and how cold we grow, 
Dry as the dust we tread below ; 
As if the grave its dullness threw, 
The grave — which all are hastening to ! 
But she, the youthful mourner there, 
Was bow'd beneath her first despair. 

The first, — ah ! none can ever know- 
That agony again — 

When youth's own force is on the blow 
Its keenness in the pain. 

She gazed, although she knew not why 
Where ocean seem'd another sky. 

The moon look'd down upon the deep, 
Till in that deep it seem'd to be ; 

Scarce might the eye the image keep, 
Of which was sky, and which was sea. 

But soft ! above the glittering tide 
Black shadows in their silence glide ; 

They are not from the heavens above, 
They keep the moonlight from the wave 

Slowly the far-off phantoms move, 
And bring the darkness of the grave. 
They leave the rocky coast that flings 
Its gloom above their spreading wings ; 
They sweep before the rising gale, 
The moonlight falls upon the sail ; 
With swelling canvass, snowy crest, 
Like sea-birds in their plumage drest, 
The tall ships come, that soon afar 
Will bear Leoni to the war. 



!?04 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



She watch.' d them on their shining track, — 
So looks the wretch upon the rack ; 
Though dews upon her forehead rise, 
No tears are in her large wild eyes. 
She starts, some strange and sudden tr .ought 
The crimson to her cheek has brought 
Her bitten lip is yet more white, 
Her blue eye fills with eager light ; 
Some wish, o'er which she dares not I ood, 
Has risen on her feverish mood. 
Some thoughts there are, that may no brook 
Upon their own resolve to look. 
The grief which acts is easier borne, 
Than that which weeps, — the lone am lorn ; 
And, urged .by love and love's despair, 
What is there woman will not dare 1 



SECOND CANTO. 

O ! fairest of the viewless powers 
That guide the fairy fall of night, 

The last and loveliest of the hours 
That blush away the lingering light. 

The twilight, when our earth seems V lending 
Its human passion with the skies ; 

And rosy clouds above ascending, 
Wear mortal colours while they rise, 
Till, purified, they disappear 
Amid the high pale atmosphere. 

The twilight melts upon the air, — 
But what hath it with earth to do ! 

Only the spreading sea is there, 
With heaven above to close the view. 
But yet a passionate emotion 
Stirs the warm depths of sky and ocea. ; 
And not a cloud, and not a surge, 
But bears a blush upon its verge. 

Softly the crimson shadows fall 
Around the cabin's tapestried wall ; 
Where, with the rich light round her C ing, 
On silken couch the queen is lying ; 
For, with its proud, yet graceful state, 
That ship is worthy of its freight. 
Upon her arm Irene bends, 
Her long gold hair like light descends ; 
While the soft shades of evening fling 
A richer darkness oc. each ring. 

She looks around, tis not to watch 
The purple fantasies of eve ; 

She listens, it is not to catch 
The music which the waters weave ; 
For, with a low, perpetual sound, 
The haunted waves are dashing round. 
A face is present to her eye, 

A voice is ringing in her ear ; 



Ah ! love brings many an object nigh 
The heart alone can see and hear. 

Her broidery aside is flung, 
Aside the small seed pearls she strung ; 
She will not touch her lute's hush'd chords 
She will not list her maiden's words. 
The shadows on her eyelids press 
Of Love's delicious idleness. 

Amid her train there was a page, 
A Moorish youth of tender age 
A delicate, pale orphan flung 
Too soon the world's rude paths among : 
Friendless, save one old harper's care : 
Too young to strive, too weak to bear 
The many evils that await 
The lonely path — the low estate. 
Irene's tenderness was moved, 
And soon her gentle page she loved. 
He was so timid, and so weak, 
The tears so soon on his dark cheek, 
O'er which the frequent blushes came, 
Like night lit up with sudden flame ; 
And with a voice ! — such tones may dwell 
Where the wave whispers to the shell, 
Half song, half sigh — such music hung 
On that young Moor's enchanted tongue. 

He sat apart — around his head 
Was bound a shawl of deepest red, 
Which hid his brow, and gave his eye 
A wilder light with its fierce dye ; 
A foreign lute was in his hand — 
Small, dark — his southern sun had tann'd 
All colours, those, the soft and frail, 
Into an olive, clear and pale. 

She mark'd the lute, and bade him sing 
One of those songs so much his own ; 

Where a sweet sadness woke the stringy 
Till sorrow's self might claim the tone. 
'Tis strange, the happy and the young, 
At whose feet life its flower hath flung — 
Whose future like a dream appears, 
Yet only ask the lute for tears. 
Instinct of sorrow, that prepares 
Its sympathy before it shares. 

He took his lute — his voice was low, 
So lapsing waters softly flow 
Amid the drooping flowers around, 
As if they turn'd their sighs to sound. 
Ah, magic ! of a voice that seems 
To haunt the soul with hopes and dreams 
Which gives to minstrel words the power 
And passion of their early hour, 
When in their sweetness first they came, 
And turn'd the heart they fill'd to flame ;— 
Such soft, sad voice can give the lay 
All that its poet meant to say. 



THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK. 



205 



! cast that shadow from thy brow, 
My darkeyed love ! be glad awhile : 

Has Leila's song no music now 1 
Is there no charm in Leila's smile 1 

There are young roses in my hair, 
And morn and spring are on their bloom ; 

Yet you have breathed their fragrant air, 
Like some old vapour from the tomb. 

There stands the vase of crystal light, 

Yein'd with the red wine's crimson stains : 

Has the grape lost its spell to-night 1 
For there the cup, untouch'd, remains. 

1 took my lute for one sad song ; 

I sang it, though my heart was wrung — 
The sad, sweet notes we've loved so long — 
You listen'd not, though Leila sung. 

I press'd my pale, pale cheek to thine ; 

Though it was wet with many tears, 
No pressure came to answer mine, — 

TSTo murmur breathed to soothe my fears. 

Ah ! silent still ] then know I all ! 

I know that we shall part at last ! 
In mercy, gentle Heaven, recall 

Only the memory of the past. 

Ah ! never did tnc iirst June flower 

Bare purer bosom to the bee, 
Than that which yielded to love's power, 

.And gave its sweetest wealth to thee. 

'Twas a new life — the earth — the skv — 
Seem'd to grow fairer for thy sake, 

But this is gone — O, destiny ! 

My heart is wither'd — let it break ! 

My garden will He desolate ; 

My flowers will die ; my birds will pine : 
All I once loved I now shall hate ; — 

With thee changed every thing of mine. 

O ! speak not now — it mocks my heart ; 

How can hope live when love is o'er 1 
. only feel that we must part ; 

I only know — we meet no more ! 

Never that youthful Moor had lent 
The plaining lute o'er which he bent 
More sweetness than he gave those chords — 
The lady hath not heard the words. 
Upon her cheek the rose is bright, 
Her eyes are lit with inward light ; 
Leoni's stately step is near, 
What other music can she hear ? 



Her heart that distant sound has stirr'd, 
Ere others but its echo heard. 

He comes to say that they c<m see 
The island darkening on the air ; 

The while their welcome seems to be, 
The perfume which these breezes bear — 
Breezes that bring from myrtle groves 
The memory of their former loves, 
When the first poets fill'd the earth 
With dreams which in themselves have birth- 
Irene lean'd and watch'd the isle, 
At least she seem'd to watch the while ; 
But the faint smile her roselip wore 
Was never given to sea or shore. 
She look'd, but saw not — that soft eye 
Had sweeter fancies flitting by. 

She felt the look she could not meet, 
She droop'd beneath Leoni's gaze ; 

Ah ! never words can be so sweet 
As silence which itself betrays. 
Yes, love has happy hours, which rise 
O'er earth as over Paradise. 
Hours which o'er life's worst darkness fling 
Colours as from an angel's wing, 
Which gild the common, soothe the drear, 
Bring heaven down to earth's cold sphere ; 
But never has it such an hour 
As in its first unspoken power. 
No hue has faded from its bloom, 
No light has fallen from its plume — 
No after-fear, no common care, 
Has weigh'd on its enchanted air. 
Mortality forgets its thrall ; 
It stands a thing apart from all — 

A thing, alas ! too soon to be 
Number'd amid the things that were, 

As morning hues upon the sea 
Fade as they never had been there. 
But ere those charmed lights depart — 
There is no future for the heart. 

They lean'd upon that vessel's side, 
That youthful lady and the knight, 

Till one by one from ocean's tide 
The stars had risen into light. 
She told him of that lovely clime, 
She told him of her childhood's time : 
Not much the words, but soft and low, 
Straight to the heart such accents go ; 
And all was hush'd, as sky and sea 
Shared in the sweet tranquillity. 
With half a song and half a sigh 
The rippling waves went murmuring by. 
The loosen'd sails were lightly stirr'd, 
Like wings of some lone forest bird 
That cannot sweep from spray to spray. 
Nor waken music on its way. 

While all around seems spell or sleep, 
Why doth the dark page turn and weep ? 



206 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Ah ! never yet was scene so fair, 
But some heart watch'd in its despair. 

The ranks are set, the hosts are met, 
The morning sunbeams shine 

O'er tents with dews of nightfall wet 
O'er the long warrior line. 
By heaven it is a glorious thing 
Upon the gallant steed to spring, 
With white plume dancing o'er the crest, 
With spur on heel, and spear in rest, 
And sword impatient of its light, 
A sun that reddens into night. 
To feel the energy of strife, 
The life that is so much of life, 
The pulse's quicken'd beat — the eye, 
Whose dark light kindles to defy. 

By heaven it is a glorious pride 
To lead the stormy battle tide. 
Aye, let the crimson banner spread 
So soon to wear a darker red — 
Let the proud trumpet wake the air 
As victory's sounding wing were there : 
It is in death and danger's hour 
That most existence feels its power. 
And is this all 1 — the flush and glow — 
When war's wild waves at morning flow 1 
Ah, no ! night cometh, and she flings 
The weight and darkness of her wings. 
The tide has ebb'd — the beach is left, 
Of its bright panoply bereft ; 
The glittering waves that caught the sun — 
Their light is past, their course is done : 
The field is fought — who walketh there 1 — 
The shadowy victory casts — Despair ! 
For the proud chief, in shining mail, 
Comes the young orphan mute and pale ; 
For the red banner's radiant fold, 
Some maiden rends her locks of gold 
For the war steed, with bit of foam, 
The image of a desolate home. 
While wandering o'er the ghastly plain, 
Some mother seeks her child in vain. 
Ah, War ! if bright thy morning's rise, 
Dark is thine evening sacrifice. 

But for the orphan's sacred cause, 
His sword the Count Leoni draws; 
And it is for a maiden's right 
He leads the thickest of the fight. 
It matters not who soonest fled — 
Who longest fought — what numbers bled, 
Enough, that evening's setting sun 

Redden'd above a battle won. 
Dismounted from his weary steed, 

That well had served the struggle's need ; 

A page the noble creature led, 

With panting chest and drooping head. 



His master came — in battle stain'd, 
But still his stately step retainM. 
No more his glittering armour shone — 
His helm and glancing plume were gone ; 
And heart and toil their darkness threw 
O'er curls that lost their sunny hue ; 
The azure scarf which he had worn, 
Afar amid the struggle borne ; 
By all and by himself forgot, 
One only mark'd he wore it not. 
The Moorish page ! upon his brow 
Is seen the only shadow now. 

Forth comes the Queen — the first to yield 
Due honour to. the glorious field, 
Which gives the sceptre to her hand, 
And, more — gives back her native land. 
She came — the purple evening air 
Grew as her sweet face shone more fair ; 
She came, the flowers beneath her feet 
Sprung up amid the grass most sweet. 
Leoni kneels more graceful far 
Than in the morning pomp of war. 
Dust — paleness — blood — a charm confer 
Irene felt they were for her. 
Such service might the proudest move, 
And gratitude excuses love. 

With queenly step, but eye that bent 
Too conscious on the earth beneath ; 

Herself she led him to the tent 
Where hung the victor's laurel wreath. 
Herself unclasp'd the bands of steel, 
Herself unbound the armed heel ; 
And murmur'd broken thanks the while, 
The soft blush brightening with a smile ; 
Then bade him rest. Ah, looks like those 
Were never heralds of repose. 
He slept not ; but the dreams that steep 
Such sweet unrest are more than sleep. 

Night came — the deep and purple time 
Of summer in a southern clime. 
The curtains of the tent were sway'd 
As the night-wind among them play'd ! 
And he could see the distant sky, 
Where stars in crowds uncounted lie : 
And all seem'd bright excepting one ; 

He fancied he could see it pale, 
As if forsaken by its sun, 

Its golden light began to fail. 
A deeper sympathy there came 
For that expiring shadowy flame, 
Deserted by its radiant tide, 
Than all the brighter stars beside. 
And while his fancy work'd and brought 
Phantoms of many a gloomy thought, 
Upon the air a song arose, 
An old song with a mournful close : 









THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK. 



207 



A song of days far hence removed, 

In childhood heard, in childhood loved. 

A fitful song it was, and low 

And indistinct as waters flow 

WLen sighing leaves and flowers are near 

Anil yet he held his breath to hear. 



Take that singing bird away ; 
It has too glad a lay 

For an ear so lorn as mine ! 
And its wings are all too light, 
And its feathers all too bright, 

To rest in a bosom like mine ! 

But bring that bird again 

When winter has changed its strain ; 

Its pining will be sweet to me 
When toil and stain are on its breast, 
And its pinions droop for rest ; — 

O, then, bring that bird to me ! 

Together, poor bird, will pine 
Over beauty and hope's decline ; 

Yet I'll envy in pitying thee : 
Never may the months restore 
The sweet spring they brought before 

To me — but they will to thee ! 



The lute was hush'd — but soon again 
The singer's voice took up the strain. 



One word, although that word may pass 

Almost neglected by, 
With no more care than what the glass 

Bears of a passing sigh: 

One word to breath of love to thee, 

One low, one timid word, 
To say that thou art beloved by me, 

But rather felt than heard. 

I scarcely wish thy heart were won ; 

Mine own, with such excess, 
Would like the flower beneath the sun 

Die with its happiness. 

I pray for thee on bended knee, 

But not for mine own sake ; 
My heart's best prayers are all for thee — 

It prays itself to break. 

Farewell ! farewell ! I would not leave 

A single trace behind ; 
Why should a thought, if me to grieve, 

Be left upon thy mind ] 



I would not have thy memory dwell 
Upon one thought of pain ; 

And sad it must be the farewell 
Of one who loved in vain. 

Farewell ! thy course is in the sun, 
First of the young and brave ; 

For me, — my race is nearly run, 
And its goal is the grave. 



There was a sadness in the words, 
There was a memory on the chords, 
That to the listening warrior brought 
Thoughts that he fain would not have thought. 
And sudden to his lip there came 
A dear, yet half forgotten name ; 
Forgotten as all else had been 
In the sweet eyes of that young queen. 
Amenai'de had often sung 
The mournful airs on which he hung. 
Up sprung the soldier from his rest; 
His brow upon his hands he prest. 
O, misery for the heart to prove 
The strife of honour and of love ! 
Pale was Leoni's cheek next day, 
When forth he led his brave array 
In triumph through the crowded street, 
Where thousands their young sovereign meet, 
With loud acclaim and greeting hand, 
As if she had not left their land : 
Deserted in her hour of need, 
With life and death upon her speed. 

But now she comes — the fair, the bright, 
As if her reign were a delight. 
Its path of flowers, its way through song, 
Rolls her triumphal car along ; 
Noble or vassal, each one vies 
To catch the sunshine of her eyes : 

And yet beneath her silver veil 
The maiden's cheek is lovely pale. 
Ah, on such gentle cheek is laid 
The shadow of a lover's shade ! 
Her smile had to Leoni flown — 
Alas ! his answer'd not her own. 
In that bright hour of joy and pride, 
Two hearts had bitter thoughts to hide : 
So waves fling up their sunlit glow, 
While rocks and darkness lurk below. 
O, weary day that seem'd so long ! 
0, hours that dragg'd their weight along ' 
At last 'twas night ; escaped from all 
The crowds that made her splendid thrall, 
The young queen sought a garden wild, 
Where she had roam'd a happy child — 
A child that neither hopes nor fears, 
Unconscious of its coming years. 
She sought a little fountain playing, 
With lilies 'mid its waters straying ; 



208 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



A. fairy thing, that sang by night, 
And gave the stars again their light. 
'Twas somewhat desolate, for wide 
The myrtles swept from every side, 
And weeds around the margin meet — 
But there the very weeds are sweet. 

She sat her down, her glittering dress 
Contrasting with the dark recess ; 
The orange buds that cluster'd there, 
Shed their sweet leaves amid her hair ; 
And to the wave below her face 
Lent, like a fairy gift, its grace. 
Transient and fair, — e'en now 'tis past, 
Some other shadow there is cast. 

She started from her mossy seat, 
And both stood silent, pale, and still — 

Only was heard the heart's loud beat, 
Only was heard the plaining rill. 
Like statues placed in that lone nook, 
To mock it with the human look ; 
And paint upon the moonlit air 
The ghastly aspect of despair ! 
There was heart-broken silence first, 
Then passionate those accents burst, 
Whose utter agony of wo, 
Once — only once — the heart can know ! 
She bade him go — for true she read 

The beating of that noble heart ; 
Better it rested with the dead, 

Than see its stainless life depart. 
She bade him go — although the word 
Was scarcely from her pale lip heard — 
One desperate prayer, one wild caress, 
And she is left in loneliness, 
The darkest hours of night were spent 
Before Leoni sought his tent ; 
Then, feverish, down he lay to ask 
For sleep, as if sleep were a task ; 
When, lo ! upon his pillow laid, 
A letter, fasten'd by a braid 
Of silken hair and golden hue, — 
Ah, writing both and hair he knew ! 



THE LETTER. 

A few last words — they are not much 
To ask, my early friend, of thee ; 

My friend, at least thou still art such — 
The dearest earth can hold for me. 

Once, and once only, let me speak 
Of all that I have felt for years ; 

You read it not upon my cheek, 
You dream'd not of it in my tears. 

And yet I loved thee with a love 
That into every feeling came ; 

I never look'd on heaven above 

Without a prayer to bless thy name. 



I had no other love to share, 

That which was thine — and thine alone 
A few sad thoughts it had to spare 

For those beneath the funeral stone. 

But every living hope was thine, 
Affection with my being grew ; 

Thy heart was as a home and shrine, 
Familiar, and yet sacred too. 

How often have I wr.tch'd the spot 
On which thy step had only moved ; 

My memory remembers not 

The hour when thou wert not beloved. 

I never had a grief or care 

I sought not from thine eyes to hide : 
In joy I said, " Ah ! would he were 

My pleasure sharing at my side." 

I bent above each old romance, 

And seem'd to read thy history there ; 

I saw, in each brave knight, thy glance 
Distinct upon the kindled air. 

Whene'er I sang, our songs they seem 

To paint thee only in the lay ; 
Of only thee at night I dream'd, 

Of only thee I thought by day. 

The wind that wander'd round our towers 
Brought echoes of thy voice to me ; 

Our old hall's solitary hours 

Were peopled with sweet thoughts of thee. 

And yet we part — this very hour ! 

Ah ! — only if my beating heart 
Could break for both — there is no power 

Could force me with your love to part 

There is no shape that pain could take. 
No ill that would not welcome be, 

If sufTer'd but for thy dear sake ; 
But they must be unshared by thee. 

I cannot watch the cold decline 
Of love that wastes itself away : 

I am too used to warm sunshine, 
To bear the moonlight's paler ray. 

I am too proud — vain hope to feel 
I could not brook thy secret sighs ; 

I love — how could I bear to read 
Reproach or sorrow in thine eyes ! 

O, vain it were that honour kept 

Sacred the early vow it made, 
Or pity like a phantom wept 

O'er the dark urn where love was laid 

Farewell, farewell. I do resign 
All hope of love — all early claim ; 



THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK. 



209 



I only ask that I may pine 

Upon the memory of thy name. 

Alas ! I linger ere I go, 

So drowning wretches grasp the wave ; 
I cannot quite endure to throw 

The last cold earth on young Love's grave. 

No more ; another word would be 
A prayer to keep me still thine own. 

So long my heart has beat for thee, 
How can it beat at once alone 1 

Farewell, — it is the heart's farewell, — 
My summer-shine of love past o'er, 

Only the pang of death can tell 

That of the words — we meet no more. 

He moved not, spoke not, but he grew 
More deathlike in his pallid hue : 
He hid his face, he could not bear 
To think of that young heart's despair. 
. Whate'er his lot, hers must not be 
The same in mutual misery. 
No, he would seek and bear her home, 
And watch o'er every hour to come. 
In look or word, she should not guess 
His depths of silent wretchedness. 
Let her be happy — he would make 
His heart the ruin for her sake. 
At length he slept — the heavy sleep 

Of those who have such vigils kept ; 
Who comes above his rest to weep, 

And watch the warrior as he slept 7 
A maiden, beautiful and pale, 
Shrouded beneath a pilgrim's veil, 
Which, backward flowing as she kneels, 
A face, an angel's face reveals, 
Save that it has a look of care 
Which angel beauty cannot wear 
It was Amenai'de, — she sought, 

To see that worshipp'd face again, 
Although its presence only brought 

A keener bitterness to pain. 
The moorish garb is laid aside, 
That sex and loveliness belied, 
For she has join'd a pilgrim band, 
Who journey to the Holy Land, 
To rest each mortal grief and care 
Beside the Saviour's sepulchre. 
She bent above the sleeper's face, 
'Tis the last time her eyes will trace 
The features graven in her heart, 
With life, life only to depart. 
A sad and solemn look she wore, 
For hope and passion are no more ; 
And on her pallid brow appears 
The tenderness of prayers and tears 
(27) 



The quiet of unchanging gloom, 
The shadow of an early tomb. 

She starts ! some other step is near, 
A stranger must not find her here ; 
The heavy curtains round will hide 
Her last sad vigil at his side. 
The darkness favours her escape, 
She holds her breath — a muffled shape 
Glides slow and silent through the shade 
To where the sleeping chief is laid ; 
Then listens, but there is no sound, 
Then flings a cautious glance around ; 
Then glitters the assassin brand, 
She sees him raise his desperate hand ! 
She flings herself before the foe, 
Too late to ward, she meets the blow. 
Wild on the air her death shriek rings, 
Leoni from his slumber springs, 
And page and guard attendant nigh, 
Come hurrying at the fearful cry. 
Leoni looks not on his foe, 
Only he sees the lifeblood flow 
Of her it is too late to know. 
Gently he bears her to the bed, 
Where still his arm supports her head : 
A faint smile meets his anxious eye, 
She murmurs " It is sweet to die." 
The effort was too much to speak, 
Her languid head sinks down more weak ; 
Her hand relaxes its faint hold, 
Her sweet mouth sinks, the white and cold , 
The light within her eyes grows dim, 
They close — the last look was on him. 



They laid her where earliest flowers were bend 
ing, 
"With lives like her own life, so fair and so 
frail; 
They laid her where, showers of sweet leaves were 
descending, 
Like tears when the branches were stirr'd by 
the gale. 

They laid her where constant the south, winds 
awaken 

An echo that dwells in that lone myrtle-giove, 
That the place of her rest might be never forsaken 

By murmurs of sorrow, and murmurs of love. 

They raised the white marble, a shrine for her 
slumbers, 
Whose memories remain, when the summers 
depart ; 

s 2 



210 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



There a lute was engraven, and more than its 
numbers, 
The strings that were broken appeal'd to the 
heart. 

The bride brought her wreath of the orange- 
flowers hither, 
And cast the sweet buds from her tresses of 
gold; 
Like her in their earliest beauty to wither, 

Like her in their sunshine of hope to grow 
cold. 

The wild winds and waters together bewailing, 
Perpetual mourners lamented her doom ; 

Still sadness amid nature's sounds is prevailing, 
Ah ! what is all nature but one general tomb 1 

But vainly the spring's gentle children were 
dying, 
And the tears of the morning amid the long 
grass, 
And vain, vainer still was the human heart's 
sighing, 
That one so beloved, and so lovely, should pass. 

The grave is an altai, whereon the heart proffers 
Its feverish pleasures, its troubles, its woes ; 

Stern, silent, and cold, the dark sanctuaiy proffers 
Its gloomy return of unbroken repose. 

flow much of the sorrow that life may inherit, 

That early departure to slumber will save ; 
The hope that drags onward the world-weary 
spirit, 
Rests but when its fever is quench'd in the 
grave. 

Weep not for the dead with a fruitless recalling, 
Their soul on the wings of the morning hath 
fled; 
Mourn rather for those whom yet life is en- 
thralling, 
Ah ! weep for the living — weep not for the 
dead. 

Months pass'd, and at Leoni's side 
The bright Irene stood a bride ; 
They wore a joy somewhat subdued, 
With shadows from another mood : 
They gave the young, the lost, the fair, 
Tears that the happy well may spare. 
Here ends my lay ; for what have I 

With life's more sunny side to do 1 
From night I only ask its sigh, 

From morn I only ask its dew : 
My lute was only made to pine 

Upon the weeping cypress tree ; 
Its only task and hope, Love mine, 

To breathe its mournful songs to thee. 



NOTES TO THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK. 
Page 169. 

" For Catherine look'd what she had been, 
At once the beauty and the queen." 

" The- new king of Cyprus had been attached 
from early youth to Catarina, niece of Andrea 
Cornaro, a Venetian noble, resident on his Cypriote 
estate ; and no sooner was he freed from certain 
political and domestic obstacles, than he tendered 
his hand to that lady. In order to satisfy the rigid 
law which forbade the marriage of any Venetian 
of noble birth with a foreigner, the destined royal 
bride was solemnly adopted by the state, and de- 
clared a daughter of St. Mark ; she was then 
married by proxy, in the presence of the doge and 
signory, conducted by the bucentaur to the galley 
which awaited her in the port, and escorted by a 
squadron of ships of war, with becoming pomp, 
and a portion of 100,000 ducats, to the territories 
of her husband." After his death the island was 
governed by his widow. 

" Fifteen years had now passed, during which 
the signory had governed Cyprus, under the name 
of Catarina, whose son died not long after his 
birth ; and the islanders, who at first chafed be- 
neath the yoke of the republic, and earnestly 
sought to transfer all their allegiance to Naples, had 
now become accustomed to their virtual masters. 
There were contingencies, nevertheless, not likely 
to escape the sagacity of Venice, by which some 
other hand, after all her long intrigue, might per- 
haps gather its fruits. Catarina still retained more 
than ordinary beauty ; and her picture, in widow's 
weeds (even now glowing with almost original 
freshness among the treasures of the Palazzo 
Manfrini,) was one of the earliest great works of 
Titian, which, both from the skill of the artist and 
the loveliness of the subject, extended his growing 
fame beyond the borders of the Lagune. With so 
great attractions, coupled to the rich dowry of a 
kingdom, it was not probable that the queen of 
Cyprus would long remain without suitors ; and 
rumour already declared her to be the intended 
bride of Frederic, a son of the king of Naples. If 
she married and bore children, Cyprus would be- 
come their inheritance ; and to prevent the pos- 
sibility of such an extinction of their hopes, the 
Venetian government resolved to assume its so- 
vereignty directly in their own persons. The civi- 
lians, therefore, were instructed to avouch the legiti- 
macy of this claim ; and they declared, perhaps with 
less sincerity than solemnity, that the son of Giacopo 
Lusignano inherited the crown from his father ; 
that since he died a minor, his mother inherited 
from him ; and that finally Venice inherited from 
his mother, an adopted daughter of St. Mark. 

" Giorgio Cornaro, a brother of the queen, was 
solicited to conduct the ungrateful process of he; 



THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK. 



211 



deposition. To his representations, — that by 
abandoning the care of a turbulent kingdom, and 
returning to her native land, in which she might 
pass* the remainder of her life tranquilly and 
securely, amongst those bound to her by natural 
ties, she would far more consult her own happiness 
than by remaining exposed in a remote and foreign 
country to the hazards of its ambiguous friend- 
ship, — she replied with confidence, that there was 
little which could allure a woman environed with 
the splendour of royalty and the observance of a 
court, to descend to the parsimonious habits and 
undistinguished level of a republican life ; and that 
it would please her far better if the signory would 
await her decease before they occupied her pos- 
sessions. But to arguments explanatory of the 
will, the power, and the inflexibility of the senate, 
it was not easy to find an adequate answer ; and 
the natural eloquence, as the historian styles 
it, of her brother ultimately prevailed. ' If such,' 
she observed, as soon as tears permitted speech, 
' be your opinion, such also shall be mine ; never- 
theless, it is more from you than from myself that 
our country will obtain a kingdom.' Having thus 
reluctantly consented, after a few days delay she 
commenced her progress to Famagosta; royal 
honours attended her everywhere as she passed, 
and on the 6th of February she signed the formal 
act of abdiction in the presence of her council ; 
attended a solemn mass, at which the banner of 
St. Mark was consecrated ; delivered that standard 
to the charge of the Venetian general ; and saw it 
raised above her own on the towers of the citadel. 
On the approach of summer she embarked for 
Venice, where she was received as a crowned head 
by the doge and signory ; and in return for the 
surrender of her sceptre, she enjoyed a privilege 
never before or since accorded to any of her 
country women, a triumphal entry to St. Mark's 
Piazzetta, en the deck of the Buceritaur. A re- 
venue of 8000 ducats was assigned her for life ; 
and the delights of the ' Paradise' of Asola, in the 
Trevisan mountains, in which the unqueened 
queen continued to assemble her little court, have 
been immortalized by a volume long among the 
most popular works of early Italian literature ; and 
graced by the poetry, the sentiment, the piety, and 
the metaphysics of the illustrious historian from 
whom we have borrowed our narrative of Cata- 
v ina's dethronement." 

Page 197. 
"Divinest Petrarch." 
" It was on the 4th of June, that the poet, in 
company with the Archbishop of Patae, was en- 
joying a delicious prospect of the sea from his 
windows, and cheating a summer evening with 
familiar talk, when the conversation was interrupted 
by the appearance of a galley in the offing, fanci- 



fully dressed out with green boughs. This unu- 
sual decoration, the rapid motion of tbe oars, the 
joyful shouts of the mariners, the garlands which 
they had twined round their caps, the streamers 
which floated from their masts, all betokened the 
arrival of some pleasing intelligence. A signal 
was given from the beacon-tower of the port, and 
the whole population of the city flocked to the 
water's edge, breathless with curiosity, to ascertain 
the news. As the bark came nearer shore, some 
flags of the enemy were seen hanging from her 
stern ; and all doubt was then removed that she 
was the messenger of victory. What, however, 
was the general surprise and joy, when it was an- 
nounced that the rebels were not only worsted, but 
conquered, that Candia was subdued, and that the 
war was at an end ! The doge, with his court 
and prelates, and the whole attendant crowd of 
citizens, immediately repaired to St. Mark's and 
offered up a solemn service of thanksgiving. The 
festivals which succeeded lasted for many days; 
and they were closed by a tournament and a mag- 
nificent equestrian parade, for which Petrarch is 
unable to find an adequate Latin name. 

In this last spectacle, a troop of four-and-twenty 
noble Venetian youths, headed by a Ferrarese, 
splendidly arrayed, and mounted on horses gor- 
geously caparisoned, started singly, but in quick 
succession, from a barrier in the Piazza di San 
Marco, and, coursing round to a goal, uninterrupt- 
edly renewed the same circle, brandishing lances 
from which silken ribands fluttered to the wind. 
The doge, with his brilliant train, sat in his mar- 
ble gallery over St. Mark's porch, by the well- 
known horses, whence the evening sun was shaded 
by richly embroidered canopies. On his right hand 
sat Petrarch himself, whose love of pleasure was 
satisfied by two days' attendance on the protracted 
festivity. The splendour of the scene was height- 
ened by the presence of several English barons, 
some of them of the royal blood, who at that time 
were in Venice, so far as we can understand Pe- 
trarch's obscure statement, engaged in some mari- 
time negotiation; though one of the chroniclers 
assures us that they had no other object than a 
laudable desire of seeing the world. In the court 
below not a grain of sand could have fallen to the 
pavement, so dense was the throng. A wooden 
scaffolding, raised for the occasion, on the right of 
the piazza, contained a bright store of beauty ; tho 
forty noblest dames of Venice, glittering with 
costly jewels. In the horse-course, honour was 
the sole prize ; but, for the. tournament, in which 
danger was to be encountered, more substantial 
rewards were proposed. For the most successful, 
champion, a crown of solid gold, chased with pre- 
cious stones ; for the second, a silver belt, of choic« 
workmanship. 



CLASSICAL SKETCHES. 



SAPPHO. 



.... She was one 

Whose lyre the spirit of sweet song had hung 
With myrtle and with laurel ; on whose head 
Genius had shed his starry glories . . . 
"... transcripts of woman's loving heart 
And woman's disappointment." .... 



She leant upon her harp, and thousands look'd 
Dn her in love and wonder — thousands knelt 
And worshipp'd in her presence — burning tears, 
And words that died in utterance, and a pause 
Of breathless, agitated eagerness, 
First gave the full heart's homage : then came 

forth 
A. shout that rose to heaven ; and the hills, 
The distant valleys, all rang with the name 
Of the iEolian Sappho — every heart 
Found in itself some echo to her song. 
Low notes of love — hopes beautiful and fresh, 
And some gone by forever — glorious dreams, 
High aspirations, those thrice gentle thoughts 
That dwell upon the absent and the dead, 
Were breathing in her music — and these are 
Chords every bosom vibrates to. But she 
Upon whose brow the laurel crown is placed, 
Her colours varying with deep emotion — 
There is a softer blush than conscious pride 
Upon her cheek, and in that tremulous smile 
Is all a woman's timid tenderness : 
Her eye is on a Youth, and other days 
And young warm feelings have rush'd on her 

soul 
With all their former influence, — thoughts that 

slept 
Cold, calm as death, have waken'd to new life — 
Whole years' existence have pass'd in that 

glance . . . 
She had once loved in very early days : 
That was a thing gone by : one had call'd forth 
The music of her soul : he loved her too, 
But not as she did — she was unto him 
As a young bird, whose early flight he train'd, 
Whose first wild song were sweet, for he had 

taught 
Those songs— but she look'd up to him with all 
Youth's deep and passionate idolatry : 
Love was her heart's sole universe — he was 



To her, Hope, Genius, Energy, the God 
Her inmost spirit worshipp'd — in whose smLe 
Was all e'en minstrel pride held precious ■ praise 
Was prized but as the echo of his own. 

But other times and other feelings came : 
Hope is love's element, and love with her 
Sicken'd of its own vanity .... She lived 
'Mid bright realities and brighter dreams, 
Those strange but exquisite imaginings 
That tinge with such sweet colours minstrel 

thoughts ; 
And fame, like sunlight, was upon her path ; 
And strangers heard her name, and eyes that 

never 
Had look'd on Sappho, yet had wept with her. 
Her first love never wholly lost its power, 
But, like rich incense shed, although no trace 
Was of its visible presence, yet its sweetness 
Mingled with every feeling, and it gave 
That soft and melancholy tenderness 
Which was the magic of her song .... That 

Youth 
Who knelt before her was so like the shape 
That haunted her spring dreams — the same dark 

eyes, 
Whose light had once been as the light of 

heaven ! — 
Others breathed winning flatteries — she turn'd 
A careless hearing — but when Phaon spoke, 
Her heart beat quicker, and the crimson light 
Upon her cheek gave a most tender answer . . . 
She loved with all the ardour of a heart 
Which lives but in itself: her life had pass'd 
Amid the great creations of the mind : 
Love was to her a vision — it was now 
Heighten'd into devjtion .... But a soul 
So gifted and so passionate as hers 
Will seek companionship in vain, and find 
Its feelings solitary .... Phaon soon 
Forgot the fondness of his Lesbian maid ; 
And Sappho knew that genius, riches, fame, 
May not soothe slighted love. - - - -« 
- - - There is a dark rock looks on the blue sea ; 
'Twas there love's last song echo'd — there She 

sleeps, 
Whose lyre was crown'd with laurel, and wfcose 

name 
Will be remember'd long as Love or Song 
Are sacred — the devoted Sappho ! 

212 



CLASSICAL SKETCHES. 



213 



BACCHUS AND ARIADNE. 

Leonardi. 'Tis finish'd now: look on my 

picture, Love ! 
Alyixe. 0, that sweet ring of graceful figures ! 

one 
Flings her white arms on high, and gayly strikes 
Her golden cymbals — I can almost deem 
I hear their beatings ; one with glancing feet 
Follows her music, while her crimson cheek 
Is flush'd with exercise, till the red grape 
'Mid the dark tresses of a sister nymph 
Is scarcely brighter : there another stands, 
A darker spirit yet, with joyous brow, 
And holding a rich goblet : O, that child ! 
With eyes as blue as spring-days, and those curls 
Throwing their auburn shadow o'er a brow 
So arch, so playful — have you bodied forth 
Young Cupid in your colours 1 

Leonardi. No — no, 
I could not paint Love as a careless boy, — 
That passionate Divinity, whose life 
Is of such deep and intense feeling ! No, 
I am too true, too earnest, and too happy, 
To ever image by a changeful child 
That which is so unchangeable. But mark 
How sweet, how pale, the light that I have thrown 
Over the picture : it is just the time 
When Dian's dewy kiss lights up the dreams 
That make Endymion's sleep so beautiful. 
Look on the calm blue sky, so set with stars : 
Is it not like to what we both recall 1 
Those azure shadows of a summer night, 
That veil'd the cautious lutanist who waked 
Thy slumbers with his song. How more than 

fair, 
How like a spirit of that starry hour, 
I used to think you, as your timid hand 
Unbarrd the casement, and you leant to hear, 
Your long hair floating loose amid the vines 
Around your lattice ; and how very sweet 
Your voice, scarce audible, with the soft fear 
That mingled in its low and tender tones ! 

Alvise. Nay, now I will not listen to the 

tales 
Our memory is so rich in. I have much 
For question here. Who is this glorious shape, 
That, placed on a bright chariot in the midst, 
Stands radiant in his youth and loveliness ] 
Around his sunny locks there is a wreath 
Of the green vine leaves, and his ivory brow 
Shines out like marble, when a golden ray 
Of summer light is on it, and his step 
Scarce seems to touch his pard-drawn car, but 

floats 
Buoyant upon the air ; — and who is she 
On whom his ardent gaze is tum'd 1 So pale, — 



Her dark hair gather'd round her like a shroud, 
Yet far more lovely than (he sparkling nymphs 
Dancing around that chariot. Yet how sweet, 
Though dimm'd with tears, those deep blue eyes, 
Half tum'd and half averted timidly 
From the youth's lightning glance. tell me 

now 
One cf those legends that I love so well : 
Has not this picture some old history 1 

Leonard!. 'Tis one of those bright fictions 
that have made 
The name of Greece only another word 
For love and poetry ; with a green earth — 
Groves of the graceful myrtle — summer skies, 
Whose stars are mirror'd in ten thousand 

streams — 
Winds that move but in perfume and in music, 
And, more than all, the gift of woman's beauty. 
What marvel that the earth, the sky, the sea, 
Were fill'd with all those fine imaginings 
That love creates, and that the lyre preserves ! 

Alyine. But for the history of that pale girl 
Who stands so desolate on the seashore 1 

Leonardi. She was the daughter of a Cretan 
king — 
A tyrant. Hidden in the dark recess 
Of a wide labyrinth, a monster dwelt, 
And every year was human tribute paid 
By the Athenians. They had bow'd in wai 
And every spring the flowers of all the city. 
Young maids in their first beauty — stately youths, 
Were sacrificed to the fierce King ! They died 
In the unfathomable den of want, 
Or served the Minotaur for food. At length 
There came a royal Youth, who vow'd to slay 
The monster or to perish ! — Look, Alvine, 
That statue is young Theseus. 

Alvine. Glorious ! 
How like a god he stands, one haughty hand 
Raised in defiance ! I have often look'd 
Upon the marble, wondering it could give 
Such truth to life and majest3 r . 

Leo:sardi. You will not marvel Ariadne 
loved. 
She gave the secret clue that led him safe 
Through all the labyrinth, and she fled with him 

Alvine. Ah, now I know your tale : he 
proved untrue. 
This ever has been woman's fate, — to love, 
To know one summer day of happiness, 
And then to be most wretched ! 

Leonardi. She was leit 

By her so heartless lover while she slept. 
She woke from pleasant dreams — she dreamt of 

him — 
Love's power is felt in slumber — woke, and founc 
Herself deserted on the lonely shore ! 
The bark of the false Theseus was a speck 



214 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Scarce seen upon the waters, less and less, 

Like hope diminishing, till wholly past. 

I will nut say, for you can fancy well, 

Her desolate feelings as she roam'd the beach, 

Hurl'd from the highest heaven of happy love ! 

But evening crimson'd the blue sea — a sound 

Of music and of mirth came on the wind, 

And radiant shapes and laughing nymphs danced 

by, 

And he, the Theban God, look'd on the maid, 
And look'd and loved, and was beloved again. 
This is the moment that the picture gives : 
He has just fiung her starry crown on high, 
And bade it there a long memorial shine 
How a god loved a mortal. He is springing 
From out his golden car — another bound — 
Bacchus is by his Ariadne's side ! 

Aevi^e. She loved again ! O cold inconstancy ! 
This is not woman's love ; her love should be 
A feeling pure and holy as the flame 
The vestal virgin kindles, fresh as flowers 
The spring has but just colour'd, innocent 
As the young dove, and changeless as the faith 
The martyr seals in blood. 'Tis beautiful 
This picture, but it wakes no sympathy. 

Leonardi. Next time, Alvine, my pencil shall 
but give 
Existence to the memory of love's truth. 

Altine. Do you recall a tale you told me once, 
Of the forsaken Nymph that Paris left 
For new love and ambition ; at his death 
He bade them bear him to Enone's arms 1 
She never had forgotten him : her heart, 
Which beat so faithfully, became his pillow ; 
She closed his eyes, and pardon'd him and died ! 

Leostabdi. Love, yes ; I'll paint their meet- 
ing : the wan youth, 
Dying, but yet so happy in forgiveness ; 
1'he sweet Enone, with her gentle tears, 
Fill'd with meek tenderness, her pensive brow 
Arching so gracefully, with deep blue eyes 
Half hidden by the shadowy lash — a look 
So patient, yet so fraught with tenderest feeling, 
Like to an idol placed upon the shrine 
Of faith, for all to worship. She shall be, 
Saving thine own inimitable smile, 
Tn all like thee, Alvine ! 



UNKNOWN FEMALE HEAD. 

I know not of thy history, thou sad 
Yet beautiful faced Girl : — the chestnut braid 
Bound darkly round thy forehead, the blue veins 
Wandering in azure light, the ivory chin 
Dimpled so archly, have no characters 



Graven by memory ; but thy pale cheek, 

Like a white rose on which the sun hath look'd 

Too wildly warm, (is not this passion's legend V, 

The drooping lid whose lash is bright with tears, 

A lip which has the sweetness of a smile 

But not its gayety — do not these bear 

The scorch'd footprints sorrow leaves in passing 

O'er the clear brow of youth 1 — It may but be 

An idle thought, but I have dream'd thou wcrt 

A captive in thy hopelessness : afar 

From the sweet home of thy young infancy, 

Whose image unto thee is as a dream 

Of fire and slaughter, I can see thee wasting 

Sick for thy native air, loathing the light 

And cheerfulness of men ; thyself the last 

Of all thy house^ a stranger and a slave ! 



LEANDER AND HERO 

It is a tale that many songs have told, 
And old, if tale of love can e'er be old ; 
Yet dear to me this lingering o'er the fate 
Of two so young, so true, so passionate ! 
And thou, the idol of my harp, the soul 
Of poetiy, to me my hope, my whole 
Happiness of existence, there will be 
Some gentlest tones that I have caught from thee 
Will not each heart- pulse vibrate, as I tell 
Of faith «ren unto death unchangeable ! 
Leander and his Hero ! they should be, 
When youthful lovers talk of constancy, 
Invoked. O, for one breath of softest song, 
Such as on summer evenings floats along, 
To murmur low their history ! every word 
That whispers of them, should be like those heard 
At moonlight casements, when the awaken'd maid 
Sighs her soft answer to the serenade. 

She stood beside the altar, like the queen, 
The brighteyed queen that she was worshipping. 
Her hair was bound with roses, which did fling 

A perfume round, for she that morn had been 
To gather roses, that were clustering now 
Amid the shadowy curls upon her brow. 
One of the loveliest daughters of that land, 
Divinest Greece ! that taught the painter's hand 

To give eternity to loveliness ; 
One of those darkeyed maids, to whom belong 
The glory and the beauty of each song 

Thy poets breathed, for it was theirs to bless 
With life the pencil and the lyra's dreams, 
Giving reality to vision'd gleams 
Of bright divinities. Amid the crowd 
That in the presence of young Hero bow'd, 
Was one who knelt with fond idolatry, 
As if in homage to some deity, 



CLASSICAL SKETCHES. 



21*> 



Gazmg upon her as each gaze he took 

Must be the very last — that intense look 

That none but lovers give, when they would trace 

On tneir heart's tablets some adored face. 

Tire radiant priestess from the temple past : 

Yet there Leander stayed, to catch the last 

Wave of her fragrant hair, the last low fall 

Of her white feet, so light and musical ; 

And then he wander'd silent to a grove, 
To feed upon the full heart's ecstasy. 
The moon was sailing o'er the deep blue sky, 

Each moment shedding fuller light above, 
As the pale crimson from the w r est departs. 
Ah, this is just the hour for passionate hearts 
To linger over dreams of happiness, 
All of young love's delicious loveliness ! 

The cypress waved upon the evening air 
Like the long tresses of a beauty's hair ; 
And close beside was laurel ; and the pale 
Snow blossoms of the myrtle tree, so frail 
And delicate, like woman ; 'mid the shade 
Rose the white pillars of the colonnade 
Around the marble temple, where the Queen 
Of Love was worshipp'd, and there was seen, 
Where the grove ended, the so glorious sea 
Now in its azure sleep's tranquillity. 
He saw a white veil wave, — his heart beat high : 
He heard a voice, and then a low toned sigh. 
Gently he stole amid the shading trees — 
It is his love — his Hero that he sees ! 
Her hand lay motionless upon the lute, 
Which thrill'd beneath the touch, her lip was 

mute, 
Only her eyes were speaking ; dew and light 
There blended like the hyacinth, when night 
Has wept upon its bosom ; she did seem 
As consciousness were lost in some sweet dream — 
That dream was love ! Blushes were on her 

cheek, 
And what, save love, do blushes ever speak 1 
Her lips were parted, as one moment more, 
And then the heart would yield its hidden store. 
'Tvvas so at length her thought found utterance : 
Light, feeling, flash' d from her awaken'd glance — 
She paused — then gazed on one pale star above, 
Pour'd to her lute the burning words of love ! 
Leander heard his name ! How more than sweet 
That moment, as he knelt at Hero's feet, 
Breathing his passion in each thrilling word, 
Only by lovers said, by lovers heard. 

That night they parted — but they met again ; 
The blue sea roll'd between them — but in vain ! 
Leander had no fear — he cleft the wave — 
What is the peril fond hearts will not brave ! 
Delicious were their moonlight wanderings, 
Delicious were the kind and gentle things 
Each to the other breathed ; a starry sky, 
Music and flowers, — this is love's luxury : 



The measure of its happiness is full 

When all round shares its own enchanted lull. 

There were sweet birds to count the hours, and 

roses, 
Like those which on a blushing cheek reposes ; 
Violets fresh as violets could be ; 
Stars overhead, with each a history 
Of love told by its light ; and waving trees, 
And perfumed breathings upon every breeze : 
These were beside them when they met. And 

day, 
Though each was from the other far away, 
Had still its pleasant memories ; they might 
Think what they had forgotten the last night, 
And make the tender thing they had to say 
More warm and welcome from its short delay 
And then their love was secret, — 0, it is 
Most exquisite to have a fount of bliss 
Sacred to us alone, no other eye 
Conscious of our enchanted mystery, 
Ourselves the sole possessors of a spell 
Giving us happiness unutterable ! 
I would compare this secresy and shade 
To that fair island, whither Love convey'd 
His Psyche, where she lived remote from all : 
Life one long, lone, and lovely festival ; 
But when the charm, concealment's charm, was 

known, 

then good-by to love, for love was flown ! 
Love's wings are all too delicate to bear 
The open gaze, the common sun and air. 

There have been roses round my lute ; but 
now 

1 must forsake them for the cypress bough. 
Now is my tale of tears : — One night the sky, 
As if with passion darken'd angrily, 

And gusts of wind swept o'er the troubled main 
Like hasty threats, and then were calm again : 
That night young Hero by her beacon kept 
Her silent watch, and blamed the night, and wept. 
And scarcely dared to look upon the ,sky : 
Yet lulling still her fond anxiety — 
With, " Surely in such a storm he cannot bravs, 
If but for my sake only, wind and wave," * * 
At length Aurora led young Day and blush'd, 
In her sweet presence sea and sky were hush'd ; 
What is there beauty cannot charm 1 her power 
Is felt alike, in storm and sunshine hour , 
And light and soft the breeze which waved the 

veil 
Of Hero, as she wander'd, lone and pale, 
Her heart sick with its terror, and her eye 
Roving in tearful, dim uncertainty. 
Not long uncertain, — she mark'd something glide 
Shadowy and indistinct, upon the tide 
On rush'd she in that desperate energy, 
Which only has to know, and, knowing, die- 
It was Leander ! 



216 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



HEAD OF ARIADNE. 

O, aviit should Woman ever love, 

Throwing her chance away, 
Her little chance of summer shine, 

Upon a rainbow ray 1 

Look back on each old history, 
Each fresh remember'd tale ; 

They'll tell how often love has made 
The cheek of woman pale ; — 

Her unrequited love, a flower 

Dying for air and light ; 
Her love betray'd, another flower 

Withering before a blight. 

Look down within the silent grave ; 

How much of breath and bloom 
Have wasted, — passion's sacrifice 

Offer'd to the lone tomb. 

Look on her hour of solitude, 

How many bitter cares 
Belie the smile with which the lip 

Would sun the wound it bears. 

Mark this sweet face ! O, never blush 
Has pass'd o'er one more fair, 

And never o'er a brighter brow 
Has wander'd raven hair. 

And mark how carelessly those wreaths 

Of curl are flung behind, 
And mark how pensively the brow 

Leans on the hand reclined. 

'Tis she of Crete ! — another proof 

Of woman's weary lot ; 
Their April doom of sun and shower, — 

To love, then be forgot. 

Heart-sickness, feelings tortured, torn, 

A sky of storm above, 
A path of thorns, — these are love's gifts, 

Ah, why must woman love ! 



A NEREID FLOATING ON A 
SHELL. 

Thy dwelling is the coral cave, 
Thy element the blue sea wave, 
Thy music the wild billows dashing, 
Thy light the diamond's crystal flashing ; 
I'd leave this ^arth to dwell with thee, 
Brighthair'd daughter of the sea ! 



It was an hour of lone starlight 

When first my eye caught thy sweet sight 

Thy white feet press'd a silver shell. 

Love's own enchanted coracle ; 

Thy fair arms waved like the white foam 

The seas dash from their billowy home ; 

And far behind, thy golden hair, 

A bright sail, floated on the air ; 

And on thy lips there was a song, 

As music wafted thee along. 

They say, sweet daughter of the sea, 

Thy look and song are treachery ; 

Thy smile is but the honey'd bait 

To lure thy lover to his fate. 

I know not, and I care still less ; 

It is enough of happiness 

To be deceived. O, never yet 

Could love doubt — no, one doubt would set 

His fetter'd pinions free from all 

His false but most delicious thrall. 

Love cannot live and doubt ; and I, 

Vow'd slave to my bright deity, 

Have but one prayer : Come joy, come ill, 

If you deceive, deceive me still ; 

Better the heart in faith should die 

Than break beneath love's perjury. 



THE THESSALIAN FOUNTAIN. 



Gleamings of poetry,— if I may give 

That name of beauty, passion, and of grace, 

To the wild thoughts that in a starlit hour, 

In a pale twilight, or a rosebud morn, 

Glance o'er my spirit— thoughts that are like light, 

Or love, or hope, in their effects. 



A sttALL clear fountain, with green willow trees 
Girdling it round, there is one single spot 
Where you may sit and rest, its only bank ; 
Elsewhere the willows grew so thick together : 
And it were like a sin to crush that bed 
Of pale and delicate narcissus flowers, 
Bending so languidly, as still they found 
In the pure wave a love and destiny ; 
But here the moss is soft, and when the wind 
Has been felt even through the forest screen, — 
For round, like guardians to the willows, stand 
Oaks large and old, tall firs, dark beach, and elms 
Rich with the yellow wealth that April brings, — 
A shower of rose leaves makes it like a bed 
Whereon a nymph might sleep, when, with her 

arm 
Shining like snow amid her raven hair, 
She dreamt of the sweet song wherewith the 

faur. 



CLASSICAL SKETCHES. 



217 



Had lull'd her, and awakening from her rest 
When through the leaves an amorous sunbeam 

stole 
And kiss'd her eyes ; the fountain were a bath 
For her to lave her ivory feet, and cool 
The crimson beauty of her sleep-warm cheek, 
And bind her ruffled curls in the blue mirror 
Of the transparent waters. But these days 
Of visible poetry have long been past ! — 
No fear that the young hunter may profane 
The haunt of some immortal ; but there still — 
For the heart clings to old idolatry, 
If not with true belief, with tenderness, — 
Lingers a spirit in the woods and flowers 
Which have a Grecian memory, — some tale 
Of olden love or grief link'd with their bloom, 
Seem beautiful beyond all other ones. 
The marble pillars are laid in the dust, 
The golden shrine and its perfume are gone ; 
But there are natural temples still for those 
Eternal though dethroned Deities, 
Where from green altars flowers send up their 

incense : 
This fount is one of them. - - - 



AN OLD MAN OVER THE BODY 
OF HIS SON. 

I am too proud by far to weep, 
Though earth had naught so dear 

As was the Soldier Youth to me 
Now sleeping on that bier. 

It were a stain upon his fame 

Would do his laurel crown a shame, 
To shed one single tear. 

It was a blessed lot to die 

In battle and for liberty ! 

He was my first, my only child, 

And when my race was run, 
I was so proud to send him forth 

To do as I had done. 
It was his last, his only field : 
They brought him back upon his shield, 

But victory was won. 
I cannot weep when I recall 
Thy land has cause to bless thy fall. 

When others tell their children all 

The fame that warriors win, 
I must sit silent, and but think 

On what my child has been, 
It is a father's joy to see 
The young eyes glow exultingly 

When warlike tales begin ; 
And yet I know no living one 
I would change for my sleeping Son. 
(28) 



L'AMORE DOMINATORE. 

They built a temple for the God, 

'Twas in a myrtle grove, 
Where the bee and the butterfly 

Vied for each blossom's love. 

The marble pillars rose like snow, 

Glittering in the sunshine : 
A thousand roses shed their breath, 

Like incense, o'er the shrine. 

And there were censers of perfume, 
Vases with their sweet showers, 

rAnd wreaths of every blended hue 
That lights the summer flowers. 

And, like the breathing of those flowers 

Made audible, a sound 
Came, lulling as a waterfall, 

From lutes and voices 'round. 

I look'd upon the altar, — there 

The pictured semblance lay 
Of him the temple's lord ; it shone 

More beautiful than day. 

It was a sleeping child, as fair 

As the firstborn of spring ; 
Like Indian gold waved the bright curls 

In many a sunny ring. 

His cheek was flush'd with its own rose, 

And with the crimson shed 
From the rich wings that like a cloud 

Were o'er his slumbers spread. 

And by him lay his feather'd shafts, 

His golden bow unbent ; — 
Methought that, even in his sleep, 

His smile was on them sent. 

I heard them hymn his name — his powe 
I heard them, and I smiled ; 

How could they say the earth was ruled 
By but a sleeping child ] 

I went then forth into the world 
To see what might be there ; 

And there I heard a voice of wo, 
Of weeping, and despair. 

I saw a youthful warrior stand 

In his first light of fame, — 
His native city fill'd the air 

With her deliverer's name 

I saw him hurry from the crowd 

And fling his laurel crown. 
In weariness, in hopelessness. 

In utter misery, down. 
t 



SIS 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



And what the sorrow, then I ask'd, 
Can thus the warrior move 

To scorn his meed of victory 1 
They told me it was Love. 

I sought the forum, there was one 
"With dark and haughty brow, — 

His voice was as the trumpet's tone, 
IVJine ear rings with it now. 

They quail'd before his flashing eye,- 
They watch'd his lightest word — 

When suddenly that eye was dim, 
That voice no longer heard. 

I look'd upon his lonely hour, 

The weary solitude ; 
When over dark and bitter thoughts 

The sick heart's left to brood. 

I mark'd the haughty spirit's strife 
To rend its bonds in vain : 

Again I ask'd the cause of all, 
And heard love's name agaia. 

Yet on I went : I 'thought that Love 
To woman's gentle heart, 

Perhaps, had flung a lighter shaft, 
Had given a fairer part. 



I look'd upon a lovely face, 

Lit by a large dark eye ; 
But on the lash there was a tear 

And on the lip a sigh. 

I ask'd not why that form had droop'd, 
Nor why that cheek was pale 1 

I heard the maiden's twilight song, 
It told me all her tale. 

I saw an urn, and round it hung 

An April diadem 
Of flowers, telling they mourn'd one 

Faded and fair like them. 

I turn'd to tales of other days, 
They spoke of breath and bloom ; 

And proud hearts that were bow'd by Love 
Into an early tomb. 

I heard of every suffering 

That on this earth can be : 
How can they call a sleeping child 

A likeness, Love, of thee 1 

They cannot paint thee : — let them dream 

A dark and nameless thing. 
Why give the likeness of the dove 

Where is the serpent's sting 1 



A SERIES OF TALES. 



THE CASTILIAN NUPTIALS. 



And days fled by, 
A cloud came o'er my destiny, 
The dream of passion soon was last, 
A summer's day may never past, 
Yes, every feeling then knew change, 
One only hope was left— revenge ' 
He wedded with another— tears 
Are very vain, and as for fears 
I know them not— I deeply swore 
No lip should sigh where mine before 
Had seal'd its vow, no heart should rest 
Upon the bosom mine had prest. 
Life had no ill I would not brave 
To claim him, even in the grave ! 



Fair is the form that in yon orange bower, 
Like a lone spirit, bends beside the lamp, 
Whose silver light is flung o'er clustering rose, 
And myrtle with pearl buds and emerald leaves. 
Green moss and azure violets have form'd 
The floor, and fragrant bloom the canopy, 



And perfumed shrubs and pillars, round whose 

stems 
The vine has crept, and mix'd its purple fruit 
Amid the rich-hued blossoms. Citron trees, 
And beds of hyacinths, have sent their sweets 
Upon the odorous dew of the night gale, 
Which, playing with the trembling lamp, flings 

round 
A changeful light — now glancing on the flowers, 
And brightening every hue — now lost in shade. 
Look out upon the night ! There is no star 
In beauty visible — the Moon is still 
Sojourning in her shadowy hall — the clouds 
Are thickening round ; but though the tempest'? 

wing 
Will herald in the morning, all is still, 
And calm, and soothing now, — no rougher sound* 
Than the low murmur of the mountain rill, 
And the sweet music of the nightingale, 
Are on the air. But a far darker storm 
The tempest of the heart, the evil war 
Of fiery passions, is fast gathering 



A SERIES OF TALES. 



219 



O'er that bright creature's head, whose fairy bower 

And fairy shape breathe but of happiness. 

She is most beautiful ! The richest tint 

That e'er with roselight dyed a summer cloud, 

Were pale beside her cheek ; her raven hair 

Falls even to her feet, though fasten'd up 

In many a curl and braid with bands of pearl ; 

And that white bosom and those rounded arms 

Are perfect as a statue's, when the skill 

Of some fine touch has moulded it to beauty. 

Yet there are tears within those radiant eyes, 

And that fair brow is troubled ! She is young ; 

But her heart's youth is gone, and innocence, 

And peace, and soft and gentle thoughts, have 

fled 
A breast, the sanctuary of unhallow'd fires, 
That love has led to guilt. At each light stir 
Of but a waving branch, a falling leaf, 
A deeper crimson burnt upon her cheek, 
Each pulse beat eagerly, for every sound 
To her was Fernand's step, and then she sank 
Pallid and tearful, with that sickening throb 
Of sadness only love and fear can know. 
The night pass'd on — she touch'd the silver chords, 
And answer'd with her voice her lone guitar. 
It pleased her for a while : — it soothes the soul 
To pour its thoughts in melancholy words ; 
And if aught can charm sorrow, music can. 
The song she chose was one her youth had loved 
Ere yet she knew the bitterness of grief, 
But thought tears luxury : — 

O take that starry wreath away, 
Fling not those roses o'er my lute ! 

The brow that thou wouldst crown is pale, 
The chords thou would awaken mute. 

Look on those broken gems that lie 
Beside those flowers, withering there ; 

Those leaves were blooming round my lute, 
Those gems were bright amid my hair. 

And they may be a sign to tell 
Of all the ruin love will make : 

He comes in beauty, and then leaves 
The hope to fade, the heart to break ! 

The song died in low sobs. " I ever felt 
That it would come to this, — that I should be 
Forsaken and forgotten ! I would give 
Life, more than life, those precious memories 
Of happiness and Fernand ! I'd forget » 
That I have been beloved, all I have known 
Of rapture, all the dreams that long have been 
My sole existence, but to feel again 
As I felt ere I loved — ere I had given 
My every hope as passion's sacrifice." 
Her face was hidden in her hands ; but tears 



Trickled through her slight fingers — tears, those 

late 
Vain tributes to remorse ! At length she rose, 
And paced with eager steps her scented bower, 
Then trimm'd her lamp, and gather'd flowers and 



Twined them in wreaths, and placed them grace- 

fully; 
Then felt the vanity of all her care, 
And scatter'd them around. The morning broke, 
And hastily she left the shade, to hide 
From all her anxious heart — her misery ! 
That day she knew her fate — heard that Fernand 
Was now betroth'd to the high-born Blanche. 
Hermione wept not, although her heart 
Swell'd nigh to bursting ; but she hid her thoughts 
Next morning she was gone !----- 
The palace was all lustre, like a dome, 
A fairy dome ; the roofs were all one blaze 
With lamp and chandelier ; the mirrors shone 
Like streams of light, and, waving gracefully, 
The purple draperies hung festoon'd with wreaths, 
That shed their incense round. Hall after hall 
Open'd in some new splendour. Proud the feast 
The duke to-night gives for his peerless child, 
And Castile's noblest are all met to greet 
Blanche and her gallant lover : princely forms 
And ladies beautiful, whose footsteps fell 
Soft as the music which they echo'd ; light 
And melody, and perfume, and sweet shapes, 
Mingled together like a glorious dream. — 
Hermione is there ! She has forsaken 
Her woman's garb, her long dark tresses float 
Like weeds upon the Tagus, and no one 
Can in that pale and melancholy boy 
Recall the lovely woman. All in vain 
She look'd for him she sought ; but when one 

pass'd 
With raven hair and tall, her heart beat high — 
Then sank again, when her impatient glance 
Fell on a stranger's face. At length she reacVd 
A stately room, richer than all the rest, 
For there were loveliest things, though not of life : 
Canvass, to which the painter's soul had given 
A heaven of beauty; and statues, which were 

touch'd 
With art so exquisite, the marble seem'd 
Animate with emotion. It is strange, 
Amid its deepest feelings, how the soul 
Will cling to outward images, as thus 
It could forget its sickness ! There she gazed. 
And envied the sad smile, the patient look, 
Of a pale Magdalen : it told of grief, 
But grief long since subdued. Half curtain'd 

round 
By vases fill'd with fragrant shrubs, were shapes 
Of Grecian deities and nymphs. She drew 
Sad parallels with her of Crete, w^o wept 



220 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



O'er her Athenian lover's perjury. 

She left the hall of paintings, and pursued 

A corridor which open'd to the air, 

And enter'd in the garden : there awhile, 

Beneath the shadow of a cypress tree, 

She breathed the cooling gale. Amid the shade 

Of those bright groves were ladies lingering, 

Who listen'd to most gentle things, and then 

Blush'd like the roses near them ; and light groups 

Of gladsome dancers, gliding o'er the turf, 

Like elfin revelling by the moonlight. 

She look'd up to the lovely face of heaven : — 

It was unclouded, and the rolling moon 

Pass'd o'er the deep blue sky like happiness, 

Leaving a trace of light. She gazed around, — 

There was no gloom but that within her heart. 

Ah, this is very loneliness to feel 

So wholly destitute, without one thing 

That has a portion in our wretchedness ! 

Then two came by — that voice to her was 

death — 
It was her false Fernand's ! A lovely girl 
Hung on his arm, so soft, so delicate, 
It seem'd a breath might sweep her from the earth ; 
And Fernand bent with so much tenderness 
To catch the music of the timid voice, 
Which dared not breathe its love-vow audibly. 
Hermione rush'd thence, as if her step 
Had been upon the serpent's lair. That night 
She brooded o'er her wrongs, and bitterly 
Pray'd for revenge ! - - - And this is Woman's 

fate: 
All her affections are call'd into life 
By winning flatteries, and then thrown back 
Upon themselves to perish, and her heart, 
Her trusting heart, fill'd with weak tenderness, 

Is left to bleed or break ! 

The marriage feast was spread, the guests were 

round, 
The halls were fill'd with mirth, and light, and 

song. 
High o'er the rest the youthful pair were placed, 
Beneath a canopy of fretted gold 
And royal purple. With a shout they drank 
Health and long blessedness to the fair bride ! 
And Fernand call'd for wine, to pledge them back 
His thanks. A slender Page approach'd, and held 
The golden cup ; - - - There is a marble look 
In the dark countenance of that pale boy 
III suiting one so youthful. Fernand drain'd 
The liquor to the dregs ; yet, while he drank 
Me felt the eagle glance of that strange Page 
Fix on him like a spell. With a wild laugh 
Of fearless taunting, he took back the cup — 
That laugh rang like a demon's curse! The 

sounds 
Of revelry one moment paused — they heard 



Mutter'd the words — " Vengeance !" " Hemn 

one!" 
Blanche broke the silence by her shriek — Fernand 
Had fallen from his seat, his face was black 
With inward agony — that draught bore fate . 
That Page had poison'd him ! — In dread they 

turn'd 
To where the murderer was : she had not moved^ 
But stood with fixed eyes ! the clouds of death 
Were on her face — she too had pledged the cup . 



THE LOVER'S ROCK. 



" O why should Fate such pleasure have, 
Life's dearest bands untwining ; 
Or why so sweet a flower as love 
Depend on Fortune's shining ? 
This world's wealth, when I think upon't, 
Is pride and a' the lave on't ; 
Fie, fie on silly coward man, 
That he should be the slave on't."— Burns. 



Most beautiful, most happy ! must there be 
Clouds on thy sky, and thorns upon thy path ] 
Love, why art thou so wretched 1 thou so form'd 
To be the blessedness of life, the last 
Sweet relic left of Eden ! Yet on thee, 
Even on thee, the curse is laid ! Thy cup 
Has its full share of bitterness. The heart 
Is chill'd, crush'd, and constrain'd by the cold 

world, 
Outraged and undervalued ; the fine throb 
Of feeling turn to ministers of grief; 
All is so false around, affection's self 
Becomes suspected. But of all drear lots 
That love must draw from the dark urn of fate, 
There is one deepest misery — when two hearts, 
Born for each other, yet must beat apart. 
Aye, this is misery, to check, conceal 
That which should be our happiness and glory ; 
To love, to be beloved again, and know 
A gulf between us : — aye, 'tis misery ! 
This agony of passion, this wild faith, 
Whose constancy is fruitless, yet is kept 
Inviolate : — to feel that all life's hope, 
And light, and treasure, cling to one from whom 
Our wayward doom divides us. Better far 
To wepp o'er treachery or broken vows, — 
For time may teach their worthlessness : — or pin« 
With unrequited love ; — there is a pride 
In the fond sacrifice — the cheek may lose 
Its summer crimson ; but at least the rose 
Has wither'd secretly — at least, the heart 
That has been victim to its tenderness, 



A SERIES OF TALES. 



221 



Has sigh'd unecho'd by some one as true, 

As wretched as itself. But to be loved 

With feelings deep, eternal as our own, 

And yet to know that we must quell those feelings 

"With phantom shapes of prudence, worldly care — 

For two who live but in each other's life, 

Whose only star in this dark world is love ! 

Alas, that circumstance has power to part 

The destiny of true lovers ! 

Yonder rock 
Has a wild legend of untoward love, 
Fond, faithful, and unhappy ! There it stands 
By the blue Guadalquivir ; the green vines 
Are like a girdle round the granite pillars 
Of its bare crags, and its dark shadow falls 
Over an ancient castle at the base. 
Its lord had a fair daughter, his sole child, — 
Her picture is in the old gallery still ; 
The frame is shatter' d, but the lovely face 
liooks out in all its beauty ; 'tis a brow 
Fresh, radiant as the spring, — a pencill'd arch, 
One soft dark shadow upon mountain snow. 
A small white hand flings back the raven curls 
From off the blue-vein'd temples ; on her cheek 
There is a colour like the moss rosebud 
When first it opens, ere the sun and wind 
Have kiss'd away its delicate slight blush. 
And such a fairy shape, as those fine moulds 
Of ancient Greece, whose perfect grace has given 
Eternity to beauty. She was loved ! 
And the wild songs that tell how she was loved 
Yet haunt their native valley. He was one 
Who had each great and glorious gift, save gold ; 
Music was ever round his steps : — to him 
There was deep happiness in nature's wild 
And rich luxuriance, and he had the pride, 
The buo) r ant hope, that genius ever feels 
In dreaming of the path that it will carve 
To immortality. A sweeter dream 
Soon fill'd the young Leandro's heart : he loved, 
And all around grew Paradise, — Inez 
Became to him existence, and her heart 
Soon yielded to his gentle constancy. 

They had roam'd forth together : the bright dew 
Was on the flowers that he knelt and gave, 
Sweet tribute to his idol. A dark brow 
Was bent upon them — 'tis her father's brow ! 
And Inez flung her on his neck and wept. 
He was not one that prayers or tears might move ; 
For he had never known that passion's power, 
And could not pardon it in others. Love 
To him was folly and a feverish dream, 
A girl's most vain romance — he did but mock 
Its truth and its devotion. " You shall win 
Your lady love," he said with scornful smile, 
" If you can bear her, ere the sun is set, 
To yonder summit : 'tis but a light burden, 
And I have heard that lovers can do wonders !" 



He dcem'd it might not be ; but what has love 
E'er found impossible ! 



Leandro took his mistress in his arms. 

Crowds gather'd round to look on the pale youth, 

And his yet paler Inez ; but she hid 

Her face upon his bosom, and her hair, 

Whose loose black tresses floated on the wind, 

Was wet with tears ! - - They paused 'to rest 

awhile 
Beneath a mulberry's cool sanctuary — 
(Ill-omen'd tree, two lovers met their death 
Beneath thy treacherous shade ! 'Twas in old 

time 
Even as now :) — it spread its branches round, 
The fruit hung like dark rubies 'mid the green 
Of the thick leaves, and there like treasures shone 
Balls of bright gold, the silkworm's summer 

palace. 
Leandro spoke most cheerfully, and soothed 
The weeping girl beside him ; but when next 
He loosed her from his arms he did not speak, 
And Inez wept in agony to look 
Upon his burning brow. The veins were swell'd, 
The polish'd marble of those temples now 
Were turn'd to crimson — the large heavy drops 
Roll'd over his flush'd cheek — his lips were 

parch'd, 
And moisten'd bat with blood ; each breath he 

drew 
Was a convulsive gasp ! She bathed his face 
With the cool stream, and laid her cheek to his — 
Bade him renounce his perilous attempt, 
And said, at least they now might die together ! 
He did not listen to her words, but watch'd 
The reddening west — the sun was near the wave : 
He caught the fainting Inez in his arms — 
One desperate struggle — he has gain'd the top, 
And the broad sun has sunk beneath the river ! 
A shout arose from those who watch'd ; but why 
Does still Leandro kneel, and Inez hang 
Motionless round his neck 1 The blood has 

gush'd — 
The lifeblood from his heart ! a vein had burst. 
- - - And Inez was dead too ! - - - 



THE PAINTER. 



I know not which is the most fatal gift, 
Genius or Love, for both alike are ruled 
By stars of bright aspect and evil influence. 



He was a lonely and neglected child ! 
His cheek was colourless, save when the flush 
Of strong emotion master'd its still whiteness ; 
His dark eyes seem'd all heaviness and gloom. 
2 



222 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



So rarely were they raised. His mother's love 

Was for her other children : they were fair, 

And had health's morning hues and sunny looks. 

She had not seen him, when he watch'd the sun 

Setting at eve, like an idolater, 

Until his cheek grew crimson in the light 

Of the all-radiant heaven, and his eyes 

Were passionately eloquent, all fill'd 

With earth's most glorious feelings. And his 

father, 
A warrior and a hunter, one whose grasp 
Was ever on the hridle or the brand, 
Had no pride in a boy whose joy it was 
To sit for hours by a fountain side 
Listening its low and melancholy song. 
Or wander through the gardens silently, 
As if with leaves and flowers alone he held 
Aught of companionship. In his first years 
They sent him to a convent, for they said 
Its solitude would suit with Guido's mood. 
And there he dwelt, while treasuring those rich 

thoughts 
That are the food on which young genius lives. 
He rose to watch the sunlight over Rome 
Break from its purple shadows, making glad 
Even that desolate city, whose dim towers, 
Ruins, and palaces, seem as they look'd 
Back on departed time. Then in the gloom 
Of his own convent's silent burying ground, 
Where, o'er the quiet dead, the cypresses moum'd, 
He pass'd the noon, dreaming those dear day- 
dreams, 
Not so much hopes as fancies. Then at eve, 
When through the painted windows the red sun 
Rainbow'd the marble floor with radiant hues, 
Where spread the ancient church's stately arch, 
He stay'd, till the deep music of the hymn, 
Chanted to the rich organ's rolling notes, 
Bade farewell to the day. Then to his cell 
He went, and through the casement's iron bars 
The moon look'd on him, tenderly as Love, 
Lighting his slumber. On the church's wall 
There hung one lovely portrait, and for hours 
Would Guido, in the fulness of his heart, 
Kneel, watching till he wept. The subject was 
A dying Magdalene. Her leng black hair 
Spread round her like a shroud, one pale thin hand 
Piilow'd a cheek as thin and pale, and scarce 
The blue light of the eyes was visible 
For the death dampness on the darken'd lids ; — 
As one more effort to look on the cross, 
Which seem'd just falling from the fainting arm, 
And they would close forever. In that look 
There was a painter's immortality, 
.aid Guido felt it deeply, for a gift 
Like his whose work that was, was given him, — 
A gift of beauty and of power, — and soon 
He li f£\3 but in the exquisite creations 



His pencil call'd to life. But as his thoughts 

Took wider range, he languid' d to behold 

More of a world he thought must be so fair, 

So fill'd with glorious shapes. It chanced that he 

Whose hand had traced that pale sad loveliness, 

Came to the convent ; with rejoicing wonder 

He mark'd how like an unknown mine, whose 

gold 
Gathers in silence, had young Guido's mind 
Increased in lonely richness ; every day 
New veins of splendid thought sprang into life. 
And Guido left his convent cell with one 
Who, like a geni, bore him into scenes 
Of marvel and enchantment. And then first 
Did Guido feel how very precious praise 
Is to young genius, like sunlight on flowers, 
Ripening them into fruit. And time pass'd on ; — 
The lonely and neglected child became 
One whom all Rome was proud of, and he dwelt 
There in the sunshine of his spreading fame. 

There was a melancholy beauty shed 
Over his pictures, as the element 
In which his genius lived was sorrow. Love 
He made most lovely, but yet ever sad ; 
Passionate partings, such as wring the heart 
Till tears are lifeblood ; meetings, when the 

cheek 
Has lost all hope of health in the long parting ; 
The grave, with one mourning in solitude : 
These made his fame, and were his excellence, — 
The painter of deep tears. He had just gain'd 
The summer of his glory and of his days, 
When his remembering art was call'd to give 
A longer memory to one whose life 
Was but a thread. Her history may be told 
In one word — love. And what has love e'er been 
But misery to woman 1 Still she wish'd — 
It was a dying fancy which betray'd 
How much, though known how false its god had 

been, 
Her soul clung to its old idolatry, — 
To send her pictured semblance to the false one. 
She hoped — how love will hope ! — it might recall 
The young and lovely girl his cruelty 
Had worn to this dim shadow ; it might wake 
Those thousand fond and kind remembrances 
Which he had utterly abandon'd, while 
The true heart he had treasured next his own 
A little time, had never ceased to beat 
For only him, until it broke. She leant 
Beside a casement when first Guido look'd 
Upon her wasted beauty. 'Twas the brow, 
The Grecian outline in its perfect grace, 
That he had learnt to worship in his youth, 
By gazing on that Magdalene, whose face 
Was yet a treasure in his memory ; 
But sunken were the temples, — they had lost 
, Their ivory roundness, yet still clear as day 



A SERIES OF TALES. 



223 



The veins shone through them, shaded by the 

braids, 
Just simply parted back, of the dark hair, 
Where grief s white traces niock'd at youth. A 

flush, 
As shame, deep shame, had once burnt on her 

cheek, 
Then linger'd there forever, look'd like health 
Offering hope, vain hope, to the pale lip ; 
Like the rich crimson of the evening sky, 
Brightest when night is coming. Guido took 
Just one slight sketch ; next morning she was 

dead ! 
Yet still he painted on, until his heart 
Grew to the picture, — it became his world, — 
He lived but in its beauty, made his art 
Sacred to it alone. No more he gave 
To the glad canvass green and summer dreams 
Of the Italian valleys ; traced no more 
The dark eyes of its lovely daughters, look'd 
And caught the spirit of fine poetry 
From glorious statues : these were pass'd away. 
Shade after shade, line after line, each day 
Gave life to the sweet likeness. Guido dwelt 
In intense worship on his own creation, 
Till his cheek caught the hectic tinge he drew, 
And his thin hand grew tremulous. One night — 
The portrait was just finish'd, save a touch, 
A touch to give the dark light of the eyes — • 
He painted till the lamps grew dim, his hand 
Scarce conscious what it wrought ; at length his 

lids 
Closed in a heavy slumber, and he dream'd 
That a fair creature came and kiss'd his brow, 
And bade him follow her : he knew the look, 
And rose. Awakening, he found himself 
Kneeling before the portrait : — 'twas so fair 
He deem'd it lived, and press' d his burning lips 
To the sweet mouth ; his soul pass'd in that kiss, — 
Young Guido died beside his masterpiece ! 



A VILLAGE TALE. 



How the spirit clings 

To that which once it loved, with the same feeling 
That makes the traveller turn from his way 
To look upon some boyish haunt, though dark 
And very desolate grown, no longer like 
That which was dear to him. 



It was a low white church: the elm which 



grew 
Beside it shadow'd half the roof; the clock 
Was placed where full the sunbeams fell ;- 

deep, 



-what 



Simple morality spoke in those hands, 
Going their way in silence, till a sound, 
Solemn and sweet, made their appeal to Time, 
And the hour spoke its only warning ! — Strange 
To note how mute the soft song of the wren, 
Whose nest was in that old elm tree, became 
When the clock struck : and when it ceased again 
Its music like a natural anthem breathed. 
Lowly the osier'd graves around, wild flowers 
Their epitaph, and not one monument 
Was there rich with the sculptor's graceful art. 
There sat one, by a grave whose weeded turf 
Show'd more than common care, his face bent 

down, 
A fine and manly brow, though sun and wind 
Had darken'd it, and that a shade of grief 
Seem'd natural from long habit ; by his side 
A little laughing child, with clear blue eyes, 
Cheek like a dimpled rose, and sunny curls, 
Was gathering blossoms, gathering but to crush, 
Till the sod was all colours with the leaves. 
Even in childhood's innocence of pleasure 
Lives that destroying spirit which in time 
Will waste, then want, the best of happiness. 
I mark'd the boy's companion : he was yet 
In life's first summer ; and he seem'd to watch 
With such sad tenderness the child, which came 
When tired to nestle in his bosom, sure 
That it was welcome, — and the grave was kept 
So fresh, so green, so cover'd with sweet flowers, 
I deem'd 'twas some young widower, whose love 
Had pass'd away, or ever it had known 
One sting of sorrow or one cloud of care, — 
Pass'd in its first delicious confidence 
Of vow'd affection ; — 'twas the grave, I thought, 
Of his young wife, and that the child was left 
A dear memorial of that cherish'd one. 
I read his history wrong. In early youth, 
When hopes and pleasures flit like butterflies 
Around our pleasant spring, had Edward loved, 
And sought in Marion's deep blue eyes his 

world, — 
Loved with the truth, the fervour of first love, 
That delicate bloom which can come o'er the sou. 
But only once. All other thoughts and feelings 
The heart may know again, but first love never ! 
Its hopes, bright as the azure flower that springs 
Where'er the radiance of the rainbow falls ; 
Its fears, soft as the leaves that shade the lily 
Its fairyland romance, its tenderness 
Its timid, and yet passionate devotion — 
These are not annual blooms, that die, then riss 
Again into another summer world. 
They may live long, and be the life of life, 
But, like the rose, when they are once destroy'd 
They perish utterly. And, like that tree, 
How sweet a memory, too, remains ! though dear) 
The green leaves, and decay'd the stem, yet still 



224 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



The spirit of fragrance lingers, loath to leave 
Its dear abode. Just so love haunts the heart, 
Though wither'd, and to be revived no more. 
O, nothing has the memory of love ! 

It was a summer twilight ; crimson lights 
Play'd o'er the bridal bowers of the west, 
And in the gray horizon the white moon 
Was faintly visible, just where the sky 
Met the green rolling of the shadowy sea. 
Upon a little hill, whose broken ridge 
Was cover'd with the golden furze, .and heath 
Gay with its small pink biossoms, in a shade 
Form'd of thick hazels and the graceful sweep 
Of the ash-boughs, an old beach-trunk the seat, 
With a sweet canopy of honeysuckle 
Mix'd with the wild briar-roses, Edward sat, 
Happy, for Marion lean'd upon his bosom 
In the deep fondness of the parting hour ; 
One of those partings memory will keep 
Among its precious things. The setting sun 
Shed such rich colour o'er the cheek, which 

press'd 
Closer and closer, like a rose, that sought 
A shelter next his heart ; the radiant eyes, 
Glorious as though the sky's own light were there, 
Yet timid, blue, and tender as the dove's ; 
The soft arm thrown around his neck ; the hair 
Falling in such profusion o'er a face 
That nestled like a bird upon his breast. 
Murmurs, the very breath of happiness ; 
Low and delighted sighs, and lengthen'd looks, 
As life were looking words inaudible, 
Yet full of music ; whispers such as are 
"What love should ever speak in, soft yet deep, 
As jealous even that the air should share 
In the delicious feeling. And around, 
All seem'd the home and atmosphere of love : 
The air sweet with the woodbine and the rose ; 
The rich red light of evening ; the far sea, 
So still, so calm ; the vale, with its corn-fields 
Shooting their green spears 'mid the scarlet 

banners 
Of the wild poppies ; meadows with the hay 
Scatter'd in fragrance, clover yet uncut. 
And in the distance a small wood, where oaks 
And elms threw giant shadows ; and a river 
Winding, now hidden and now visible, 
Till close beside their bower it held its course, 
And fed a little waterfall, the harp 
That answer'd to the woodlark's twilight hymn. 
Their last, last evening ! Ah, the many vows 
That Edward and his Marion pledged ! She took 
A golden ring and broke it, hid one-half 
Next her own heart, then cut a shining curl, 
As bright as the bright gift, and round his neck 
Fasten'd the silken braid, and bade him keep 
The ring and hair for Marion's sake. They 

talk'd 



Of pleasant hopes, of Edward's quick return 
With treasure gather'd on the stormy deep, 
And how they then would build a little cot ; 
They chose the very place and the bright moon 
Shone in her midnight, ere their schemes 
Were half complete. They parted. The next 

morn 
With the day-blush had Marion sought tha 

bower 
Alone, and watch'd upon the distant sea 
A ship just visible to those long looks 
With which love gazes. . . . How most sweet 

it is 
To have one lonely treasure, which the heart 
Can feed upon in secret, which can be 
A star in sorrow, and a flower in joy , 
A thought to which all other thoughts refer ; 
A hope, from whence all other hopes arise, 
Nursed in the solitude of happiness ! 
Love, passionate young Love, how sweet it is 
To have the bosom made a Paradise 
By thee — life lighted by thy rainbow smile ! 
Edward lived in one feeling, one that made 
Care, toil, and suffering pleasant ; and he hail'd 
England, dear England, happy in success, 
In hope, and love. It was a summer morn — 
The very season he had left that vale — 
When he return'd. How cheerfully the fields, 
Spread in their green luxuriance of corn, 
The purple clover, and the newcut hay, 
Loading the air with fragrance ! the soft river 
Winding so gently ! there seem'd nothing changed, 
And Edward's heart was fill'd with gladness : all, 
He fancied, look'd as if they welcomed him. 
His eyes fill'd with sweet tears, and hasty words 
Of love and thankfulness came to his lips. 
His path lay through the churchyard, and the 

bells 
Were ringing for a wedding. What fond thoughts 
They waken'd, of how merrily their round 
Would peal for him and Marion ! He kiss'd 
The broken ring, the braid of golcen hair, 
And bounded, with light step and lighter heart 
Across the churchyard ; from it he could see 
The cottage where his own true maiden dwelt. 
Just then the bridal party left the church, 
And, half unconsciously, young Edward look'd 
Upon the bride — that bride was Marion ! 
He stopp'd not in the village, — spoke to none,— 
But went again to sea ; and never smile 
Lighted the settled darkness in his eyes : 
His cheek grew pale, his hair turn'd gray, his 

voice 
Became so sad and low. He once had loved 
To look upon the sunset, as that hour 
Brought pleasant memories, such as feed sweet 

hopes ; 
j Now ever gazed he on it with the look 






A SERIES OF TALES. 



225 



Of the young widow over her fair child, 

Her only child, in the death agony. 

His heart was wither'd. Yet, although so false, 

He never parted with his Marion's gift : 

Still the soft curl and the bright ring were kept, 

Like treasures, in his bosom. Years pass'd by, 

And he grew tired of wandering ; back he came 

To his own village, as a place of rest. 

'Twas a drear autumn morning, and the trees 

Were bare, or cover'd but with yellow leaves ; 

The fields lay fallow, and a drizzling rain 

Fell gloomily : it seem'd as all was changed, 

Even as he himself was changed ; the bell 

Of the old church was tolling dolefully 

The farewell of the living to the dead. 

The grave was scant, the holy words were said 

Hurriedly, coldly ■ but for a poor child, 

That begg'd the pit to give him back his mother, 

There had not been one single tear. The boy 

Kept on his wail ; but all his prayers were made 

To the dark tomb, as conscious those around 

Would chide if he ask'd them ; and when they 

threw 
The last earth on the coffin, down he laid 
His little head, and sobb'd most bitterly. 
And Edward took him in his arms, and kiss'd 
His wet pale cheeks ; while the child clung to 

him, 
Not with the shyness of one petted, loved, 
And careless of a stranger's fond caress, 
But like one knowing well what kindness was, 
But knew not where to seek it, as he pined 
Beneath neglect and harshness, fear and want. 
'Twas strange, this mingling of their destinies : 
That boy was Marion's — it was Marion's grave ! 
She had died young, and poor, and broken-hearted. 
Her husband had deserted her : one child 
Was buried with its mother, one was left 
An orphan unto chance ; but Edward took 
The boy unto him even as his own. 
He buried the remembrance of his wrongs, 
Only recalling that he once had loved, 
And that his love was dead. 



THE SISTERS. 

Now, Maiden, wilt thou come with me, 
Far over yonder moonlight sea 1 
There's not a cloud upon the sky, 
The wind is low like thine own sigh ; 
The azure heaven is vein'd with light 
The water is as calm and bright 
As I have sometimes seen it lie 
B ?neath a sunny Indian sky. 
(29) 



My bark is on the ocean riding, 
Like a spirit o'er it gliding ; 
Maiden, wilt thou come — -and be 
Queen of my fair ship and me 1 

She follow'd him. The sweet night breeze 
Brought odours from the orange trees, — 
She paused not for their fragrant sigh : 
There came a sound of music nigh, 
A voice of song, a distant chime 
To mark the vespers' starry time, — 
She heard it not : the moonbeams fell 
O'er vine-wreath'd hill and olive dell, 
With cottages, and their gay show 
Of roses for a portico ; 
One which stood by a beech alone, — 
Look'd she not back upon that one ] 
Alas ! she look'd but in that eye 
Where now was writ her destiny. 
The heart love leaves looks back ever , 
The heart where he is dwelling, never. 
Yet as her last step left the strand, 
Gheraldi then might feel her hand 
Grow cold, and tremble in his own : 
He watch'd her lip, its smile was flown ; 
Her cheek was pale, as if with fears ; 
Her blue eyes darken'd with their tears 
He prest her rosebud mouth to his, 
Blush, smile, return'd to grace that kiss , 
She had not power to weep, yet know 
She was his own, come weal come wo. 
O, who — reposed on some fond breast, 
Love's own delicious place of rest — 
Reading faith in the watching eyes, 
Feeling the heart beat with its sighs, 
Could no regrets, or doubts, or cares, 
That we had bound our fate with theirs ! 

There was a shadow on their mirth ; 
A vacant place is by their hearth, 
When at the purple evening's close 
Around its firelight gather'd those 
With whom her youth's sweet course bad 

run, 
Wept, for the lost, the alter'd one ! 
She was so beautiful, so dear, 
All that the heart holds precious here ! 
A skylark voice, whose lightest sound 
So glad made every heart-pulse bound 
'Twas a fair sight to see her glide 
A constant shadow by the side 
Of her old Father ! At dayrise, 
With light feet and with sunny eyes, 
Busy within : and then, at times, 
Singing old snatches of wild rhymes 
Italian peasants treasure up, 
O'erflowings of the poet's cup, 
Suited to those whose earth and sky, 
Temples and groves, are poetry. 



226 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



And then at eve, her raven hair 

Braided upon a brow as fair 

As are the snowy chestnut flowers 

When blooming in the first spring hours, 

She sat beneath the old beech tree, 

Her mandolin upon her knee. 

But Blanche was gone, and guilt and shame 

Made harsh the music of her name. 

— But he had yet another child, — 

The Father Blanche could leave, — who 

smiled 
Gently and cheerfully away 
The cloud that on his spirit lay. 
It was a lovely morn in June, 
And in the rosy light of noon 
The olive crown'd village shone 
As the glad sun were all its own ; 
And, suiting with such golden hours, 
With music, and with songs and flowers, 
A bridal train pass'd gayly by : 
In the midst, with blue downcast eye 
And blush of happiness, came the Bride ! 
And youths with flutes were by her side, 
And maidens, with their wreaths, as gay 
As life but lasted one sweet day. 

One follow'd them with bursting heart, 
With pallid cheek, and lips apart, 
As every breath were gasp'd ! Ah this, 
Alas, is what love ever is ! 
False or unhappy, twin to sorrow, 
Forced Hope's deceiving lights to borrow, 
Gilding in joy a little way, 
Doubly to lead the heart astray. 
Beneath a shadowy beech tree 
At length paused the gay company : 
And there sat an old Man. The Bride 
Took off her veil, and knelt beside, 
And from his feet look'd up and smiled, 
And pray'd that he would bless his child ! 
The gentle prayer was scarcely said, 
K et lay his hand upon her head ! 
When knelt another in that place, ,. 

With shrouded form and veiled face ; 
A broken voice breathed some low words 
They struck on memory's tenderest chords : 
" My Blanche ! yes, only ask of Heaven, 
Thy father has long since forgiven. 
Look up !" " not till thou hast pray'd 
For the unhappy and betray'd !" 
And paused at once the bridal song, 
And gather'd round the gazing throng. 
And as the old man pray'd, Blanche press'd 
Closer and closer to his breast ! 
He raised her, for he long'd to gaze 
Upon the loved of other days, 
And thiew the veil back from her head, 
And look'd, — but look'd upon the dead ! 



THE KNIGHT'S TALE. 



O, there are evil moments iu our life, 
When but a thought, a word, a look, has power 
To dash the cup of happiness aside, 
And stamp us wretched ! 



Axd there are bitter tears in Arnold's hall — 
A wail of passionate lament ! The night 
Is on the towers, but night has not brought 
Silence and sleep. A sound is in the courts, 
Of arms and arm'd men ; the ring of spears, 
The stamp of iron feet, and voices, mix'd 
In deep confusion. With the morning's rise, 
Lord Arnold leads these men to Palestine. 

There were two figures on a terrace, raised 
O'er all the rest. The moon was on its sweep, 
Lightning the landscape's midnight loveliness ! 
Below it, first were gardens set with flowers, 
In beds of many shape and quaint device, 
So very sweet they fill'd the air with scents ; 
Beyond, the ground was steep and rough ; dwarf 

oak, 
Spring on the sides, but all the nobler growth 
Of those proud trees was seen in yon dark wood, 
Its world of leaves blent with the distant sky, 
And sheltering a green park, where the smooth 

grass 
Was fitting herbage for the gentle fawn, 
Which sported by its mother's spotted side, 
And some so white that in the moon they shone 
Like silver. In the midst, a diamond sheet 
Of clear bright water spread, and on its breast 
Gather'd a group of swans ; and there was one, 
Laid on a little island which the leaves 
Of the waterflag had made ; and suddenly 
A sound of music rose, and leaf and flower 
Seem'd hush'd to hear the sweet and solemn hymn 
Sung by the dying swan. And then the two 
Upon the terrace, who as yet had look'd 
But in each other's eyes, turn'd to the lake : 
It was to them, even as if their love 
Had made itself a voice to breathe Farewell ! — 

Ceased the unearthly song, and Adeline 
Threw her on Arnold's breast, and wept, and saij 
It was her warrior's dirge and hers — for never 
Such sad sweet sounds had breathed on morta 

ear, 
And yet no omen. But her Arnold kiss'd 
Her tears away ; and whisper'd 'twas the song 
Of some kind Spirit, who would guard his love 
While he was fighting for the Cross afar. 
O, who can tell the broken-heartedness 
Of parting moments ! — the fond words that gusli 
From the full heart, and yet die in the throat, 






A SERIES OF TALES. 



227 



Whose pulses are too choked for utterance ; 

The lingering look of eyes half blind with tears ; 

The yet more lingering kiss, as if it were 

The last long breath of life ! Then the slow step, 

Changing anon to one of hurried speed, 

As that the heart doubted its own resolve ! 

The fix'd gaze of her, who, left behind, 

Watches till shadows grow reality ! 

And then the sudden and sick consciousness — 

How desolate we are ! — 0, misery ! 

Thy watchword is, Farewell ! — And Arnold took 

A few sweet buds from off a myrtle tree, 

And swore to Adeline, before the spring 

Had cover'd twice that plant with its white 

flowers, 
He would return. With the next morning's sun 
Lord Arnold led his vassals to the war, 
And Adeline was left to solitude — 
The worst of solitude, of home and heart. 

If I must part from those whom I have loved, 
Let me, too, part from where they were beloved ! 
It wrings the heart to see each thing the same ; 
Tread over the same steps ; and then to find 
The difference in the heart. It is so sad — 
So very lonely — to be the sole one 
In whom there is a sign of change ! 

There are two words to tell the warrior's course, 
Valour and Victory. But fortune changed, 
And Arnold was a prisoner at last. 
And there he lay and pined, till hope grew tired, 
Even of its sweet self ; and now despair 
Reach' d its last stage, for it was grown familiar. 
Change came, when there was not a thought of 

change 
But in his dreams. Thanks to a pitying Slave 
Whom he had spared in battle, he escaped ! 
And over sea and land the pilgrim went. 

It was a summer evening, when again 
He stood before his castle, and he paused 
In the excess of happiness. The sun 
Had set behind the towers, whose square heights 
Divided the red west ; and on its verge, 
Just where the crimson faded, was a star — 
The twilight star — pale, like dew turn'd to light. 
Through the fair park he wander'd on, and 

pass'd 
The lake and its white swans : at length he came 
To his sweet garden and its thousand flowers. 
The roses were in blossom, and the air 
Oppress'd him with its fragrance. On a walk, 
As if just fallen from some beauty's hair, 
There lay a branch of myrtle — Arnold caught 
Its leaves, and kiss'd them ! — Sure, 'twas Ade- 
line's ! 
He stood now by a little alcove, made 
Of flowers and green boughs — Adeline is there — 
But, wo for Arnold, she is not alone !— 
So lovely, and so false ! — There, there she sat, 



Her white arm round a stranger's neck, her fail 

brow 
Bow'd on his shoulder, while her long black hair 
Stream'd o'er his bosom — There they sat, so still . 
Like statues in that light ; and Arnold thought 
How often he had leant with Adeline 
In such sweet silence. But they rose to go; 
And then he mark'd how tenderly the youth 
Drew his cloak round her, lest the dew should 

fall 
Upon her fragile beauty. They were gone — 
And Arnold threw him on the turf, which still 
Retain' d the pressure of her fairy feet — 
Then started wildly from the ground, and fled 
As life and death were on his speed. His tower* 
Were but a little distant from the sea ; 
And ere the morning broke, Arnold was toss'd 
Far over the blue wave. He did not go, 
As the young warrior goes, with hope and pride 
As he once went ; but as a pilgrim, roam'd 
O'er other countries, any but his own, 
At last his steps sought pleasant Italy. 
It was one autumn evening that he reach'd 
A little valley in the Apennine : 
It lay amid the heights — a restingplace 
Of quiet and deep beauty. On one side 
A forest of a thousand pines arose, 
Darken'd with many winters ; on the left 
Stood the steep crags, where, even in July, 
The white snow lay, carved into curious shapes 
Of turret, pinnacle, and battlement ; 
And in the front, the opening mountains show'd 
The smiling plains of grape-clad Tuscany ; 
And farther still was caught the sky like sweep 
Of the blue ocean. Small white cottages 
And olive trees filPd up the dell. But, hid 
By the sole group of cypresses, whose boughs, 
As the green weeping of the seaweed, hung 
Like grief or care around, a temple stood 
Of purest marble, with its carved dome 
And white Corinthian pillars strangely wreath'd 
By the thick ivy leaves. In other days, 
Some nymph or goddess had been worshipp'd 

there, 
Whose name was gone, even from her own shrine 
The cross stood on the altar, and above 
There hung the picture of Saint Valerie : 
Its pale calm beauty suited well the maid, 
Who left the idol pleasures of the world 
For solitude and heaven in early 3-outh. 
And Arnold knelt to the sweet saint, and pray'd 
For pity and for pardon ; and his heart 
Clung to the place, and thought upon repose. 
He made himself a home in the same cave 
Where once St. Valerie had dwelt: a rill, 
That trickled from the rock above, his drink, 
The mountain fruits his food : and the^e he lived 
Peasants, and one or two tired pilgrims, all 



228 MISS LANDO 

That e'er disturb'd his hermit solitude. 

Long months had pass'd away, wnen one hot 

noon 
He sat beneath the cypresses, and saw 
A pilgrim slowly urging up the height : 
The sun was on her head, yet turn'd she not 
To seek the shade beside ; the path was rough ; 
Yet there she toil'd, though the green turf was 

near. 
At last she reach'd the shrine — and Arnold knew 
His Adeline ! Her slender frame was bent, 
And her small feet left a red trace behind — 
The blood flow'd from them. And he saw her 

kneel, 
And heard her pray for him and his return. 
''Adeline ! art thou true?" — One moment more 



N'S WORKS. 

Her head is on his bosom, and his lips 
Feeding on her pale cheek ! — He heard it all — 
How that youth was her brother, just return'd 
From fighting with the infidels in Spain ; 
That he had gone to Palestine to seek 
Some tidings of her Arnold ; and, meanwhile, 
Herself had vow'd a barefoot pilgrimage 
To pray St. Valerie to bless the search ! — 
And she indeed had bless'd it ! — 

There is that English castle once again. 
With its green sweep of park and its clear lake ; 
And there that bower ; and in its shade is placed 
A statue of St. Valerie ; and a shrine, 
Graven with names of those who placed it here, 
Record and tribute of their happiness — - 
Arnold and Adeline ! 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



THE FACTORY. 

'Tis an accursed thing ! 

There rests a shade above yon town, 

A dark funereal shroud : 
'Tis not the tempest hurrying down, 

'Tis not a summer cloud. 

The smoke that rises on the ah 

Is as a type and sign ; 
A shadow flung by the despair 

Within those streets of thine. 

That smoke shuts out the cheerful day 

The sunset's purple hues, 
The moonlight's pure and tranquil ray, 

The morning's pearly dews. 

Such is the moral atmosphere 

Around thy daily life ; 
Heavy with care, and pale with fear, 

With future tumult rife. 

There rises on the morning wind 

A low appealing cry, 
A thousand children are resign'd 

To sicken and to die ! 

We read of Moloch's sacrifice, 

We sicken at the name, 
And seem to hear the infant cries — 

And yet we do the same ; — 

And worse — 'twas but a moment's pain 

The heathen altar gave, 
But we give years, — our idol, Gain, 

Demands a living grave ! 



How precious is the little one, 

Before his mother's sight, 
With bright hair dancing in the sun, 

And eyes of azure light ' 

He sleeps as rosy as the south, 

For summer days are long ; 
A prayer upon the little mouth, 

Lull'd by his nurse's song. 

Love is around him, and his hours 

Are innocent and free ; 
His mind essays its early powers 

Beside his mother's knee. 

When afteryears of trouble come, 

Such as await man's prime, 
How will he think of that dear home, 

And childhood's lovely time ! 

And such should childhood ever be, 

The fairy well ; to bring 
To life's worn, weary memory 

The freshness of its spring. 

But here the order is reversed, 

And infancy, like age, 
Knows of existence but its worst, 

One dull and darken'd page ; — 

Written with tears and stamp'd with toil, 
Crush'd from the earliest hour, 

Weeds darkening on the bitter soil 
That never knew a flower. 

Look on yon child, it droops the head, 
Its knees are bow'd with pain ; 

It mutters from its wretched bed, 
" 0, let me sleep again !" 



FUGITIVE 

Alas ! 'tis time, the mother's eyes 

Turn mournfully away ; 
Alas ! ''tis time, the child must rise, 

And yet it is not day. 

The lantern's lit — she hurries forth, 

The spare cloak's scanty fold 
Scarce screens her from the snowy north, 

The child is pale and cold. 

And wearily the little hands 

Their task accustom'd ply ; 
While daily, some 'mid those pale bands, 

Droop, sicken, pine, and die. 

Good God ! to think upon a child 

That has no childish days, 
No careless play, no frolics wild, 

No w r ords of prayer and praise ! 

Man from the cradle — 'tis too soon 

To earn their daily bread, 
And heap the heat and toil of noon 

Upon an infant's head. 

To labour ere their strength be come, 

Or starve, — is such the doom 
That makes of many an English home 

One long and living tomb 1 

Is there no pity from above, — 

No mercy in those skies ; 
Hath then the heart of man no love, 

To spare such sacrifice 1 

0, England ! though thy tribute waves 

Proclaim thee great and free, 
While those small children pine like slaves, 

There is a curse on thee ! 



APRIL. 

Of all the months that fill the year 
Give April's month to me, 

For earth and sky are then so fiil'd 
With sweet variety. 

The apple-blossoms' shower of rose, 
The pear tree's pearly hue, 

As beautiful as woman's blush, 
As evanescent too. 

The purple light, that like a sigh 
Comes from the violet bed, 

As there the perfumes of the East 
Had all their odours shed. 

The wild-briar rose, a fragrant cup 
To hold the morning's tear ; 

The bird's eye, like a sapphire star ; 
The primrose, pale like fear. 



PIECES. 223 

The balls that hang like drifted snow 

Upon the guelderose ; 
The woodbine's fairy trumpets, where 

The elf his warnotc blows. 

On every bough there is a bud, 

In every bud a flower ; 
But scarcely bud or flower will last 

Beyond the present hour. 

Now comes a shower-cloud o'er the sky 

Then all again sunshine ; 
Then clouds again, but brighten'd with 

The rainbow's colom-'d line. 

Ay, this, this is the month for me ! 

I could not love a scene 
Where the blue sky was always blue, 

The green earth always green. 

It is like love ; 0, love should be 

An ever-changing thing, — 
The love that I could worship must 

Be ever on the wing. 

The chain my mistress flings round mo 
Must be both brief and bright ; 

Or form'd of opals, which will change 
With every changing light. 

To-morrow she must turn to sighs 

The smiles she wore to-day ; 
This moment's look of tenderness, 

The next one must be gay. 

Sweet April ! thou the emblem art 

Of what my love must be ; 
One varying like the varying bloom 
• Is just the love for me. 



GLENCOE. 

Lax by the harp, sing not that »ung 
Although so very sweet ; 

It is a song of other } r ears, 
For thee and me unmeet. 

Thy head is pillow'd on my arm, 
Thy heart beats close to mine ; 

Methinks it were unjust to heaven, 
If we should now repine. 

I must not weep, you must not sing 
That thrilling song again, — 

I dare not think upon the time 
When last I heard that strain 

It was a silent summer eve : 
We stood by the hill side, 

And we could see my ship afar 
Breasting the ocean tide. 
u 



230 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Around us grew the graceful larch, 

A calm blue sky above, 
Beneath were little cottages, 

The homes of peace and love. 

Thy harp was by thee then, as now 

One hand in mine was laid ; 
The other, wandering 'mid the chords, 

A soothing music made : 

Just two or three sweet chords, that seem'd 

An echo of thy tone, — 
The cushat's song was on the wind, 

And mingled with thine own. 

I look'd upon the vale beneath, 

I look'd on thy sweet face ; 
I thought how dear, this voyage o'er, 

Would be my resting-place. 

We parted ; but I kept thy kiss, — 

Thy last one, — and its sigh, 
As safely as the stars are kept 

In yonder azure sky. 

Again I stood by that hill side, 

And scarce I knew the place, 
For fire, and blood, and death, had left 

On every thing their trace. 

The lake was cover'd o'er with weeds, 

Choked was our little rill, 
There was no sign of corn or grass, 

The cushat's song was still : 

Burnt to the dust, an ashy heap 

Was every cottage round ; — 
I listen'd, but I could not hear 

One single human sound : 

I spoke, and only my own words 

Were echo'd from the hill ; 
I sat me down to weep, and curse 

The hand that wrought this ill. 

We met again by miracle : 

Thou wert another one 
Saved from this work of sin and death, — 

I was not quite alone. 

And then I heard the evil tale 

Of guilt and suffering, 
Till I pray'd the curse of God might fall 

On the false-hearted king. 

I will not think on this, — for thou 

Art saved, and saved for me ! 
And gallantly my little bark 

Cuts 'hrough the moonlight sea. 



There's not a shadow in the sky, 

The waves are bright below ; 
I must not, on so sweet a night, 

Think upon dark Glencoo. 

If thought were vengeance, then its thought 

A ceaseless fire should be, 
Burning by day, burning by night, 

Kept like a thought of thee. 

But I am powerless and must flee ; — 

That e'er a time should come, 
When we should shun our own sweet land. 

And seek another home ! 

This must not be, — yon soft moonlight 

Falls on my heart like balm ; 
The waves are still, the air is hush'd, 

And I too will be calm. 

Away ! we seek another land 
Of hope, stars, flowers, sunshine ; 

I shall forget the dark green hills 
Of that which once was mine ! 



THE WRECK. 

The moonlight fell on the stately ship ; 

It shone over sea and sky ; 
And there was nothing but water and air 

To meet the gazing eye. 

Bright and blue spread the heaven above, 

Bright and blue spread the sea ; 
The stars from their home shcjne down on the 
wave, 

Till they seem'd in the wave to be. 

With silver foam like a cloud behind, 

That vessel cut her way ; 
But the shadow she cast, was the sole dark thihg 

That upon the waters lay. 

With steps of power, and with steps of pride, 

The lord of the vessel paced 
The deck, as he thought on the wave below, 

And the glorious heaven he faced. 

One moment's pause, and his spirit fell 
From its bearing high and proud — 

But yet it was not a thought of fear, 
That the seaman's spirit bow'd : 

For he had stood on the deck when wash'd 
With blood, and that blood his own ; 

When the dying were pillow'd upon the dead, 
And yet you heard not a groan — 






FUGITIVE PIECES 



231 



For the shout of battle came on the wind, 

And the cannon roar'd aloud ; 
And the heavy smoke hung round each ship, 

Even like its death shroud. 

And he had guided the helm, when fate 

Seem'd stepping every wave, 
And the wind swept away the wreath of foam, 

To show a yawning grave. 

But this most sweet and lighted calm, 

Its blue and midnight hour, 
Waken'd the hidden springs of his heart 

With a deep and secret power. 

Is there some nameless boding sent, 

Like a noiseless voice from the tomb 1 — 

A spirit note from the other world, 
To warn of death and doom 1 

He thought of his home, of his own fair land, 
And the warm tear rush'd to his eye ; 

Almost with fear he look'd around, 
But no cloud was on the sky. 

He sought his cabin, and join'd his band — 
The wine cup was passing round ; 

He join'd in their laugh, he join'd in the song, 
But no mirth was in the sound. 

Peaceful they sought their quiet sleep, 

In the soft and lovely night ; 
But, like life, the sea was false, and hid 

The cold dark rock from sight. 

At midnight there came a sudden shock, 
And the sleepers sprang from bed ; 

There was one fierce cry of last despair— 
The waves closed over head. 

There was no dark cloud on the morning sky, 
No fierce wind on the morning air ; 

The sun shone over the proud ship's track, 
But no proud ship was there ! 



MOO N. 

The Moon is sailing o'er the sky, 
But lonely all, as if she pined 

For somewhat of companionship, 
And felt it was in vain she shined : 

Earth is her mirroi, and the stars 
Are as the court around her throne 

She is a beauty and a queen ; 
But what is this 1 she is alone. 

Is there not one — not one — to share 
Thy glorious royalty on high 1 

I cannot choose but pity thee, 
Thou lovely orphan of the sky. 



I'd rather be the meanest flower 

That grows, my mother Earth, on thee 

So there were others of my kin, 

To blossom, bloom, droop, die with me 

Earth, thou hast sorrow, grief, and death 
But with these better could I bear, 

Than reach and rule yon radiant sphere. 
And be a Solitary there. 



THE FROZEN SHIP 

The fair ship cut the billows, 
And her path lay white behind, 

And dreamily amid her sails 

Scarce moved the sleeping wind. 

The sailors sang their gentlest songs, 
Whose words were home and love ; 

Waveless the wide sea spread beneath — 
And calm the heaven above. 

But as they sung, each voice turn'd low, 

Albeit they knew not why ; 
For quiet was the waveless sea, 

And cloudless was the sky. 

But the clear air was cold as clear ; 

'Twas pain to draw the breath ; 
And the silence and the chill around 

Were e'en like those of death. 

Colder and colder grew the air, 

Spell-bound seem'd the waves to be ; 

And ere night fell, they knew they were 
lock'd 
In the arms of that icy sea. 

Stiff lay the sail, chain-like the ropes, 
And snow pass'd o'er the main ; 

Each thought, but none spoke, of distant hoiutf 
They should never see again. 

Each look'd upon his comrade's face, 

Pale as funereal stone ; 
Yet none could touch the other's hand, 

For none could feel his own. 

Like statues fix'd, that gallant band 
Stood on the dread deck to die ; 

The sleet was their shroud, the wind thep 
dirge, 
And their churchyard the sea and the sky 

Fond eves watch'd by their native shore, 
And prayers to the wild winds gave ; 

But never again came that stately ship 
To breast the English wave. 



232 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



Hope grew fear, and fear grew hope, 

Till both alike were done : 
And the bride lay down in her grave alone, 

And the mother without her son. 

Years pass'd, and of that goodly ship 

Nothing of tidings came ; 
Till, in after-time, when her fate had grown 

But a tale of fear and a name — 

It was beneath a tropic sky 

The tale was told to me ; 
The sailor who told, in his youth had been 

Over that icy sea. 

He said it was fearful to see them stand, 
Nor the living nor yet the dead, 

And the light glared strange in the glassy eyes 
"Whose human look was fled. 

For frost had done one-half life's part, 

And kept them from decay ; 
Those they loved had moulder'd, but these 

Look'd the dead of yesterday. 

Peace to the souls of the graveless dead ! 

'Twas an awful doom to dree ; 
But fearful and wondrous are thy works, 

God ! in the boundless sea ! 



THE MINSTREL'S MONITOR. 

Silent and dark as the source of yon river, 
Whose birth-place we know not, and seek not 
to know, 
1 hough wild as the fight of the shaft from yon 
quiver, 
Is the course of its waves as in music they flow. 

The lily flings o'er it its silver white blossom, 
Like ivory barks which a fairy hath made ; 

1 he rose o'er it bends with its beautiful bosom, 
As though 'twere enamour'd itself of its shade. 

The sunshine, like Hope, in its noontide hour 
slumbers 
On the stream, as it loved the bright place of 
its rest ; 
And its waves pass in song, as the sea shell's soft 
numbers 
Had given to those waters their sweetest and best. 

The banks that surround -it are flower-dropt and 
sunny ; 
There the first birth of violets' odour-showers 
weep — 
There the bee heaps his earliest treasure of honey, 
Or sinks in the depths of the harebell to sleep. 



Like prisoners escaped during night from their 
prison, 
The waters fling gayly their spray to the sun ; 
Who can tell me from whence that glad river has 
risen 1 
Who can say whence it springs in its beauty 1 ? — 
not one. 

O my heart, and my song, which is as my heart's 
flowing, 
Read thy fate in yon river, for such is thine 
own ! 
'Mid those the chief praise on thy music bestowing, 
Who cares for the lips from whence issue the 
tone? 

Dark as its birth-place so dark is my spirit, 

Whence yet the sweet waters of melody came 
'Tis the long after-course, not the source, will in- 
herit 
The beauty and glory of sunshine and fame. 



THE SPIRIT AND THE ANGEL 
OF DEATH. 

Spirit.* I have been over the joyous earth, 
When the blushing morning gave daylight birth 
The boughs and the grass were sown with 

pearls, 
As an Eastern queen had unbound her curls, 
And shower'd their tresses o'er leaf and flower ; 
And then I saw how the noontide hour 
Kiss'd them away, as if the sun 
Touch'd all with joy that it shone upon. 
I saw a crimson rose, like an urn 
Wherein a thousand odours burn ; 
It grew in the shade, but the place was bright 
With the glory and glow of its fragrant light. 
Then a young lover came beside its dwelling, 
To a maiden his gentle love-tale telling ; 
He pluck'd a rose from out of the shade — 
'Twas not bright as the cheek on which it was 

laid: 
The tale was told in the sunny noon, 
Yet the same was heard by the rising moon. 

I have been where the azure violet dwells ; 
I have sang the sweet peal of the lily bells ; 
I have pass'd on a diamond lake, 
Where white swans summer pleasaunce take ; 
I saw the sun sink down in the sea, — 
Blushes and bridal seem'd there to be. 

Next o'er a noble city I swept, — 
Calm, in the moonlight, its proud towers slept, 
And its stately columns arose on the air 
As cut from snow mountains — they were so fair. 
Enter'd I next a stately hall ; 
The voung and tne gay were at festival 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



233 



The clieek of rose flush'd a redder dye ; 
Flash'd the wild light from the full dark eye ; 
Laugh'd the sweet lip with a sunny glance, 
•As the beauty went through the graceful dance. 
And I saw the rich wine from the goblet spring, 
Like the sudden flash of a spirit's wing. 

Thence I went in the twilight dim, 
I heard a convent's vesper hymn : 
Beautiful were the vestal train 
That dwelt at peace in their holy fane. 
Paused I in air, to hear a song 
Which rather might to heaven belong ; 
The very winds for delight were mute, — 
And I know 'twas the poet's gifted lute. 
Then came a sound of the trumpet afar, — 
The nations were gathering together in war, 
Like a cloud in the sunset; the banner was 

spread ; 
Victory had dyed it of meteor red ; 
Floating scarfs show'd their broider'd fald, 
White foam dash'd the bridles of gold : 
Gallant it was the sight to see 
Of the young and noble chivalrie. 

In sooth, this earth is a lovely place ; 
Pass not in darkness over her face ; 
Yet call back thy words of doom — 
They are too gay and too fair for the tomb. 

Angee of Death. Thou has seen on earth, as 
a passer by, 
But the outward show of mortality : 
Go, let the veil from thine eyes depart ; 
Search the secrets of every heart ; 
Look beyond what they seem to be ; 
Then come and say, are they not ripe for me. 

Spirit. I have been over the green earth again ; 
I have heard the voice of sorrow and pain ; 
I saw a shining almond tree fling 
Its silver wreath, like a gift, to Spring : 
A cold breath came from the northern air ; 
The leaves were scatter'd, the boughs were bare. 

I saw a ship Iaunch'd on the sea, — 
Queen of the waters she seem'd to be ; 
An hundred voices benizon gave, 
As she cut her path through the frothing wave. 
'Twas midnight — she anchor'd before a town, 
Over which the sun had gone lingering down, 
As loath to set upon what was so fair. 
Now the smiling moon rode on the air, 
Over towers and turrets, sailing in light, 
And gardens, that seem'd to rejoice in night ; 
When the pealing thunder roll'd on the main, 
And the town was awaked by the fiery rain, 
And the cry of battle, for blood and fame 
Follow'd wherever that war ship came. 

I heard, on the night-wind borne along, 
Sweet as before, that gifted song. 

But look'd I now on the minstrel's thought 

There many an inward sorrow wrought, 
(30) 



Work of wasting ; pining for fame, 

Yet loathing the gift of an empty name ; 

Hope, whose promise was little worth 

And Genius, tainted with cares of earth 

I have watch'd the young, — there are thorns with 

their bloom ; 
The gay, but their inward heart was gloom : 
I have seen the snake steal amid flowers ; 
Showers that came down on April hours ; 
And have seen — alas ! 'tis but outward show — 
The sunshine of yon green earth below : 
Glad of rest must the wretched and way-worn tie- 
Angel of Death, they are ready for thee ! 



THE LOST STAR. 

A eight is gone from yonder sky, 

A star has left its sphere ; 
The beautiful — and do they die 

In yon bright world as here 1 
Will that star leave a lonely place, 

A darkness on the night ? — 
No ; few will miss its lovely face, 

And none think heaven less bright ! 

What wert thou star of? — vanish'd one * 

What mystery was thine 1 
Thy beauty from the east is gone : 

What was thy sway and sign 1 
Wert thou the star of opening youth 7 — 

And is it then for thee, 
Its frank glad thoughts, its stainless truth, 

So early cease to be 1 

Of hope 1 — and was it to express 

How soon hope sinks in shade ; 
Or else of human loveliness, 

In sign how it will fade 1 
How was thy dying 1 like the song, 

In music to the last, 
An echo flung the winds among, 

And then forever past 1 

Or didst thou sink as stars whose light 

The fair moon renders vain 1 
The rest shone forth the next dark night, 

Thou didst not shine again. 
Didst thou fade gradual from the time 

The first great curse w r as hurl'd, 
Till lost in sorrow and in crime, 

Star of our early world 1 

Forgotten and departed star ! 

A thousand glories shine 
Round the blue midnight's regal cas, 

Who then remembers thine 1 
u2 



234 MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 

Save when some mournful bard like me ' 

Dreams over beauty gone, 
And in the fate that waited thee, 

Reads what will be his own. 



THE 
DANISH WARRIOR'S DEATH SONG. 

A wat, away ! your care is vain ; 

No leech could aid me now ; 
The chill of death is at my heart, 

Its damp upon my brow. 

Weep not — I shame to see such tears 

Within a warrior's eyes : 
Away ! how can ye weep for him 

Who in the battle dies 1 

If I had died with idle head 

Upon my lady's knee — 
Had Fate stood by my silken bed, 

Then might ye weep for me. 

But I he on my own proud deck 

Before the sea and sky ; 
The wind that sweeps my gallant sails 

Will have my latest sigh. 

My banner floats amid the clouds, 

Another droops below : 
Well with my heart's best blood is paid 

Such purchase from a foe. 

Go ye and seek my halls, there dwells 

A fairhair'd boy of mine ; 
(Jive him my sword, while yet the blood 

Darkens that falchion's shine. 

Tell him that only other blood 
Should wash such stains away 

And if he be his father's child, 
There needs no more to say. 

Farewell, my bark ! farewell, my friends ! 

Now fling me on the wave ; 
One cup of wine, and one of blood, 

Pour on my bounding grave. 



THE CHANGE. 

Tht features do not wear the light 
They wore m happier days ; 

Though still there may be much to love, 
There's little left to praise. 



The rose has faded from thy cheek — 
There's scarce a blush left now ; 

And there's a dark and weary sign 
Upon thine alter'd brow. 



Thy raven hair is dash'd with gray, 
Thine eyes are dim with tears ; 

And care, before thy youth is past, 
Has done the work of years. 

Beautiful wreck ! for still thy face, 
Though changed, is very fair : 

Like beauty's moonlight, left to show 
Her morning sun was there. 

Come, here are friends and festival, 

Recall thine early smile ; 
And wear yon wreath, whose glad red rose 

Will lend its bloom awhile. 

Come, take thy lute, and smg agam 

The song you used to sing — 
The birdlike song : — See, though unused, 

The lute has every string. 

What, doth thy hand forget the lute 1 

Thy brow reject the wreath ? 
Alas ! whate'er the change above, 

There's more of change beneath ! 

The smile may come, the smile may go, 

The blush shine and depart ; 
But farewell when their sense is quench'd 

Within the breaking heart. 

And such is thine : 'tis vain to seek 

The shades of past delight : 
Fling dowr: the wreath, and break the lute ; 

They mxk our souls to-night. 



THE ASPEN TREE. 

The quiet of the evening hour 
Was laid on every summer leaf; 

That purple shade was on each flower, 
At once so beautiful, so brief. 

Only the aspen knew not rest, 
But still, with an unquiet song, 

Kept murmuring to the gentle west, 
And cast a changeful shade along. 

Not for its beauty — other trees 

Had greener boughs, and statelier stsm ; 
And those had fruit, and blossoms these, 

Yet still I chose this tree from them. 

'Tis a strange thing, this depth of love 
Which dwells within the human heart; 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



235 



From earth below to heaven above, 
In each, in all, it fain has part. 

It must find sympathy, or make ; 

And hence beliefs, the fond, the vain, 
The thousand shapes that fancies take, 

To bind the fine connecting chain. 

We plant pale flowers beside the tomb, 
And love to see them droop and fade ; 

For every leaf that sheds its bloom 
Seems like a natural tribute paid. 

Thus Nature soothes the grief she shares : 
What are the flowers we hold most dear 1 

The one whose haunted beauty wears 
The sign of human thought or tear. 

Why hold the violet and rose 
A place within the heart, denied 

To fairer foreign flowers, to those 
To earlier memories allied 1 

Like those frail leaves, each restless thought, 

Fluctuates in my weary mind ; 
Uncertain tree ! my fate was wrought 

In the same loom where thine was twined. 

And thus from other trees around 
Did I still watch the aspen tree, 

Because in its unrest I found 
Somewhat of sympathy with me. 



THE VIOLET. 

Why better than the lady rose 

Love I this little flower ] 
Because its fragrant leaves are those 

I loved in childhood's hour. 

Though many a flower may win my praise, 

The violet has my love ; 
I did not pass my childish days 

In garden or in grove : 

My garden was the window-seat, 

Upon whose edge was set 
A little vase — the fair, the sweet — 

It was the violet. 

It was my pleasure and my pride ; 

How I did watch its growth ! 
For health and bloom, what plans I fried, 

And often injured both ! 

I placed it in the summer shower, 

I placed it in the sun ; 
And ever, at the evening hour, 

My work seem'd half undone. 



The broad leaves spread, the small buds grew, 

How slow they seem'd to be ! 
At last there came a tinge of blue, — 

'Twas worth the world to me ! 

At length the perfume fill'd the room, 

Shed from their purple wreath ; 
No flower has now so rich a bloom, 

Has now so sweet a breath. 

I gather'd two or three, — they seem'd 

Such rich gifts to bestow ; 
So precious in my sight, I deem'd 

That all must think them so. 

Ah ! who is there but would be fain 

To be a child once more ; 
If future years could bring again 

All that they brought before 1 

My heart's world has been long o'erthrown 

It is no more of flowers ; 
Their bloom is past, their breath is flown, 

Yet I recall those hours. 

Let Nature spread her loveliest, 

By spring or summer nurst ; 
Yet still I love the violet best, 

Because I loved it first. 



THE LITTLE SHROUD. 

She put him on a snow-white shroud, 

A chaplet on his head ; 
And gather'd early primroses 

To scatter o'er the dead. 

She laid him in his little grave — • 

'Twas hard to lay him there, 
When spring was putting forth its flowers, 

And every thing was fair. 

She had lost many children — now 

The last of them was gone ; 
And day and night she sat and wept 

Beside the funeral stone. 

One midnight, while her constant tears 

Were falling with the dew, 
She heard a voice, and lo ! her child 

Stood by her weeping too ! 

His shroud was damp, his face was white 

He said, — " I cannot sleep, 
Your tears have made my shroud so wet 

0, mother, do not weep !" 



*36 MISS LANDON'S WORKS 

0, love is strong ! — the mother's heart 
Was fill'd with tender fears ; 
• O, love is strong ! — and for her child 
Her grief restrain'd its tears. 



One eve a light shone round her bed, 
And there she saw him stand — 

Her infant in his little shroud. 
A taper in his hand. 

" Lo ! mother, see my shroud is dry, 
And I can sleep once more !" 

And beautiful the parting smile 
The little infant wore. 

And down within the silent grave 

He laid his weary head ; 
And soon the early violets 

Grew o'er his grassy bed. 



The mother went her household 
Again she knelt in prayer, 

And only ask'd of Heaven its aid 
Her heavy lot to bear. 



THE CHURCHYARD. 



The shadow of the church falls o'er the ground, 

Hallowing its place of rest ; and here the dead 

Slumber, where all religious impulses, 

And sad and holy feelings, angel like, 

Make the spot sacred with themselves, and wake 

Those sorrowful emotions in the heart 

Which purify it, like a temple meet 

For an unearthly presence. Life, vain Life, 

The bitter and the worthless, wherefore here 

Do thy remembrances intrude ? 



The willow shade is on the ground, 

A green and solitary shade ; 
And many a wild flower on that mound 

Its pleasant summer home has made. 
And every breath that waves a leaf 

Flings down upon the lonely flowers 
A moment's sunshine, bright and brief — 

A blessing look'd by passing hours. 

Those sweet, vague sounds are on the air, 
Half sleep, half song— half false, half true, 

As if the wind that brought them there 
Had touch'd them with its music too. 

It is the very place to dream 
Away a twilight's idle rest ; 



Where Thought floats down a starry stream. 
With a shadow on its breast 



Where Wealth, the fairy gift's our own, 

Without its low and petty cares ; 
Where Pleasure some new veil has thrown, 

To hide the weary face she wears. 
Where hopes are high, yet cares come not, 

Those fellow-waves of life's drear sea, 
Its froth and depth — where Love is what 

Love only in a dream can be. 

I cannot muse beside that mound — 

I cannot dream beneath that shade- 
Too solemn is the haunted ground 

Where Death his restingplace has made. 
I feel my heart beat but to think 

Each pulse is bearing life away ; 
I cannot rest upon the grave, 

And not feel kindred to its clay. 



There is a name upon the stone — 

Alas ! and can it be the same — 
The young, the lovely, and the loved 1 

It is too soon to bear thy name. 
Too soon ! — n<^ 'tis best to die 

Ere all of life save breath is fled : 
Why live when feelings, friends, and hopes, 

Have long been number'd with the dead 1 

But thou, thy heart and cheek were bright- 
No check, no soil had either known ; 

The angel natures of yon sky 
Will only be to thee thine own. 

Thou knew'st no rainbow hopes that weep 
Themselves away to deeper shade ; 

Nor Love, whose very happiness 

Should make the wakening heart afraid. 

The green leaves e'en in spring they fall, 

The tears the stars at midnight weep, 
The dewy wild-flowers — such as these 

Are fitting mourners o'er thy sleep. 
For human tears are lava-drops, 

That scorch and wither as they flow , 
Then let them flow from those who live, 

And not for those who sleep below. 

O, weep for those whose silver chain 

Has long been loosed, and yet live on — 
The doom'd to drink of life's dark wave, 

Whose golden bowl has long been gone } 
Ay, weep for those, the wearied, worn, 

Dragg'd downward by some earthly tie, 
By some vain hope, some vainer love, 

Who loathe to live, yet fear to die. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



237 



THE THREE BROTHERS. 



They dwelt in a valley of sunshine, those 

Brothers ; 
Gieen were the palm trees that shadow'd their 

dwelling ; 
S Teet, like low music, the sound of the fountains 
That fell from the rocks round their beautiful 

home : 
There the pomegranate hlush'd like the cheek of 

the maiden 
When she hears in the distance the step of her 

lover, 
And blushes to know it before her young friends. 
They dwelt in the valley — their mine was the 

corn-field 
Heavy with gold, and in autumn they gather' d 
The grapes that hung clustering together like 

rubies : 
Summer was prodigal there of her roses, 
And the ringdoves fill'd every grove with their 

song. 

II. 

But those Brothers were weary ; for hope like a 

glory 
Lived in each bosom — that hope of the future 
Which turns where it kindles the heart to an altar, 
And urges to honour and noble achievement. 
To this fine spirit our earth owes her greatest : 
For the future is purchased by scorning the pre- 
sent, 
And life is redeem'd from its clay soil by fame. 
They leant in the shades of the palm trees at 

evening, 
When a crimson haze swept down the side of the 

mountain : 
Glorious in power and terrible beauty, 
The Spirit that dwelt in the star of their birth 
Parted the clouds and stood radiant before them : — 
Each felt his destiny hung on that moment ; 
Each from his hand took futurity's symbol — 
One took a sceptre, and one took a sword ; 
But the little lute fell to the share of the youngest, 
And his Brothers turn'd from him and laugh'd 
him to scorn. 

III. 
And the King said, " The earth shall be fill'd with 

my glory , 
And he built him a temple — each porphyry column 
Was the work of a fife ; and he built him a city — 
A hundred gates open'd the way to his palace, 
(Too few for the crowds that there knelt as his 

slaves,) 
And the highest tower saw not the extent of the 

walls. 



The banks of the river were cover'd with gardens : 
And even when sunset was pale on the ocean, 
The turrets were shining with taper and lamp, 
Which fill'd the night-wind, as it pass'd them, 

with odours. 
The angel of death came and summon'd the 

monarch ; 
But he look'd on the city, the fair and the mighty, 
And said, " Ye proud temples, I leave ye my 

fame." 

IV. 

The conqueror went forth, like the storm over 

ocean, 
His chariot-wheels red with the blood of the van- 
quish' d ; 
Nations grew pale at the sound of his trumpet, 
Thousands rose up at the wave of his banners, 
And the valleys were white with the bones of the 

slain. 
He stood on a mountain, no foeman was near him 
Heavy and crimson his banner was waving 
O'er the plain where his victories were written in 

blood, 
And he welcomed the wound whence his life's tide 

was flowing ; 
For death is the seal to the conqueror's fame. 

V. 

But the youngest went forth with his lute — and 

the valleys 
Were fill'd with the sweetness that sigh'd from its 

strings ; 
Maidens, whose dark eyes but open'd on palaces, 
Wept as at twilight they murmur'd his words. 
He sang to the exile the songs of his couatry, 
Till he dream'd for a moment of hope and of 

home ; 
He sang to the victor, who loosen'd his captives," 
While the tears of his childhood sprang into his 

eyes. 
He died — and his lute was bequeath'd to the 

cypress, 
And his tones to the hearts that loved music and 

song. 

VI. 

Long ages pass'd, from the dim world of shadows 
These brothers return'd to revisit the earth ; 
They came to revisit the place of their glory, 
To hear and rejoice in the sound of their fame 
They look'd for the palace — the temple cl 

marble — 
The rose-haunted gardens — a desert was there ; 
The sand, like the sea in its wrath, had swept o'ef 

them, 
And tradition had even forgotten their names. 
The ( onqueror stood on the place of his battles, 
And his triumph had pass'd away like a vapour. 



233 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



And the green grass was waving its growth of 

wild flowers ; 
And they, not his banner, gave name to the place. 
They pass'd a king's garden, and there sat his 

daughter, 
Singing a sweet song remember'd of old, 
And the song was caught up, and sent back like an 

echo, 
From a young voice that came from a cottage be- 
side. 
Then smiled the Minstrel, " You hear it, my 

Brothers, 
My Songs yet are sweet on the lute and the lip." 
King, not a vestige remains of your palaces ; 
Conqueror, forgotten the fame of your battles : 
But the Poet yet lives in the sweetness of music — 
He appeal'd to the heart, that never forgets. 



CHANGE. 



I would not care, at least so much, sweet Spring, 

For the departing colour of thy flowers — 

The green leaves early falling from thy boughs— 

Thy birds so soon forgetful of their songs— 

Thy skies, whose sunshine ends in heavy showers ; 

But thou dost leave thy memory, like a ghost, 

To haunt the ruin'd heart, which still recurs 

To former beauty ; and the desolate 

Is doubly sorrowful when it recalls 

It was not always desolate. 



When those eyes have forgotten the smile they 
wear now, 
When care shall have shadow' d that beautiful brow- 
When thy hopes and thy roses together lie dead, 
And thy heart turns back pining to days that are- 
fled— 
Then wilt thou remember what now seems to pass 
Like the moonlight on water, the breath-stain on 

glass : 
O ! maiden, the lovely and youthful, to thee 
How rose-touch' d the page of thy future must be ! 
By the past, if thou judge it, how little is there 
But flowers that flourish but hopes that are fair ; 
And what is thy present q a southern sky's spring, 
With thy feelings and fancies like birds on the 

wing. 
As the rose by the fountain flings down on the 

wave 
Its blushes, forgetting its glass is its grave : 
So the heart sheds its colour on life's early hour, 
But the heart has its fading as well as the flower. 
The charmed light darkens, the rose-leaves are 

gone, 
And life, like the fountain, floats colourless on. 



Said I, when thy beauty's sweet vision was 

fled, 
How wouldst thou turn, pining, to days like the 

dead! 
! long ere one shadow shall darken that brow, 
Wilt thou weep like a mourner o'er all thou lovest 

now ; 
When thy hopes, like spent arrows, fall short of 

their mark ; 
Or, like meteors at midnight, make darkness more 

dark ; 
When thy feelings lie fetter'd like waters in 

frost, 
Or, scatter'd too freely, are wasted and lost : 
For aye cometh sorrow, when youth has pass'd 

by- 
What saith the Arabian 1 lis memory's a sigh. 



EDITH. , 

Weep not, weep not, that in the spring 

We have to make a grave ; 
The flowers will grow, the birds will sing, 

The early roses wave ; 
And make the sod we're spreading fair, 

For her who sleeps below : 
We might not bear to lay her there 

In winter frost and snow. 

We never hoped to keep her long, 

When but a fairy child, 
With dancing step, and birdlike song, 

And eyes that only smiled ; 
A something shadowy and frail 

Was even in her mirth : 
She look'd a flower that one rough gale 

Would bear away from earth. 

There was too clear and blue a light 

Within her radiant eyes ; 
They were too beautiful, too bright, 

Too like their native skies : 
Too changeable the rose which shed 

Its colour on her face, 
Now burning with a passionate red, 

Now with just one faint trace. 

She was too thoughtful for her years, 

Its shell the spirit wore ; 
And when she smiled away our fears, 

We only fear'd the more. 
The crimson deepen'd on her cheek, 

Her blue eyes shone more clear, 
And every day she grew more weak, 

And every hour more dear. 



J 



FUGITIVE PIECES 



239 



Her childhood was a happy time, 

The loving and beloved ; 
Yon sky which was her native clime 

Hath but its own removed. 
This earth was not for one, to whom 

Nothing of earth was given ; 
'Twas out a restingplace, her tomb 

Between the world and heaven. 



THE FORGOTTEN ONE. 

No shadow rests upon the place 
Where once thy footsteps roved ; 

Nor leaf, nor blossom, bear a trace 
Of how thou wert beloved. 

The very night dew disappears 

Too soon, as if it spread its tears. 

Thou art forgotten ! — thou, whose feet 

Were listen'd for like song ! 
They used to call thy voice so sweet ; — 

It did not haunt them long. 
Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth — 
How could they bear their lonely hearth"! 

There is no picture to recall 

Thy glad and open brow ; 
No profiled outline on the wall 

Seems like thy shadow now ; 
They have not even kept to wear 
One ringlet of thy golden hair. 

When here we shelter'd last, appears 

But just like yesterday ; 
It startles me to think that years 

Since then are pass'd away. 
The old oak tree that was our tent, 
No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent. 

A shower in June — a summer shower, 

Drove us beneath the shade ; 
A beautiful and greenwood bower 

The spreading branches made. 
The raindrops shine upon the bough, 
The passing rain — but where art thou 7 

But I forget how many showers 

Have wash'd this old oak tree, 
The winter and the summer hours, 

Since I stood here with thee : 
And I forget how chance a thought 
Thy memory to my heart has brought. 

I talk of friends who once have wept, 
As if they still should weep ; 



I speak of grief that long has slept, 

As if it could not sleep ; 
I mourn o'er cold forgetfulness, 
Have I, myself, forgotten less 1 

I've mingled with the young and fair, 
Nor thought how there was laid 

One fair and young as any there, 
In silence and in shade. 

How could I see a sweet mouth shine 

With smiles, and not remember thine ] 

Ah ! it is well we can forget, 

Or who could linger on 
Beneath a sky whose stars are set, 

On earth whose flowers are gone 1 
For who could welcome loved ones near, 
Thinking of those once far more dear, 

Our early friends, those of our youth 1 

We cannot feel again 
The earnest love, the simple truth, 

Which made us such friends then. 
We grow suspicious, careless, cold ; 
We love not as we loved of old. 

No more a sweet necessity, 
Love must and will expand, 

Loved and beloving we must be, 
With open heart and hand, 

Which only ask to trust and share 

The deep affections which they bear. 

Our love was of that early time ; 

And now that it is past, 
It breathes as of a purer clime 

Than where my lot is cast, 
My eyes fill with their sweetest tears 
In thinking of those early years. 

It shock'd me first to see the sun 

Shine gladly o'er thy tomb ; 
To see the wild flowers o'er it run 

In such luxuriant bloom. 
Now I feel glad that they should keep 
A bright sweet watch above thy sleep. 

The heaven whence thy nature came 

Only recall'd its own ; 
It is Hope that now breathes thy name, 

Though borrowing Memory's tone 
I feel this earth could never be 
The native home of one like thee. 

Farewell ! the early dews that fall 

Upon thy grass-grown bed 
Are like the thoughts that now recall 

Thine image from the dead. 
A blessing hallows thy dark cell — 
I will not stay to weep. Farewell I 



240 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



THE CITY OF THE DEAD. 



'Twas dark with cypresses and yews, which cast 
Drear shadows on the fairer trees and flowers- 
Affection's latest signs. * * # 

Dark portal of another world— the grave- 
I do not fear thy shadow ; and methinks, 
If I may make my own heart oracle, — 
The many long to enter thee, for thou 
Alone canst reunite the loved and lost 
With those who pine for them. I fear thee not ; 
[ only fear my own unworthiness, 
Lest it prove barrier to my hope, and make 
Another parting in another world. 



I. 

Laehei, ! 0, fling thy green boughs on the air, 
There is dew on thy branches, what doth it do 

there 1 
Thou that art worn on the conqueror's shield, 
When his country receives him from glory's red 

field; 
Thou that art wreath'd round the lyre of the bard, 
When the song of its sweetness has won its re- 
ward. 
Earth's changeless and sacred — thou proud laurel 

tree ! 
The tears of the midnight, why hang they on 

thee'? 

II. 
Rose of the nforning, the blushing and bright, 
Thou whose whole life is one breath of delight ; 
Beloved of the maiden, the chosen to bind 
Her dark tresses' wealth from the wild summer 

wind. 
Fair tablet, still vow'd to the thoughts of the lover, 
Whose rich leaves with sweet secrets are written 

all over ; 
Fragrant as blooming — thou lovely rose tree ! 
The tears of the midnight, why hang they on 

thee? 

III. 

Dark cypress ! I see thee — thou art my reply, 

Why the tears of the night on thy comrade trees 

lie; 
That laurel it wreath'd the red brow of the brave, 
Yet thy shadow lies black on the warrior's grave, 
That rose was less bright than the lip which it 

prest, 
Yet thy sad branches bend o'er the maiden's last 

rest ; 
The brave and the lovely alike they are sleeping, 
I. marvel no more rose and laurel are weeping. 

IV. 

Yet, sunbeam of heaven ! thou fall'st on the 
tomb; 
Why pausest thou by such dwelling of doom 1 



Before thee the grove and the garden are spread- 
Why lingerest thou round the place of the dead 1 
Thou art from another, a lovelier sphere, 
Unknown to the sorrows that darken us here. 
Thou art as a herald of hope from above : — 
Weep, mourner, no more o'er thy grief and thy 

love! 
Still thy heart in its beating; be glad of such rest, 
Though it call from thy bosom its dearest and 

best. 
Weep no more that affection thus loosens its tie ; 
Weep no more that the loved and the .loving must 

die; 
Weep no more o'er the cold dust that lies at your 

feet; 
But gaze on yon starry world — there ye shall 

meet. 

V. 
O heart of mine ! is there not One dwelling 

there 
To whom thy love clings in its hope and its 

prayer 1 
For whose sake thou numberest each hour of the 

day, 
Asa link in the fetters that keep me away 1 
When I think of the glad and the beautiful home 
Which oft in my dreams to my spirit hath come : 
That when our last sleep on my eyelids hath 

prest, 
That I may be with thee at home and at rest : 
When wanderer no longer on life's weary shore, 
I may kneel at thy feet, and part from thee no 

more : 
While death holds such hope forth to soothe and 

to save, 
O, sunbeam of heaven, thou may'st well light the 

grave ! 



THE ALTERED RIVER. 

Thou lovely river, thou art now 

As fair as fair can be, 
Pale flowers wreath upon thy brow, 

The rose bends over thee. 
Only the morning sun hath leave 

To turn thy waves to light, 
Cool shade the willow branches weave 

When noon becomes too bright. 
The lilies are the only boats 

Upon thy diamond plain, 
The swan alone in silence floats 

Around thy charm'd domain. 
The moss bank's fresh embroiderie, 

With fairy favours starr'd, 
Seems made the summer haunt to be 

Of melancholy bard. 



J 



FUGI1IVE PIECES. 



241 



Fair as thou art, thou wilt be food 

For many a thought of pain ; 
For who can gaze upon thy flood, 

Nor wish it to remain 
The same pure and unsullied thing 

Where heaven's face is as clear 
Mirror'd in thy blue wandering 

As heaven's face can be here. 
Flowers fling their sweet bonds on thy breast, 

The willows woo thy stay, 
In vain, — thy waters may not rest, 

Their course must be away. 
In yon wide world, what wilt thou find 1 

What all find — toil and care : 
Your flowers you have left behind 

Far other weight to bear. 
The heavy bridge confines your stream, 

Through which the barges toil, 
Smoke has shut out the sun's glad beam, 

Thy waves have caught the soil. 
On — on — though weariness it be, 

By shoal and barrier cross'd, 
Till thou hast reach'd the mighty sea, 

And there art wholly lost. 
Bend thou, young poet, o'er the stream — 

Such fate will be thine own ; 
Thy lute's hope is a morning dream, 

And when have dreams not flown 1 



ADMIRAL COLLINGWOOD. 

Methinks it is a glorious thing 

To sail upon the deep ; 
A thousand sailors under you, 

Their watch and ward to keep : . 
To see your gallant battle-flag 

So scornfully unroll'd, 
As scarcely did the wild wind dare 

To stir one crimson fold : 

To watch the frigates scatter'd round, 

Like birds upon the wing ; 
Yet know they only wait your will — 

It is a glorious thing. 
Our admiral stood on the deck, 

And look'd upon the sea ; 
He held the glass in his right hand, 

And far and near look'd he : 

He could not see one hostile ship 

Abroad upon the main ; 
From east to west, from north to south, 

It was his own domain. 
" Good news for England this, good news,' 

Forth may her merchants fare ; 
Thick o'er the sea, no enemy 

Will cross the pathway there. 

f3n 



A paleness came upon his cheek, 

A shadow to his brow ; 
Alas ! our good Lord Collingwood, 

What is it ails him now 1 
Tears stand within the brave man's eyes, 

Each softer pulse is stirr'd : 
It is the sickness of the heait, 

Of hope too long deferr'd. 

He's pining for his native seas, 

And for his native shore ; 
All but his honour he would give, 

To be at home once more. 
He does not know his children's fate 

His wife might pass him by, 
He is so alter'd, did they meet, 

With an unconscious eye : 

He has been many years at sea, 

He's worn with wind and wave , 
He asks a little breathing space 

Between it and his grave : 
He feels his breath come heavily, 

His keen eye faint and dim ; 
It was a weary sacrifice 

That England ask'd of him. 

He never saw his home again — 

The deep voice of the gun, 
The lowering of his battle-flag, 

Told when his life was done. 
His sailors walk'd the deck and wept 

Around them how I'd the gale ; 
And far away too orphans knelt — 

A widow's cheek grew pale. 

Amid the many names that light 

Our history's blazon'd line, 
I know not one, brave Collingwood, 

That touches me like thine. 



THE FIRST GRAVE. 



[This poem originated in the circumstance of the first 
grave being formed in the churchyard of the new crxrch 
at Brompton. The place had been recently a garden, and 
some of the flowers yet showed themselves among the 
grass, where this one tenant, the forerunner of its popula- 
tion, had taken up his last abode.] 



A single grave ! — the only one 

In this unbroken ground, 
Where yet the garden leaf and fiowe 

Are lingering around. 
A single grave ! — my heart has felt 

How utterly alone 
x 



212 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



In crowded halls, where breathed for me 
Not one familiar tone ; 

The shade where forest trees shut out 

All but the distant sky ; — 
I've felt the loneliness of night 

When the dark winds pass'd by ; 
My pulse was quicken' d with its awe, 

My lip has gasp'd for breath ; 
But what were they to such as this — 

The solitude of death ! 

A single grave ! — we half forget 

How sunder human ties, 
When round the silent place of rest 

A gather'd kindred lies. 
We stand beneath the haunted yew, 

And watch each quiet tomb ; 
And in the ancient churchyard feel 

Solemnity, not gloom : 

The place is purified with hope, m 

The hope that is of prayer ; 
And human love, and heavenward thought, 

And pious faith, are there. 
The wild flowers spring amid the grass ; 

And many a stone appears, 
Carved by affection's memory, 

Wet with affection's tears. 

The golden chord which binds us all 

Is loosed, not rent in twain ; 
And love, and hope, and fear, unite 

To bring the past again. 
But this grave is so desolate, 

With no remembering stone, 
No fellow-graves for sympathy — 

'Tis utterly alone. 

I do not know who sleeps beneath, 

His history or name — 
Whether if, lonely in his life, 

He is in death the same : 
Whether he died unloved, unmourn'd, 

The last leaf on the bough ; 
Or, if some desolated hearth 

Is weeping for him now. 

Perhaps this is too fanciful : — 

Though single be his sod, 
Yet not the less it has around 

The presence of his God. 
It may be weakness of the heart, 

But yet its kindliest, best : 
Better if in our selfish world 

It could oe less represt. 

Those gentler charities which draw 
Man closer with his kind — 



Those sweet humanities which make 

The music which they find. 
How many a bitter word 'twould hush— « 

How many a pang 'twould save, 
If life more precious held those ties 

Which sanctify the grave ! 



THE FEAST OF LIFE. 

Bid thee to my mystic feast, 
Each one thou lovest is gather'd there , 
Yet put thou on a morning robe, 
And bind the cypress in thy hair. 
The hall is vast, and cold, and drear ; 
The board with faded flowers is spread ; 
Shadows of beauty flit around, 
But beauty from which bloom has fled ; 

And music echoes from the walls, 
But music with a dirgelike sound ; 
And pale and silent are the guests, 
And every eye is on the ground. 
Here, take this cup, though dark it seem. 
And drink to human hopes and fears ; 
'Tis from their native element 
The cup is fill'd — it is of tears. 

What, turnest thou with averted brow 1 
Thou scornest this poor feast of mine ; 
And askest for a purple robe, 
Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine. 
In vain — the veil has left thine eyes, 
Or such these would have seem'd to thee 
Before thee is the Feast of Life, 
But life in its reality ! 



FOLLOW ME! 



A summer morning, with its calm, glad light, 

Was on the fallen castle: other days 

"Were here remember'd vividly; the past 

Was even as the present, nay, perhaps more— 

For that we do not pause to think upon. 

First, o'er the arching gateway was a shield, 

The sculptured arms defaced, but visible 

Was the bold motto, " Follow me ;" again 

I saw it scroll'd around the lofty crest 

Which, mouldering, deck'd the ruin'd banquet-room i 

A third time did I trace these characters— 

On the worn pavement of an ancient gravR 

Was written " Follow me !" 



Follow me ! 'tis to the battle-field — 
No eye must turn, and no step must yield ; 
In the thick of the battle look ye to be : 
On ! — 'tis my banner ye follow, and me. 



J 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



243 



Follow mc ! — 'tis to the festal ring, 
Where the maidens smile and the minstrels sing ; 
Hark ! to our name is the bright wine pour'd : 
Follow me on to the banquet-board ! 

Follow mc ! — 'tis where the yew tree bends, . 
When the strength and the pride of the -victor ends; 
Pale in the thick grass the wild flowers bloom : 
Follow me on to the silent tomb ! 



THE LEGACY OF THE LUTE. 

Come take the lute — the lute I loved, 

'Tis all I have to offer thee ; 
And may it be less fatal gift 

Than it has ever been to me. 
My sigh yet lingers on the strings, 

The strings I have not heart to break : 
Wilt thou not, dearest ! keep the lute 

For mine — for the departed's sake 1 

But, pray thee, do not wake that lute ; 

Leave it upon the cypress tree ; 
I would have crush'd its charmed chords, 

But they so. oft were strung to thee. 
The minstrel-lute ! 0, touch it not, 

Or weary destiny is thine ! 
Thy life a twilight's haunted dream — 

Thou, victim, at an idol's shrine. 

Thy breath but lives on others' lips — 

Thy hope, a thing beyond the grave, — 
Thy heart, bare to the vulture's beak — 

Thyself a bound and barter'd slave. 
And yet a dangerous charm o'er all, 

A bright but ignis-fatuus flame, 
Luring thee with a show of power, 

Dazzling thee with a blaze of fame. 

It is to waste on careless hearts 

The throbbing music of thine own ; 
To speak love's burning words, yet be 

Alone — ay, utterly alone. 
I sought to fling my laurel wreath 

Away upon the autumn wind : 
In vain, — 'twas like those poison'd crowns 

Thou may'st not from the brow unbind. 

Predestined from my birth to feed 

On dreams, yet watch those dreams depart 
To bear through life — to feel in death — 

A burning and a broken heart. 
Then hang it on the cypress bough, 

The minstrel-lute I leave to thee ; 
And be it only for the wind 

To wake its mournful dirge for me. 



THE FESTIVAL. 

The young and the lovely arc gather'd : 

Who shall talk of our wearisome life, 
And dwell upon weeds and on weeping — 

The struggle, the sorrow, the strife ] 
The hours of our being arc colour'd, 

And many arc colour'd with rose ; 
Though on some be a sign and a shadow, 

I list not to speak now of those. 

Through the crimson blind flushes the splendou, 

Of lamps, like large pearls which some fay 
Has swcll'd with her breath till their lustre, 

If softer, is as bright as of day. 
Beneath the verandah are flowers — 

Camellias like ivory wrought 
With the grace of a young Grecian sculptor, 

Who .traced what some Oread brought ; 

The harp to the flute is replying — 

'Tis the song of a far-distant land ; 
But never, in vineyard or valley, 

Assembled a lovelier band. 
Come thou, with thy glad golden ringlets, 

like rain which is lit by the sun — 
With eyes, the bright spirit's bright mirrors — 

Whose cheek and the rosebud are one. 

While he of the lute and the laurel 

For thee has forgotten the throng, 
And builds on thy fairylike beauty 

A future of sigh and of song. 
Ay, listen, but as unto music 

The wild wind is bearing away, 
As sweet as the sea-shells at evening. 

But far too unearthly to stay. 

For the Iove-drcam that haunts the young poet 

Is colour'd too much by his mind — 
A fabric of fancy and falsehood, 

But never for lasting design'd. 
For he lives but in beauty — his visions 

Inspire with their passion his strain ; 
And the spirit so quick at impression 

Was never meant long to retain. 

But another is passing before me — 

O pause ! let me gaze on thy brow : 
I've seen thee, fair lady, thrice lovely, 

But never so lovely as now. 
Thou art changed since those earlier number* 

When thou wcrt a vision to me ; 
And, copies from some fairest picture, 

My heroines .were painted from thee. 

Farewell ! I shall make thee no longer 
My sweet summer queen of romance • 

No more will my princes pay homage, 
My knights for thy smile break the lanco 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



244 

Confess they were exquisite lovers, 
The fictions that knelt at thy throne : 

But the graceful, the gallant, the noble, 
What fancy could equal thine own 1 

Farewell ! and henceforth I enshrine thee 

'Mid the earlier dreams that have past 
O'er my lute, like the fairies by moonlight, 

To leave it more lonely at last. 
Alas ! it is sad to remember 

The once gentle music now mute ; 
Ah ! many a chord hath time stolen 

Alike from my heart and my lute. 

'Tis midnight — but think not of slumber, 

There are dreams enow floating around ; 
But, ah ! our soft dreams while thus waking 

Are aye the most dangerous found. 
Like the note of a lute was that whisper — 

Fair girl, do not raise those dark eyes : 
Love only could breathe such a murmur ; 

And what will love bring thee but sighs 1 

And thou, thou pale dreamer ! whose forehead 

Is flush'd with the circle's light praise, 
! let it not dwell on thy spirit — 

How vain are the hopes it will raise ! 
The praise of the crowd and the careless, 

Just caught by a chance and a name, 
! take it as pleasant and passing, 

But never mistake it for fame ! 

Look for fame from the toil of thy midnight, 

When thy wrapt spirit eaglelike springs ; 
But, for the gay circle now passing, 

Take only the butterfly's wings. 
The flowers around us are fading — 

Meet comrades for revels are they ; 
And the lamps overhead are decaying — 

How cold seems the coming of day ! 

There fling off the wreath and the sandal, 

And bid the dark curtains round close ; 
For your cheek from the morning's tired slumber 

Must win its sweet exile the rose, 
What, weary and sadden'd ! this evening 

Is an earnest what all pleasures seem — 
A few eager hours' enjoyment — 

A toil, a regret, and a dream ! 



THE 

MIDDLE TEMPLE GARDENS. 

Thb. fountain's low singing is heard on the wind, 
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind ; 
Some to grieve, some to gladden: around them 

they cast 
The hopes of the morrow, the dreams of the past. 



Away in the distance is heard the vast sound, 
From the streets of the city that compass it 

round, 
Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep 

call; 
Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all. 

The turf and the terrace slope down to the tide 
Of the Thames, that sweeps onwards — a world at 

its side : 
And dark the horizon, with mast and with sail 
Of the thousand tall ships that have weather'd the 

gale: 
While beyond the arch'd bridge the old abbey 

appears, 
Where England has garner'd the glories of years. 
There the royal, the lovely, the gifted, the brave, 
Haunt the heart with a poetry born of the grave. 

Still and lone 'mid the tumult these gardens 
extend, 

The elm and the lime over flower-beds bend ; 

And the sunshine rains in as the light leaves are 
stirr'd, 

When away from the nest he has built springs the 
bird. 

The boat, and the barge, and the wave, have grown 
red; 

And the sunset has crimson'd the boughs over- 
head; 

But the lamps are now shining, the colours are 
gone, 

And the garden lies shadowy, silent, and lone. 

There are lights in the casements: how weary 

the ray 
That asks from the night-time the toils of the 

day ! 
I fancy I see the brow bent o'er the page, 
W x hose youth wears the paleness and wrinkles of 

age. 
The hour may be coming when fortune and fame 
May crown the endeavour, and honour the name : 
But the toil has been long that too early began ; 
And the judge and the peer is a world-weary 



The robe and the ermine, by few they are won : 
How many sink down ere the race be half run ! 
What struggles, what hopes, what despair may 

have been, 
Where sweep those dark branches of shadowy 

green ! 
What crowds are around us, what misery is 

there, 
Could the heart, like the face which conceals it, 

lay bare ! 
But we know not each other — we seek not to 

know 
What the social world hides in the darkness below. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



245 



I lean m the window, and hear the low tune 

Of the fountain, now bright with the new risen 

moon. 
In the chamber within are the gay and the young ; 
The light laugh is laugh'd, and the sweet song is 

suns:. 



* I know not that I have ever been more struck than 
with the beauty of the Middle Temple Gardens, as seen 
on a still summer evening. There is about it such a sin- 
gular mixture of action and repose. The trees cast an un- 
disturbed shadow on the turf; the barges rest tranquilly on 
Ihe dark river; only now and then the dim outline of a 
scarcely seen sail flits by ; the very lamps in the distance 
ieem as if shining in their sleep. But the presence of life 



I turn to their mirth, but it is in a mask — 

The jest is an omen, the smile is a task. 

A slave in a pageant, I walk through life's 

part, 
With smiles on the lip, and despair at the 

heart.* 



is around. Lights appear in most of the windows; and 
there comes upon the air the unceasing murmur 3f the city 
around. Nothing is distinct, all varieties of noise blending 
into one deep sound. But the little fountain is heard 
amid it all ; the ear does not lose a note of its low sweet 
music: it is the poetry of the place, or, rather, the voice 
of the poetry with which it is filled. 
X% 



THE EASTER GIFT; 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



247 



PREFACE 



To petition for indulgence, or to depre- 
cate censure, is not my present intention. 
The following pages have been written in 
a spirit of the deepest humility, but whose 
fear is not " of this world." The pictures 
are entirely sacred subjects, and their illus- 
tration has given me the opportunity of 
imbodying many a sad and serious thought 
that had arisen in hours of solitude and 
despondency. I believe I myself am the 
better for their existence ; I wish their 



effect may be the same on others. In this 
hurrying and deceitful world, no page will 
be written utterly in vain, which awakens 
one earnest or heavenward thought, one 
hope, or one fear, in the human heart. 
" Ye shall have a song, as in the night 
when a holy solemnity is kept;" and 
these pages are offered at such a time — 
when a whole nation is addressing its 
supplications to heaven 

L. E. L. 



248 



THE EASTER GIFT. 



CHRIST CROWNED WITH THORNS. 

" BEHOLD THE MAK." 

• A man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief." 

Too little do we think of thee, 

Our too indulgent Lord : 
We ask not what thy will may be, 

We dwell not on thy word. 

Thou, who in human shape wast born, 

And shared in humau wo ; 
Thou, who didst wear the crown of thorn, 

Which all must wear below ; 

Thou, who the sinners' fate didst share, 

Yet from the grave arise — 
Alas ! unworthy that we are 

Of such a sacrifice. 

Thy love should fill our hearts, like dew 
That fills the flowers by night ; 

Who, in that gentle rain renew 
The waste of morning's light. 

Thus doth life's hurry and its glare 

Dry up within our heart 
The holier thoughts that are thy share, 

The spirit's better part. 

And yet we turn not to thy love, 

We seek not to recall 
The hopes that lift our souls above 

Their low and earthly thrall. 

On pleasures or on wealth intent, 

Careless we hurry on, 
And vainly precious hours are spent 

Before we think them gone. 

Their joy and sorrow, sin and strife, 

Close round us like a bond, 
Which so enslaves to present life, 

We never look beyond. 

U Lord, if every thought were thine, 

How little would they be 
Acceptable before thy shrine, 

Unworthy heaven and thee. 
(32) 



Yet thou hast said, thou wilt accept 
Prayers offer'd in thy name ; 

That never tears in vain were wept, 
If from the heart they came. 

Then strike our rocky souls, Lord, 

Amid life's desert place ; 
Yet may their harden'd depths afford 

The waters of thy grace. 

Low in the dust we kneel and pray, 

O ! sanctify our tears : 
Till they wash every stain away 

From past and guilty years. 



CHRIST BLESSING THE BREAD. 



" This do in remembrance of me. 

" This cup is the new testament in my blood, which la 
shed for you." St. Luke xxii. 19, 20. 

"And as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and blessed 
it, and brake it, and gave it to the disciples, and said, 
Take, eat ; this is my body. 

"And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to 
them, saying, Drink ye all of it : 

" For this is my blood of the new testament, which ia 
shed for many for the remission of sins. 

" But I say unto you, I will not drink henceforth of this 
fruit of the vine, until that day when I drink it new with 
you in my Father's kingdom." St. Matthew xxvi. 26-29 



Bow thee to earth, and from thee cast 
All stubbornness of human will ; 

Then dare to drink the sacred cup 
Thy God and Saviour died to fill. 

If thou art humble as a child, 

When lisping at his mother's knee, 

His first meek words of earnest prayei , 
That sacred cup may be for thee. 

But if within thy sinful heart, 

Lurk earthly crime or earthly care, 

If hate, which broods upon the past 
Or pleasure's feverish dream, be there 
249 



250 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



If thoa against the widow's prayer, 

Or orphan's cry, hast closed thine ear ; 

In mercy to thyself forbear, 

Drink not thine own destruction here : 

But from thee put all thoughts of earth, 
As erst from Israel's camp were flung 

Each worldly and unholy thing, 
To which the secret sinner clung 

Come with thy guilt new wash'd in tears, 
Thy spirit raised in faith above ; 

Then drink, and so thy soul shall live, 
Thy Saviour's blood — thy Saviour's love. 



THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 



"And when they were departed, behold, the angel of the 
Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise, and 
take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, 
and be thou there until I bring thee word : for Herod will 
seek the young child to destroy him. 

" When he arose, he took the young child and his mother 
by night, and departed into Egypt. 

" And was there until the death of Herod : that it might 
be fulfilled which was spoken of the Lord by the prophet 
saying, out of Egypt have I called my son." 

St. Matthew ii. 13—15. 



A glorious landscape— dear as faith the sky, 
Hath only sunshine, and the few bright clouds 
Are turn'd to golden shadows. Stately trees 
])o mock the last year's memory, — so green, 
So full of life and summer are their leaves, 
That fading seems impossible. The stream 
Winds peacefully between its pastoral banks, 
Where surely care comes not, and scarcely toil ; 
An earth so fertile, that the sun and air 
Are the sole labourers. Yet how wearily 
Those travellers are resting in the shade. 
Man's doom is paramount — and even ye, 
Thrice bless'd and thrice glorious, ye now share 
The common lot of ail humanity. 
But see, with sunshine radiant on his wings, 
An angel sent from heaven is ministering ; 
And with their fears allay'd — their wants supplied, 
Lo, they arise refresh'd. 
Is not this scene the type of sacred faith 1 
How often on life's rough and weary path 
Do we sink fainting, with one only prayer, 
" Now help us, or we perish," on our lips. 
And never was this utter'd earnestly, 
But that it has been answer'd : though no more 
His shining messengers walk visible 
On this unworthy earth ; yet to our call 
Doth the Almighty still vouchsafe reply, 



And holy hopes arise within the heart : 
We feel that we are heard in heaven, and love 
Kindles within us like a steadfast thought, 
Which knows its own belief; and, comforted, 
We go upon our way rejoicing. 



THE MADONNA AND CHILD 



BLESSED ART THOU AMOSG WOMEN 



'•And the angel came in unto her, and said, Hail, thou 
that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee ; blessed art 
thou among women. 

" And Mary said, My soul doth magnify the Lord, 

"And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour. 

" For he hath regarded the low estate of his hand- 
maiden ; for, behold, from henceforth all generations shall 
call me blessed. 

" For he that is mighty hath done to me great things, and 
holy is his name." St. Luke i. 28. 46— 4 l J. 



Thrice blessed and thrice beautiful ; 

Yet come we not to thee ; 

With those vain prayers which make a creed 

Of false idolatry. 

We bring no gems to bind thine hair, 
No flowers to deck thy shrine ; 
We light no taper's fragrant blaze, 
We ask no aid of thine. 

We have no need of pagan rites 
To join with Christian prayer; 
Nor that salvation ask of thee, 
'Twas only thine to share. 

Thine altars where thy statues stood, 
Thy hymns and votive flowers, 
Were relics of another age, 
Another creed, than ours ; 

When human was all human faith 
And to that faith was given 
The likeness of its native earth, 
Rather than that of heaven ; 

When only reason's shadowy ray 
Upon the world was thrown, 
And every idol's attribute 
Had been the maker's own. 

Then was the time of gift and vow 
And e'en a purer light 
Was long ere it could penetrate 
The depths of such a night. 



THE EASTER GIFT. 



251 



Old superstitions still remain'd, 
And priestcraft next stept in, 
To rule by human ignorance, 
And work by human sin. 

Then was a veil flung over faith, 
Then was God's word conceal'd ; 
Thank God, for us that veil is rent, 
That Book has been reveal'd. 

The votive wreath of early flowers, 
The taper and the gem, 
Were superstitions vain, we know 
God asketh not for them. 

We look on the Madonna's face 
In thankfulness and love, 
But ask no more a mortal's help 
To bear our vows above. 

The earnest prayer, the humble tear, 
The Saviour's blessed name, 
These are the Christian's sacrifice, 
These are the Christian's claim. 



HAGAR AND ISHMAEL. 



" And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and took 
bread, and a bottle of water, and gave it unto Hagar, (put- 
ling it on her shoulder,) and the child, and sent her away : 
and she departed, and wandered in the wilderness of Beer- 
sheba. 

" And the water was spent in the bottle, and she cast the 
child under one of the shrubs. 

" And she went, and sat her down over against him, a 
good way off, as it were a bow-shot : for she said, Let me not 
see the death of the child. And she sat over against him, 
and lift up her voice, and wept. 

" And God heard the voice of the lad : and the angel of 
God called to Hagar out of heaven, and said unto her, 
What aileth thee, Hagar 1 fear not ; for God hath heard the 
voice of the lad where he is. 

"Arise, lift up the lad, and hold him in thine hand : for 
I will make him a great nation. 

" And God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water : 
and 6he went, and filled the bottle with water, and gave 
the lad drink." Genesis xxi. 14—19. 



They sank amid the wilderness, 
The weary and forsaken ; 
She gave the boy one faint caress, 
And pray'd he might not waken. 

But death, not sleep, was on those eyes, 
Beneath the heat declining : 
O'er glittering sands and cloudless skies 
The noontide sun was shining. 

Far, far away the desert spread ; 
Ah ! love is fain to cherish 
The vainest hopes, but now she said, 
" Let me not see him perish." 



Then spoke the Lord, and at his word 
Sprang forth a little fountain, 
Pure, cold as those whose crystal hoard 
Is in some pine-clad mountain ; 

And herb and shrub upon the brink 
Put forth their leaf and blossom ; 
The pelican came down to drink 
From out its silvery bosom. 

blessed God, thus doth thy power, 
When, worn and broken-hearted, 
We sink beneath some evil hour, 
And deem all hope departed — 

Then doth the fountain of thy grace 
Rise up within the spirit, 
And we are strengthen'd for that race 
Whose prize we shall inherit. 

When least we hope, our prayer is heard, 
The judgment is averted, 
And comes the comfort of thy word, 
When most we seem deserted. 



ST. JOHN IN THE WILDERNESS 



"And the same John had his raiment of camel's hair 
and a leathern girdle about his loins, and his meat was 
locusts and wild honey." St. Matthew iii. 4. 



Afah, he took a gloomy cave, 

For his accustomed dwelling-place, 

As dark, as silent as the grave, 
As unfamiliar with man's face ; 

The stern and knotted trees grew round, 
Blasted, and desolate, and gray, 

And 'mid their sullen depth was found 
A home for birds and beasts of prey. 

Morning broke joyless, for the land 

Knew no green grass, nor fragrant flowe 

The barren rock, the burning sand, 

Bless'd not the sunshine, nor the shower. 

Yet there the prophet dwelt alone, 
Far from the city and the plain ; 

For him in vain their glory shone, 
For him their beauty spread in vain. 

He left his youth and life behind ; 

Each idol of the human heart, 
Pleasures and vanities resign 'd, 

Content to choose the better part. 



252 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Methinks, when hope is cold or weak, 
And prayers seem but unwelcome tasks, 

And worldly thoughts and feelings seek 
To fill the hours religion asks ; 

If, when the light of faith is dim, 
The spirit would but ponder thus — 

How much there was required of him, 
How little is required of us ! 

All-Merciful, did we declare, 

The glories which to Thee belong, 

All life would pass in thankful prayer, 
All breathe in one triumphant song. 



THE NATIVITY. 



" JLo, the star which they saw in the east, went before 
them, till it came and stood over where the young child 
was." 

" When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding 
great joy." 

" And when they were come into the house, they saw the 
young child, with Mary his mother, and fell down and 
worshipped him." St. Matthew ii. 9—11. 



Far in the desert east it shone, 
A guiding-star, and only one ; 
The other planets left the sky, 
Trembling, as if rebuked on high. 
The moon forsook her silvery height, 
Abash'd before that holier light : 
The storm clouds that on ether lay 
Melted before its glorious ray ; 
Till half the heaven shone pure and clear, 
Like some diviner atmosphere 
Than ours, where heavy vapours rise 
From the vile earth, to dim the skies : 
Meet herald of that promised day, 
When soul shall burst the bond of clay, 
And, purified from earth-stains come, 
Radiant to its eternal home. 
On roll'd the star, nor paused to shed 
Its glory o'er the mountain's head, 
Whereon the morning's sunshine fell, 
Where eve's last crimson loved to dwell ; 
The gilded roof, the stately fane, 
The garden, nor the corn-hid plain, 
The camp, where red watch-fires were keeping 
Guard o'er a thousand soldiers sleeping. 
But temple, palace, city past, 
That star paused in the sky at last. 
It paused where, roused from slumbers mild, 
Lay 'mid the kine a newborn child. 

Are there no clarions upon earth 
To tell mankind their monarch's birth 1 



Are there no banners to unfold, 
Heavy with purple and with gold 1 
Are there no flowers to strew the ground, 
Nor arches with the palm-branch bound ! 
Nor fii es to kindle on the hill 1 
No ! man is mute — the world is still. 
Ill would all earthly pomp agree 
With this hour's mild solemnity ; 
The tidings which that infant brings, 
Are not for conquerors nor for kings : 
Nor for the sceptre, nor the brand, 
For crowned head, nor red right hand. 
But to the contrite and the meek, 
The sinful, sorrowful, and weak: 
Or those who, with a hope sublime, 
Are waiting for the Lord's good time. 
Only for those the angels sing, 
" All glory to our newborn King, 
And peace and good-will unto mew, 
Hosanna to our God ! Amen." 



JUDAS RETURNING THE THIRTY 
PIECES 



"Then Judas which had betrayed him, when he saw 
that he was condemned, repented himself, and brought 
again the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and 
elders. 

" Saying, I have sinned, in that I have betrayed the in- 
nocent blood. And they said, What is that to us 1 see thou 
to that. 

" And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, 
and departed, and went and hanged himself." 

St. Matthew zxvii. 3—5. 



The thirty pieces down he flung, for which his 
Lord he sold, 

And turn'd away his murderer's face from that ac- 
cursed gold. 

He cannot sleep, he dares not watch ; that weight 
is on his heart, 

For which, nor earth nor heaven have hope, which 
never can depart. 

A curse is on his memory, we shudder at his 

name ; 
At once we loathe, and scorn his guilt, and yet we 

do the same : 
Alas ! the sinfulness of man, how oft in deed and 

word 
We act the traitor's part again, and do betray our 

Lord. 

We bend the knee, record the vow, and breath* 

the fervent prayer : 
How soon are pra} T er and vow forgot, amid life's 

crime and care ! 



THE EASTER GIFT. 



25** 



The Saviour's passion, cross, and blood, of what 
avail are they, 

If first that Saviour we forget, and next we diso- 
bey 1 

For pleasures, vanities, and hates, the compact we 
renew, 

And Judas rises in our hearts — we sell our Sa- 
viour too. 

How for some moments' vain delight we will im- 
bitter years, 

And in our youth lay up for age, only remorse and 
tears. 

Ah ! sanctify and strengthen, Lord, the souls that 

turn to thee ; 
And from the devil and the world our guard and 

solace be. 
And as the mariners at sea still watch some 

guiding star, 
So fix our hearts and hopes on thee, until thine 

own they are. 



THE MAGDALEN. 

The plaining murmur of the midnight wind, 
Like mournful music is upon the air : 
So sad, so sweet, that the eyes fill'd with tears, 
Without a cause — ah ! no, the heart is heap'd 
So full with perish'd pleasures, vain regrets, 
That nature cannot sound one grieving note 
Upon her forest lyre, but still it finds 
Mute echo in the sorrowing human heart. 
Now the wind wails among the yellow leaves, 
About to fall, over the faded flowers, 
Over all summer's lovely memories, 
About to die ; the year has yet in store 
A few dim hours, but they are dark and cold : 
Sunshine, green leaves, glad flowers, they all are 

gone; 
And it has only left the wornout soil, 
The leafless bough, and the o'er-clouded sky. 
And shall humanity not sympathize 
With desolation which is like its own 1 
So do our early dreams fade unfulflll'd ; 
So does our hope turn into memory 
The one so glad — the other such despair, 
(For who can find a comfort in the past ;) 
So do our feelings harden, or decay, 
Encrusting with hard selfishness too late, 
Or bearing that deep wound, whereof we die. 

Where are the buoyant spirits of our youth 1 
Where are the dancing steps, that but kept time 
To our own inward gladness — where the light 
That flush'd the cheek into one joyous rose : 
That lit the lips, and fill'd the eyes with smiles 1 — 



Gone, gone as utterly, as singing birds, 
And opening flowers, and honey-laden bees, 
And shining leaves, are from yon forest gone. 
I know this from myself— the words I speak 
Were written first with tears on mine own 

heart ; 
And yet, albeit, it was a lovely time ! 
Who would recall their youth, and be again, 
The dreaming — the believing — the betray'd. 
The feverishness of hope, the agony, 
As every disappointment taught a truth ; 
For still is knowledge bought by wretchedness, 
Who could find energy to bear again 1 
Ye clear bright stars, that from the face of heave* 
Shine out in tranquil loveliness, how oft 
Have ye been witness to my passionate tears ; 
Although beloved, and beautiful, and young ; 
Yet happiness was not with my unrest. 
For I had pleasure, not content ; each wish 
Seem'd granted, only to be weariness. 
No hope fulfill'd, its promise ; and no dream 
Was ever worth its waking bitterness. 
Then there was love, that crowding into one 
All vanity, all sorrow, all remorse : 
Till we loathe life, glad, beauteous, hoping life, 
And would be fain to lay our burthen down, 
Although we might but lay it in the grave, 
All natural terror lost in hope of peace. 
God of those stars, to which I once appeal'd 
In a vain fantasy of sympathy, 
How wretched I have been in my few years ! 
How have I wept throughout the sleepless nights 
Then sank in heavy slumber, misery still 
Haunting its visions : morning's cold gray light 
Waked me reluctant, for though sleep had been 
Anguish, yet I could say it was but sleep. 
And then day came, with all those vanities 
With which our nature mocks its wretchedness, 
The toilsome pleasures, and the dull pursuits • 
Efforts to fly ourselves, and made in vain. 
Too soon I learnt the secret of our life, 
That " vanity of vanities" is writ 
Deep in the hidden soul of human things : 
And then I sank into despondency, 
And lived from habit, not from hope ; and fear 
Stood between me and death, and only fear ; 
I was a castaway : for, like the fool, 
Within my soul I said there is no God. 
But then a mighty and a glorious voice 
Was speaking on the earth — thus said the Lord, 
" Now come to me, ye that are heavy laden, 
And I will give you rest" — and, ro, I came 
Sorrowing, — and the broken contrite heart, 
Lord, thou didst not despise. Now let me weej» 
Tears, and my dying Saviour's precious blood 
Will wash away my sin. Now let me pray 
In thankfulness that time is given for prayer , 
In hope that, offer'd in my Saviour's name, 

y 



254 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



I may find favour in the sight of God. 
Where is my former weariness of life, 
Where is my former terror of the grave 1 
Out of my penitence there has grown hope ; 
I trust, and raise my suppliant eyes to heaven 
And, when my soul desponds, I meekly say, 
'* T know that my Redeemer liveth." 



HYMN OF THE MAGDALEX. 

There was a time, when I but sought 

In life its pleasant things ; 
And ask'd each moment what it brought 

Of pleasure on its wings. 

I bound red roses in my hair, 

And when they died away, 
I only thought, fresh flowers there are 

As beautiful as they. m 

And time past on — the bright and brief, 

I led the dance and song, 
As careless as the summer leaf 

The wild wind bears along. 

But the wind fails the leaf at last, 

And down it sinks to die, 
To perish with the perish'd past, 

And gone as idly by. 

So sink the spirits of those days, 

That buoyant bore us on ; 
The joy declines, the hope decays 

Ere we believe them gone. 

Then memory rises like a ghost, 
Whose presence brings to mind 

The better things which we have lost, 
The hopes we've left behind. 

And what could memory bring to me 

But sorrow, shame, and sin ; 
And wretched the worn heart must be, 

With such dark guests within 

I said, accursed be a life 

That 'mid such ills hath birth ; 

Where fate and nature in their strife, 
Make desolate the earth. 

Gut no more of that evil time, 

An alter'd heart is mine : 
Purified by a hope sublime, 

And by a faith divine. 

T weep ; but tears of penitence 

Still comfort as they flow ; 
And rise to heaven, and win from thence 

A solace for below 



For I have learnt, my God, to trace 

Thy love in all things here ; 
How wonderful the power and grace 

In all thy works appear. 

The vineyard dim with purple light, 

The silvery olive tree, 
The corn wherewith the plains are blight, 

Speak to my soul of thee. 

This loveliness is born to die ; 

Not so the race, for whom 
The sun goes shining through the sky, 

The world puts forth its bloom. 

We know that to this lovely earth, 

Will sure destruction come ; 
But though it be our place of birth, 

Yet it is not our home. 

For we are God's own chosen race, 
Whom the Lord died to save ; 

This earth is but a trial-place, 
Whose triumph is the grave. 



NATHAN AND DAVID. 



" And David said unlo Nathan, I have sinned against the 
Lord. And Nathan said unto David, The Lord also hath 
put away thy sin ; thou shalt not die." 2 Samuel xii. 13. 

"Repent ye therefore, and be converted, that your sing 
may be blotted out, when the time of refreshing shall come 
from the presence of the Lord." Acts iii. 19 



The monarch knelt, and, in the dust, 
Confess'd his sin and shame ; 

And God forgave the guilty one, 
Who call'd upon his name. 

He won by tears, he. won by prayers, 

A pardon from on high ; 
Though scarce he dared to raise to heaven 

His dim and pleading eye. 

0, write the lesson on our heart, 

And teach us that our tears 
Can wash away each guilty stain 

That on life's page appears. 

God grant that never we may bow 

So low to guilt's control, 
As did that king who had the weight 

Of blood upon his soul. 

But seeds of sorrow and of crime 

Are sown each heart within ; 
And who can look upon his soul, 

And say he knows wot sin 1 



THE EASTER GIFT. 



2j55 



We are as nothing in ourselves, 

And only in thy name 
May we approach thy heavenly throne, 



And u 



rsre our sorrow 



-J aim. 



Then teach us, Lord, to weep and pray, 
And bend the suppliant knee ; 

For what but penitence and prayer 
Can hope for grace from thee 1 



THE 

1JS CREDULITY OF ST. THOMAS. 



"But Thomas, one of the twelve, called Didymus, was 
not with them when Jesus came. 

" The other disciples therefore said unto him, We have 
Been the Lord, But he said unto them, Except I shall see in 
his hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the 
^rint of the nails, and thrust my hand into his side, I will 
lot believe. 

"And after eight days, again his disciples were within, 
and Thomas with them; then came Jesus, the doors being 
shut, and stood in the midst, and said, Peace be unto you. 

" Then saith he to Thomas, Reach hither thy finger, and 
behold my hands, and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it 
into my side : and be not faithless, but believing. 

"And Thomas answered and said unto him, My Lord, 
and my God. 

"Jesus saith unto him, Thomas, because thou hast seen 
me, thou hast believed : blessed are they that have not 
Been, and yet have believed." St. John xx. 2-1—29. 



Still doth that spirit linger upon earth ; 
Still the vain doubt has in delusion birth. 
We hesitate, we cavil, we deny, 
And ask, though all things answer in reply ; 
All nature echoes with one mighty Yes, 
And only man will not his God confess. 
Yet read him in his works, yon radiant sea, 
Glassing the heaven's blue tranquillity ; 
Noon on the waters, noon within the skies, 
No cloud to shadow, and no wave to rise. 
Now is thy triumph, man, unroll the sail, 
Like the white meteor, glancing on the gale 
Go, ride the billows, sweep before the wind, 
And say, this is the mastery of the mind : 
I gave those planks their shape to cut the seas, 
I taught that canvass how to catch the breeze, 
I guide the helm which tracks the pathless brine, 
The work of my own hands, the ship is mine. 

'Tis early evening, round the sinking sun, 
The shadowy clouds have gather'd one by one, 
The waves are running high, and o'er them sweep 
The spectral seabirds, phantoms of the deep, 
Over their pale white wings the surges break ; 
And with the wild wind blends their wilder shriek. 
The mighty tempest rushes o'er the main 
With thunder, and with lightning, and with rain. 



The strong ship trembles ; to the deep they throw 
The thunder that was destined for the foe. 
The tall mast falls, as once before it fell, 
When came the woodman to the forest dell. 
In vain the billows whelm the sinking prow ; 
0, man, art thou the lord of ocean now 1 

But let us trace Him in some wilder form 
Than the dread lessons of the sea and storm ; 
It is the end of March, and, over earth, 
Sunshine is calling beauty into birth. 
There is a fragrance on the soft warm air ; 
For many the sweet breaths now floating there. 
The snowdrop is departed, that pale child, 
Which at the spring's bright coming seems exiled; 
Cold, like a flower carved on a funeral stone, 
Born with the snows, and with the snows is gone, 
And, in its place, daisies, rose-touch'd, unfold — 
Small fairies, bearing each a gift of gold ; 
And violets, like a young child's eyes of blue ; 
Ah, spring and childhood only know that hue ; 
The violet wears a dimmer shade ; the eye 
Grows tear-stained, as the year and life pass b)% 
But now the wheat and grass are green, therein 
The grasshopper and lark their nests begin ; 
The purple clover round them, like a bower. 
Now doth the apple tree put forth its flower, 
Lined with faint crimson ; the laburnum bends 
'Neath the bright gold that from each bow do* 

scends ; 
Her graceful foliage forth the ash has flung ; 
The aspen trembles : are its leaves so young 
That the sweet wind doth scare them, though it bear 
No ruder breath than flowers breathe through the 

air'? 
A lulling sound where thyme and wild-heaths blow, 
Tells that the bee has there its Mexico. 
One note of natural music, that which now 
Haunts the deep grass, the sky, the brook, the 

bough. 
Deep in the woodland sits the thrush and sings, 
The sunshine dancing on its dusky wings, 
When the wind stirs the branches, and a ray 
Lights the dim glades scarce conscious of the day 
Are not these beautiful, these hours which bring 
Its leaves and flowers, its breath and bloom to 

spring ] 
And yet, proud man, what hast thou here to do ? 
Owes it one leaf, one breath, one bloom to you? 

Almighty God ! and if thou couldst depart 
And leave no image in the darken'd heart, 
What hope would be for earth, to soothe or save* 
Life, a brief struggle ending in the grave. 
No soul to elevate our wretched dust, 
No faith to triumph in its sacred trust, 
First fever, then oblivion, and the tomb, 
Eternal and unconquerable gloom. 
" Lord, we believe, help thou our unbelief" 
Let there be hope in toil, and joy in grief; 



256 



Teach us on nature's glorious face to look, 
As if it were thine own immortal book ; 
Teach us to read thee in thy works, and find 
Their evidence of thine Almighty mind. 
Keep us, till in the grave, with hope divine, 
We sink rejoicing that we now are thine. 



THE 
INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS. 



'•'For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as 
the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower 
[hereof falleth away. 

" But the word of the Lord endureth forever." 

1 Peter i. 24, 25. 

Sweet Lord, as in those infant hands 

Are heap'd up early flowers, 
Gathered with toil, and wreath'd with care, 

The wealth of summer hours. 

So gather thou, amid our thoughts, 

The purest and the best ; 
The few that, in our busy world, 

Are heavenward addrest. 

So forming in the human soul 

Thine own immortal wreath, 
Of sacred hopes, nurst in thy faith, 

To blossom after death. 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 

Calling on earth and heaven to rejoice 
Along with him. 



THE INFANT ST. JOHN. 



" In those days came John the Baptist, preaching in the 
wilderness of Judea, 

l ' And saying, Repent ye : for the kingdom of heaven is 
at hand. 

" For this is he that was spoken of by the prophet Esaias, 
saying, The voice of one crying in the wilderness, Prepare 
ye the way of tfie Lord, make his paths straight." 

St. Matthew iii. 1 — 3. 

"For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom 
against kingdom, and there shall he famines, and pesti- 
lences, and earthquakes, in divers places. 

"All these are the beginning of sorrows. 

"For as the lightning cometh out of the east, and 
shineth even unto the west, so shall also the coming of the 
Son of man be. 

" Immediately after the tribulation of those days, shall 
tbe sun be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, 
and the stars shall fall from heaven, and the powers of the 
heavens shall be shaken. 

" And then shall appear the sign of the Son of man in 
heaven ; and then shall all the tribes of the earth mourn, 
and they shall see the son of man coming in the clouds of 
heaven, with power and great glory." 

St. Matthew xxiv. 7, 8. 27. 29, 30. 



ho, on the midnight winds a young child's voice 
With lofty hymn, 



Those infant lips are given from above 

A spirit tone, 

And he speaks out those words of hope and love 

To prophets known. 

He is a herald, as the morning star 

Brings daylight in, 

For he doth bring glad tidings from afar 



To 



and 



Now let the desolate earth lift up her head, 
And at the word 

Wait till the mountains kindle with the tread 
Of Christ the Lord. 

And earth was conscious of her God, he came 
Meek and decried, 

Bearing the weight of Borrow, sin, and shame, 
And for us died. 

Twice shall he come — e'en now the appointed h&ci 
Is in its birth, 

When he shall come in glory, and in power 
To judge the earth. 

Not as before, to win mankind and save, 
But in his ire, 

When earth shall be but as a mighty grave 
In that red fire. 

Do we not live now in those evil days 
Which were foretold, 
In holy writings and inspired lays, 
Of prophets old 7 

There is a wild confusion in the world, 

Like the vexed sea, 

And ancient thrones are from high places hurl'd, 

Yet man not free. 

And vain opinions seek to change all life, 
Yet yield no aid 

To all the sickness, want, the grief and strife 
Which now pervade. 

Are not these signs of that approaching time 
Of blood and tears, 

When thou shalt call to dread account the crime 
Of many years 7 

Then who shall hide before thee, only he 
Who is all thine, 

Who hath stood fast, amid iniquity, 
In faith divine. 

0, Lord, awaken us ; let us not cease 
To look afar. 

Let us not, like the foolish, call it peace 
When there is war. 



THE EASTER GIFT. 



257 



O, teach us to believe what thy blest word 
Has long declared, 

And let thy second advent, gracious Lord, 
Find us prepared. 



CHRIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN. 



" Suffer little children to come unto me— for of such is the 
kingdom of heaven." St. Matthew xix. 14. 



If ever in the human heart 
A fitting season there can be, 

Worthy of its immortal part, 

Worthy, O blessed Lord, of thee ; 

'Tis in that yet unsullied hour, 

Or ere the world has claim'd his own ; 

Pure as the hues within the flower, 
To summer and the sun unknown ; 

When still the youthful spirit bears 
The image of its God within, 

And uneffaced that beauty wears, 
So soon to be destroy'd by sin. 



Then is the time for faiih and love 
To take in charge their precious care, 

Teach the young eye to look above, 

Teach the young knee to bend m prayer. 

This work is ours — this charge was thine 
These youthful souls from sin to save ; 

To lead them in thy faith divine, 

And teach its triumph o'er the grave. 

The world will come with care and crime, 
And tempt too many a heart astray ; 

Still the seed sown in early time 
Will not be wholly cast away. 

The infant prayer, the infant hymn, 
Within the darken'd soul will rise, 

When age's weary eye is dim, 

And the grave's shadow round us lies. 

The infant hymn is heard again, 

The infant prayer is breathed once more 

Reclasping of a broken chain, 
We turn to all we loved before. 

Lord, grant our hearts be so inclined, 
Thy work to seek — thy will to do ; 

And while we teach the youthful mind. 
Our own be taught thy lessons too. 



A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE 



TO 



HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS VICTORIA 



When has the day the loveliest of its hours ? 

It is the hour when morning breaks into day, 
When dewdrops light the yet unfolded flowers, 

And sunshine seems like Hope upon its way. 

Then soars the lark amid the azure, singing 
A seraph's song, that is of heaven, not earth ; 

Then comes the wind, a fragrant wanderer, 
bringing 
The breath of vales where violets have birth. 

Which of the seasons m the year is fairest 1 
That when the spring first blushes into bloom ; 

There is the beauty, earliest and rarest, 

When the world warms with colour and perfume. 

Then are the meadows fill'd with pleasant voices, 
Earth one bright promise what it is to be ; 

Then the green forest in its depths rejoices, 
Flowers in the grass, and buds upon the tree. 

Then the red rose reveals her future glory, 

Breaking the green moss with one crimson trace ; 

So dawns the white — while old historic story 
Tells now they wreath for England's Royal 
race. 

If thus so fair the springtime and the morning 
But in the world of leaf and bud ; how fair, 

With all their early loveliness adorning, 
Still lovelier in our human world they are. 

Youth is around thee Ladye of the ocean, 
Ocean that is thy kingdom and thy home, 

Where not a heart but kindles with emotion, 
Dreaming of honour'd years that are to come. 

What is the light of morning's rosy breaking, 
To the young promise of that Royal mind 1 

What are the hopes of sunny spring's awaking, 
To hopes which in thy future are inshrined 1 

Mighty the task, and glorious the fulfilling, 
Duties that round thy future hours must be ; 

The East and West depend upon thy willing 
Mistress art thou wherever rolls the sea. 

Fair art thou, Princess, in thy youthful beauty 
Thoughtful and pure, the spirit claims its part ; 

Gazing on thy young face, a nation's duty 
Bursts forth into the homage of the heart. 



O'er thy high forehead is the soft hair braided ; 

Be never darker shadow on that brow ! 
Not yet one tint of youth's sweet hues arr 
faded ; 

The loveliness of promise lights thee now 

Around thee are a thousand hearts addressing 
Prayer for thy sake to every power divine ; 

No lip that names thee, names without a 
blessing ; 
A nation's holiest wishes are all thine. 



The present looks on thee with eyes 
Of love, and joy, and enterprise ; 
They shine as shines a rising star, 
That lights the unknown and the far. 

To prophesy the future, cast 
A glance upon thy country's past. 
How has our England changed since first 
The Roman Caesar on her burst : 
And something lingers with us still 
Of their indomitable will. 
Like theirs, our banners when unfurl'd 
Have swept o'er half a conquer'd world. 
No stranger power hath sought our coast, 
But to bequeath thei*- proudest boast. 

Hengist and Horsa. Saxon kings, 
On their proud galley's sweeping wings : 
Lords of the banner and the breeze, 
Gave us our empire o'er the seas ; 

Next came the Norman William's gallant 
power, 
Those barons brought a noble dower 
Of minstrel harp, and stainless sword, 
High courtesy, and knightly word. 
Then sea and land had done their best 
To grace our Island of the "West. 

And never since hath foreign brand 

Flash'd over our unconquer'd land ; 

Never hath rung the tocsin bell, 

That other soils have known too well. 

Sacred, inviolate, unstain'd, 

Have England's fields and hearths remain' d. 

Our victories have been won afar, 

Our homes have only heard of war. 

They gave thy name and since thy birth 

Peace, dovelike, broodeth over earth : 

258 



BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE 



259 



Still be its shadow o'er thy throne — 
"Enough of laurels are our own.* 

With the golden sunbeams shining 

Round the Abbey's towers, 
Stands that stately pile enshrining 

England's noblest hours, 

There they rest its honour'd dead. 
There the trophies of our annals 

Fling their shade below, 
Flags that in our English channels 

Once announced a foe, 

Now in triumph are they spread. 
'Tis no lesson taught in vain, 
So would millions die again. 

In those ancient chancels slumber 

As within a shrine, 
Men whom history loves to number 

On her sacred line, 

Men who leave themselves behind ; 
Statesmen holding yet dominion 

With their fellow-men ; 
By the empire of opinion, 

Ruling them again : 

For immortal is the mind, 
And a thoughtful truth maintains 
Whatsoever ground it gains. 

Not this the first time that our lion and land 
Have own'd the soft sway of a woman's white 

hand ; 
She the last branch of the Tudor's proud line 
Held empire — an omen of glory for thine : 
The name of Elizabeth tells of an age 
Alone in its splendour on history's page. 

'Twas then the mind burst from its slumbers, 

and broke 
The depth of its shade, the weight of its yoke ; 
And thoughts that lay dark, like the seeds in the 

earth, 
Sprung up into varied and beautiful birth : 



* "Enough of laurels are our own."— Conquest is the 
commencement of civilization ; it is also its scourge. With 
us, the sail and the sword have gone together, and com- 
merce has consolidated what was gained by war. We 
have now to civilize what we have subdued: it is ours to 
bestow knowledge, freedom, and faith. Education, settled 
laws, and Christianity must follow the course of our victo- 
ries and our manufactures. 

For us there yet remains 
A nobler conquest far ; 

We must pay back the past, the debt we owe : 

Let us around dispense 

Light, hope, intelligence, 
Till blessings track our steps where'er we go. 

O England, thine be the deliverer's meed, 

Be thy great empire known 

By hearts made all thine own, 
Through tfiy free Laws and thy immortal Creed. 



Whence, grown 'mid all changes of good and of 

ill, 
We reap a rich harvest for garnering still. 
For thoughts are like waves that come rushing to 

shore, 
One breaks into many — is follow'd by more ; 
Then came the doom'd Spaniard, the last one, 

whose boast, 
The white cliffs have echo'd that girdle our 

coast. 
Each strong as a tower — and stern as a tomb, 
The death-bearing ships sail'd the seas in theii 

gloom ; 
Strange tortures were hid in the depths of each 

hold, 
And wealth that might buy her — could England 

be sold ; 
Then came the proud queen to the shores of the 

sea, — 
She gather'd around her the brave and the free ; 
Of all the Armada that darken'd the main, 
No vessel return'd to its harbour again ; 
The maidens of Cadiz look'd out through their 

tears, 
No banner their hand had embroider'd appears ; 
They are torn by the winds and the waves, or have 

been 
Laid low at the feet of the proud island queen. 

'Twas in a woman's reign uprose 

That soul of enterprise, 
Which since has borne our English flag 

Through foreign seas and skies. 

Few were the first adventurous barks 
That plough'd the deep — but now 

What breeze that bears St. George's cross, 
What shore but knows our prow 1 

And more than glory, or than gold. 

May British merchants say ; 
Look on what blessings infinite 

Have follow'd on our way. 

To civilize and to redeem 

Has been our generous toil, 
To sow the seeds of future good 

In many a thankful soil. 

Where'er to dark and pagan lands 

Our path has been decreed, 
Have we not brought the Christian's hope. 

The Christian's holy creed 1 

'Tis from a woman's glorious reign 

Our English isles may date 
The honours of their after hours, 

The triumphs of their state. 



260 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



And yet how much remains to do, 

How much is left behind ! 
Young daughter of a line ol kings, 

Much is to thee assign'd. 

Great changes have been wrought since first 

The Roman legions stood 
Beneath the ancient oaks that form'd 

The Druid's mystic wood. 

There frown'd above the dank morass, 

The forest whose long night 
Of noisome and of tangled shade 

Forgot the noontide's light. 

Men crowded round the victim pyre 

In worship vile as vain ; 
And God's own precious gift of life, 

Was flung to him again. 

We were the savages — of whom 

We now can only hear ; 
The change has been the mighty work 

Of many a patient year. 

The progress of our race is mark'd 

Wherever we can turn ; 
No more the gloomy woods extend, 

No more the death-fires burn. 

The village rises where once spread 

Th' inhabitable moor ; 
And Sabbath-bells sweep on the wind, 

The music of the poor. 

The sun sinks down o'er myriad spires 

That glisten in the ray, 
As almost portions of that heaven 

To which they point the way. 

There is not a more lovely land 

On all our lovely earth, 
Than that, Victoria, which now gives 

Its blessing on thy birth. 



Such, youthful Ladye, is the outward seeming 
Of the fair land whose trust is placed on thee ; 

Alas ! too much is as the ivy gleaming 

Round the worn branches of some ancient tree. 

Farewell unto thy childhood, and forever ; 

Youth's careless hours dwell not around a 
throne ; 
The hallow'd purpose, and the high endeavour, 

The onward-looking thought must be thine own. 

An hour of moral contest is before thee, 
Not the old combat of the shield and spear, 



But to the azure heaven arching o'er thee, 
Rises a nobler hope — a loftier fear? 

Low in decay lies many an aged error, 

From dust of mouldering falsehood springeth 
Truth ; 
The past is to the present as a mirror ; 
And Hope, to mankind has eternal youth. 

Vast is the charge intrusted by high Heaven, 
Heavy the weight upon that delicate hand ; 

Into thy keeping is the balance given, 

Wherein is weigh'd the future of our land. 

Around thee is much misery : want and sorrow 
Lurk in the hidden places of our earth ; 

To-day how many tremble at to-morrow, 
Life has to them been bitter from its birth. 

Mark those pale childrenf — cold and wan while 
basking 

O'er embers mocking with their feeble glow : 
The elder silent — but the youngest asking 

For food the mother has not to bestow. 



* " Rises a nobler hope— a loftier fear."— Human perfec- 
tion is still a beautiful and unrealized dream ; it has its 
encouragement in human progress. A higher and more 
generous purpose is now the stimulus to all efforts of im- 
provement: our views are more enlightened, because more 
general ; the many have taken the place of the few. In 
the earlier ages, science kept as secrets those discoveries, 
which now its chief object is to promulgate. Trade was 
fettered by monopolies, which it is the first step of com 
merce to shake off. Laws were rather privilege than pro- 
tection, not what to-day admits them to be, the sacred bar- 
riers of universal right. Knowledge was solitary distinc- 
tion, or secluded enjoyment ; not, as now, to be gained by 
all, and to be used for all. It is to intellectual intercourse 
that we owe our advancement; intellect is the pioneer to 
improvement. We have still to hope, and to aspire. It is 
only by looking onwards that we can perceive the goal ; it 
is only by looking upwards that we can see heaven. 

t "Mark those pale children."— If there be one condi- 
tion in our land that demands assistance and sympathy, it 
is that of children of the poor.— 

It is for childhood's nour to be 

Life's fairy well, and bring 
To life's worn, weary memory 

The freshness of its spring. 

But here the order is reversed, 

And infancy, like age, 
Knows of existence but its worst, 

One dull and darken'd page. 

Written with tears, and stamp'd with toil, 

Crush'd from the earliest hour, 
Weeds darkening on the bitter soil, 

That never knew a flower. 

Alas ! to think upon a child 

That has no childish days, 
No careless play, no frolics wild, 

No .vords of prayer and praise. 

Man from the cradle, 'tis too soon 

To earn their daily bread, 
And heap the heat and toil of noon 

Upon an infant's head. 



MISCELLANEOUS P E M S. 



261 



These arc life's common scenes — thy regal dower 
Were but a drop flung in a boundless sea ; 

But thou mayst lead the way — the pomp of power 
Will make the careless many follow thee. § 

From glowing Ind to Huron's waters spreading 
Extends the empire that our sword hath won, 

There have our sails been peace and knowledge 
shedding, 
Upon thy sceptre never sets the sun. 

A nobler triumph still awaits thy winning, 
" The mind's ethereal war is in its birth ; 



The cross of Christ is en its way. beginning 
Its glorious triumph o'er the darken'd earth. 

God's blessing be upon thee, Royal Maiden ! 

And be thy throne - heaven's altar here below, 
With sweet thanksgivings, and with honours 
laden, 

Of moral victories o'er want and wo. 

Glorious and happy be the coming hours, 

Young Daughter of old England's Royal line ! 

As in an angel's pathway spring up flowers, 
So may a nation's blessing spring in thine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE ZEXAXA. 

What is there that the world hath not 
Gather'd in yon enchanted spot ] 
Where, pale, and with a languid eye, 
The fair Sultana listlessly 
Leans on her silken couch, and dreams 
Of mountain airs, and mountain streams. 
Sweet though the music float around, 
It wants the old familiar sound ; 
And fragrant though the flowers are breathing, 
Far and near together wreathing, 
They are not those she used to wear, 
Upon the midnight of her hair. — 

She's very young, and childhood's days 
With all their old remember'd ways, 
The empire of her heart contest 
With love, that is so new a guest ; 
When blushing with her jJurad near, 
Half timid bliss, half sweetest fear, 



To labour ere their strength be come, 

Or starve— such is the doom 
That makes of many an English home, 
One long and living tomb. 

s no overcharged picture : many a cottage in our 
villages— many a court in our cities, attest its truth. Ex- 
ample is the influence of a sovereign ; and royal sympathy 
will avail to draw that attention which is the harbinger of 
remedy. In the education of the poor, lies the true preser- 
vation against the worst ills of want. The f 
towards this object must be taken by the rich : Ih 
the two classes together, and for their mutual benefit. In- 
difference is startled out of selfish indulgence— and igno- 
rance awakened into hope. Instruction forms the habit, 
and lays open the resource— while the schemes that ori- 
ginated in pity will be matured by thought ; for to effect the 
oeneficial result, it is the mind that must direct the heart. 



E'e» the beloved past is dim, 

Past, present, future, merge in him. 

But he, the warrior and the chief, 

His hours of happiness are brief; 

And he must leave Xadira's side, 

To woo and win a ruder bride ; 

Sought, sword in hand and spur on heel, 

The fame, that weds with blood and steel 

And while from Delhi far away, 

His youthful bride pines through the day, 

Weary and sal : thus when again 

He seeks to bind love's loosen'd chain ; 

He finds the tears are scarcely dry 

Upon a cheek whose blood is faded, 
The very flush of v: : 

Is, like the brow he watches, shaded. 
A thousand thoughts are at her heart, 
His image paramount o'er all, 
Yet not all his, the tears that start, 

As mournful memories recall 
Scenes of another home, which y : 
That fond young heart cannot forget. 
She thinks upon that place of pride,* 
Which frown'd upon the mountain's side ; 
While round it spread the ancient plain, 
His steps will never ere 
And near those mighty temples j stand, 
The miracles of mortal hand ; 

* Dowixtabad.— A mountain ft rtress, : a the road lead 
ing to the Caves of Ellora. 

b ..— One of the centre Excavations at Ellora 
The compartment of sculpture re; . the plate, 

has Siva for the principal figure 

Budr, taking vengeance for an affront that has been offer 
eJ to his consort Parvati. " One of the right hands of Ehr 
Budr holds a cup, to catch the blood of the demon that he 
has transfixed with a spear, lest it should fall upon eartn. 
and demons spring up from it. On the left of the group 13 
Parvati, but mutilated and indistinct, seemingly : 
over the scene of vengeance." 



262 



MI Sis LANDON'S WORKS. 



Where, hidden from the common eye, 
The past's long buried secrets lie, 
Those mysteries of the first great creed, 
Whose mystic fancies were the seed 
Of every wild and vain belief, 
That held o'er man their empire brief, 
And turn'd beneath a southern sky, 
All that was faith to poetry. 
Hence had the Grecian fables birth, 
And. wander'd beautiful o'er earth ; 
Till every wood, and stream, and cave, 
Shelter to some bright vision gave : 
For all of terrible and strange, 

That from those gloomy caverns* sprung, 
From Greece received a graceful change, 

That spoke another sky and tongue, 
A finer eye, a gentler hand, 
Than in their native Hindoo land. 

'"Twas thence Nadira came, and still 
Her memory kept that lofty hill ; 
The vale below, her place of birth, 
That one charm'd spot, her native earth. 
Still haunted by that early love, 

Which youth can feel, and youth alone ; 
An eager, ready, tenderness, 

To all its after-life unknown 
When the full heart its magic flings, 
Alike o'er rare and common things, 
The dew of morning's earliest hour, 
Which swells but once from leaf and flower, 
From the pure life within supplied, 
A sweet but soon exhausted tide. 

There falls a shadow on the gloom, 
There steals a light step through the room, 
Gentle as love, that though so near, 
No sound hath caught the listening ear. 
A moment's fond watch o'er her keeping, 
Murad beholds Nadira weeping ; 
He who to win her lightest smile, 
Had given his heart's best blood the while. 

She turn'd, a beautiful delight 
Has flush'd the pale one into rose, 

Murad, her love, return'd to-night, 
Her tears, what recks she now of those 1 
Dried in the full heart's crimson ray, 
Ere he can kiss those tears away — 



* The Dher Warra is the caveat the southern extre- 
mity of Ellora. 

Excavated Temple op Kylas. — It is observed, in 
Elliot's Views of India, that of all the excavations, that of 
Kylas is " the most extraordinary and beautiful." This is 
no place to do more than allude to the wonderful influence 
o? the Ilindostan superstitions ; if they did not create, they 
at least furnished the material of the Grecian mythology, 
though softened and beautified by that poetical imagina- 
tion which formed in the classical time the golden age of 
po'etrv upon earth. 



And she is seated at his feet, 

Too timid his dear eyes to meet ; 

But happy ; for she knows whose brow 

Is bending fondly o'er her now. 

Alad eager for his sake to hear 

The records red of sword and spear, 

For his sake feels the colour rise, 

His spirit kindle in her eyes, 

Till her heart beating joins the cry 

Of Murad, and of victory. 

City of glories now r.o more, 
His camp extends by Bejapore,* 
Where the Mahratta's haughty race, 
Has won the Moslem conqueror's place ; 
A bolder prince now fills the throne, 
And he will struggle for his own. 
" And yet," he said, " when evening falls 
Solemn above those mouldering walls, 
Where the mosquesf cleave the starry air, 
Deserted at their hour of prayer, 
And rises Ibrahim's lonely tomb,t 

'Mid weed-grown shrines, and ruin'd towers, 
All mark'd with that eternal gloom, 

Left by the past to present hours. 
When human pride and human sway 
Have run their circle of decay ; 
And, mocking — the funereal stone, 
Alone attests its builder gone. 

! vain such temple, o'er the sleep 
Which none remain to watch or weep. 

1 could not choose but think how vain 
The struggle fierce for worthless gain. 
And calm and bright the moon look'd down 
O'er the white shrines of that fair town ; 

* Bejapore. — A more remarkable example of the vanity 
of all human grandeur, or of the short continuance of 
human power, than this desolate place affords, cannot, 
perhaps, be met with in the whole world. Its architectural 
remains may vie in size, magnificence, and beauty, with 
those nations that have been longest established upon 
earth; while the actual existence of its dominions scarcely 
doubles the period of time to which a man's natural life 
extends in these days. At Bejapore is the celebrated 

TajBowlee— a superb tank, or well, nearly a hundred 
yards square, and fifty feet deep." — Elliot. 

t The MooauE of Mustapha Khan remains entire ; 
the less substantial buildings around it have long been in 
ruins. 

t Ibrahim Padshah's Tomb— "On the exterior of the 
body of the Mausoleum, over which the dome is raised, the 
walls are carved into Arabic inscriptions, sculptured with 
great skill, and disposed in every variety of ornament. 
The gilding and enamel, however, is entirely defaced, 
excepting in a small part in one of the sides, where its re- 
mains give a faint idea of its former lustre. A person look- 
ing at the illuminated page of an OrientaLMS. magnifying 
this, and fancying it to be represented by sculpture, paint, 
ing, and gilding, on the face of a wall of black granite, 
will have some conception of the labour, skill, and bril- 
liancy of this work. The whole of the Koran is said to ba 
carved on the four sides of this elegant structure, in which 
the utmost art and taste of the architect and the sculptor 
have combined to produce the richest effect."— Sydenham 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



263 



While heavily the cocoa tree 
Droop'd o'er the walls its panoply, 
A warrior proud, whose crested head 
Bends mournful o'er the recent dead, 
And shadows deep athwart th \)lain, 
Usurp the silver moonbeam's ^ign ; 
For every ruin'd building cast 
Shadows, like memories of the past. 
And not a sound the wind brought nigh, 
Save the far jackal's wailing cry, 
And that came from the field now red 
With the fierce banquet I had spread: 
Accursed and unnatural feast, 
For worm, and fly, and bird, and beast ; 

While round me earth and heaven recorded 
The folly of life's desperate game, 

And the cold justice still awarded 
By time, which makes all lots the same. 
Slayer or slain, it matters not, 
We struggle, perish, are forgot ! 
The earth grows green above the gone, 
And the cairn heaven looks sternly on. 
'Twas folly this — the gloomy night 
Fled before morning's orient light ; 
City and river own'd its power, 
And I, too, gladden'd with the hour ; 
I saw my own far tents extend, 
My own proud crescent o'er them bend ; 
I heard the trumpet's glorious voice 
Summon the warriors of my choice. 
Again impatient on to lead, 
I sprang upon my raven steed, 
Again I felt my father's blood 
Pour through my veins its burning flood. 
My cimetar around I swung, 
Forth to the air its lightning sprung, 
A beautiful and fiery light, 
The meteor of the coming fight. 

" I turn'd from each forgotten grave 
To others, which the name they bear 

Will long from old oblivion save 
The heroes of the race I share. 
I thought upon the lonely isle* 
Where sleeps the lion king the while, 
Who look'd on death, yet paused to die 
Till comraded by Victory. 

* Shere Shah's Tome— is situate at Sasseram, in the 
centre of a tank of water, about a mile in circumference. 
The name of so renowned a warrior would be likely to 
occur to a young and enterprising chief, who must, of 
course, be familiar with his history. His original name 
was Ferid, changed to Shere Chan, in consequence of 
having killed a tiger with one blow of his sabre. At the 
siege of Callinger he was mortally wounded, by the burst- 
ing of a shell. "In this dreadful condition, the king began 
to breathe in great agonies ; he, however, encouraged the 
attack, and gave orders, till, in the evening, news was 
Drought him of the reduction of the place : he then cried 
out, * Thanks to Almighty God,' and expired."— Doic's 
History of Hindostan. 



And he, the noblest of my line, 

Whose tomb is now the warrior's shrine, 

(Where I were well content to be, 

So that such fame might live with me.) 

The light of peace, the storm of war, 

Lord of the earth, our proud Akbar.* 

" What though our passing day but be 
A bubble on eternity ; 
Small though the circle is, yet still 
'Tis ours to colour at our will. 
Mine be that consciousness of life 
Which has its energies from strife, 
Which lives its utmost, knowa its power, 
Claims from the mind its utmost dower - 
With fiery pulse, and ready hand, 
That wills, and willing wins command- 
That boldly takes from earth its best — 
To whom the grave can be but rest. 
Mine the fierce free existence spent 
'Mid meeting ranks and armed tent — 
Save the few moments which I steal 
At thy beloved feet to kneel — 
And own the warrior's wild career 
Has no such joy as waits him here- 
When all that hope can dream is hung 
Upon the music of thy tongue. 
Ah ! never is that cherish'd face 
Banish'd from its accustom'd place^ 
It shines upon my weariest night, 
It leads me on in thickest fight : 
All that seems most opposed to be 
Is yet associate with thee — 
Together life and thee depart, 
Dream — idol — treasure of my heart.' 

Again, again Murad must wield 
His cimetar in battle field : 
And must he leave his lonely flower 
To pine in solitary bower 1 
Has power no aid — has wealth no charm, 
The weight of absence to disarm 1 

Alas ! she will not touch her lute — 
What, sing 1 and not for Murad's ear ? 

The echo of the heart is mute, 
And that alone makes music dear. 
In vain, in vain, that royal hall 
Is deck'd as for a festival. 
The sunny birds, whose shining wings 
Seem as if bathed in golden springs, 
Though worth the gems they cost — and fair 
As those which knew her earlier care. 
The flowers — though there the rose expand 
The sweetest depths wind ever fann'd. 



* Akbak's Tomb.— Of this monarch, his historian, Abul 
Fazil, remarks, that "His name lives, the glory of the 
House of Timur, and an example of renown to the kinga 
of the world." 



264 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Ah, earth and sky have loveliest hues — 

But none to match that dearest red, 
Born of the heart, which still renews 

The life that on itself is fed. 
The maiden whom we love bestows 
Her magic on the haunted rose. 
Such was the colour — when her cheek 
Spoke what the lip might never speak. 
The crimson flush which could confess 
All that we hoped — but dared not guess. 
That blush which through the world is known 
To love, and to the rose alone — 
A sweet companionship, which never 
The poet's dreaming eye may sever. 
And there were tulips, whose rich leaves 
The rainbow's dying light receives ; 
For only summer sun and skies 
Could lend to earth such radiant dyes ; 
But still the earth shall have its share, 
The stem is green — the foliage fair — 
Those coronals of gems but glow 
Over the wither'd heart below — 
That one dark spot, like passion's fire, 
Consuming with its own desire. 
And pale, as one who dares not turn 
Upon her inmost thoughts, and learn, 
If it be love their depths conceal ; 
Love she alone is doom'd to feel — 
The jasmine droopeth mournfully 
Over the bright anemone, 
The summer's proud and sunburnt child : 
In vain the queen is not beguiled, 
They waste their bloom. Nadira's eye 
Neglects them. — Let them pine and die. 
Ah, birds and flowers may not suffice 
The heart that throbs with stronger ties. 
Again, again Murad is gone, 
Again his young bride weeps alone : 
Seeks her old nurse, to win her ear 
With magic stories once so dear, 
And calls the Almas to her aid. 

With graceful dance and gentle singing, 
And bells like those some desert home 

Hears from the camel's neck far ringing. 
Alas ! she will not raise her brow ; 
Yet stay — some spell hath caught her now : 
That melody has touch'd her heart. 
0, triumph of Zilara's art ; 
She listens to the mournful strain 
And bids her sing that song again. 



" My lonely lute, how can I ask 
For music from thy silent strings ? 

[t is too sorrowful a task, 

When only swept by memory's wings 

Yet waken from thy charmed sleep, 

Although I wake thee but to weep. 



" Yet once I had a thousand songs, 

As now I have but only one. 
Ah, love, whate'er to thee belongs, 

With all life's other links, has done ; 
And I can breathe no other words 
Than thou has left upon the chords. 

" They say Camdeo's* place of rest, 
When floating down the Ganges' tide, 

Is in the languid lotus breast, 

Amid whose sweets he loves to hide. 

O, false and cruel, though divine, 

What dost thou in so fair a shrine 1 

" And such the hearts that thou dost choose, 
As pure, as fair, to shelter thee ; 

Alas ! they know not what they lose 
Who chance thy dwelling-place to be. 

For, never more in happy dream 

Will they float down life's sunny stream 

" My gentle lute, repeat one name, 
The very soul of love, and thine : 

No ; sleep in silence, let me frame 
Some other love to image mine ; 

Steal sadness from another's tone, 

I dare not trust me with my own. 

" Thy chords will win their mournful way, 
All treasured thoughts to them belong ; 

For things it were so hard to say 
Are murmur'd easily in song — 

It is for music to impart 

The secrets of the burthen'd heart. 

" Go, taught by misery and love, 
And thou hast spells for every ear : 

But the sweet skill each pulse to move, 
Alas ! hath bought its knowledge dear — 

Bought by the wretchedness of years, 

A whole life dedicate to tears." 



The voice has ceased, the chords are mute, 
The singer droops upon her lute ; 
But, O, the fulness of each tone 
Straight to Nadira's heart hath gone — 
As if that mournful song reveal'd 
Depths in that heart till then conceal'd, 
A world of melancholy thought, 
Then only into being brought ; 
Those tender mysteries of the soul, 
Like words on an enchanted scroll, 
Wliose mystic meaning but appears 
When wash'd and understood by tears. 
She gazed upon the singer's face ; 
Deeply that young brow wore the trace 



* The Indian Cupid. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



265 



Of years that leave their stamp behind : 
Tho wearied hope — the fever'd mind — 
The heart which on itself hath turn'd, 
Worn out with feelings — slighted — spurn'd — 
Till scarce one throb remained to show 
What warm emotions slept below, 
Never to be renew'd again, 
And known but by remember'd pain. 

Her cheek was pale — impassion'd pale 

Like ashes white with former fire, 
Passion which might no more prevail, 

The rose had been its own sweet pyre. 
You gazed upon the large black eyes, 

And felt what unshed tears were there ; 
Deep, gloomy, wild, like midnight skies, 

When storms are heavy on the air — 
And on the small red lip sat scorn, 
Writhing from what the past had borne. 
But far too proud to sigh — the will, 
Though crush'd, subdued, was haughty still ; 
Last refuge of the spirit's pain, 
Which finds endurance in disdain. 

Others wore blossoms in their hair, 
And golden bangles round the arm. 

She took no pride in being fair, 
The gay delight of youth to charm ; 
The softer wish of love to please, 
What had she now to do with these ! 
She knew herself a barter'd slave, 
Whose only refuge was the grave. 

Unsoften'd now by those sweet notes, 
Which half subdued the grief they told, 

Her long black hair neglected floats 
O'er that wan face, like marble cold ; 
And carelessly her listless hand 
Wander'd above her lute's command 
But silently — or just a tone 
Woke into music, and was gone. 

" Come hither, maiden, take thy seat," 
Nadira said, "here at my feet." 
And, with the sweetness of a child 

Who smiles, and deems all else must smile, 
She gave the blossoms which she held, 
And praised the singer's skill the while ; 
Then started with a sad surprise, 
For tears were in the stranger's eyes 
Ah, only those who rarely know 

Kind words, can tell hew sweet they seem. 
Great God, that there are those below 

To whom such words are like a dream. 

" Come," said the young Sultana, « come 
To our lone garden by the river, 

Where summer hath its loveliest home, 
And where Camdeo fills his quiver. 

If, as thou sayest, 'tis stored with flowers, 

Where will he find them fair as ours 1 
(34) 



And the sweet songs which thou canst sing 
Methinks might charm away his sting " 

The evening banquet soon is spread — 
There the pomegranate's rougher red 
Was cloven, that it might disclose 
A colour stolen from the rose — 
The brown pistachio's glossy shell, 
The citron where faint odours dwell ; 
And near the watermelon stands, 
Fresh from the Jumna's shining sands , 
And golden grapes, whose bloom and hue 
Wear morning light and morning dew, 
Or purple with the deepest dye 
That flushes evening's farewell sky. 
And in the slender vases glow — 
Vases that seem like sculptured snow- 
The rich sherbets are sparkling bright 
With ruby and with amber light. 
A fragrant mat the ground o'erspread, 
With an old tamarind overhead, 
With drooping bough of darkest green, 
Forms for their feast a pleasant screen. 

'Tis night, but such delicious time 
Would seem like day in northern clime. 
A pure and holy element, 
Where light and shade, together blent. 
Are like the mind's high atmosphere, 
When hope is calm and heaven is near. 
The moon is young — her crescent brow 
Wears its ethereal beauty now, 
Unconscious of the crime and care, 
Which even her brief reign must know, 

Till she will pine to be so fair, 
With such a weary world below. 
A tremulous and silvery beam 
Melts over palace, garden, stream ; 
Each flower beneath that tranquil ray. 
Wears other beauty than by day, 
All pale as if with love, and lose 
Their rich variety of hues — 

But ah, that languid loveliness 
Hath magic, to the noon unknown, 

A deep and pensive tenderness, 
The heart at once feels is its own — 
How fragrant to these dewy hours, 

The white magnolia lifts its urn 
The very Araby of flowers, 

Wherein all precious odours burn. 
And when the wind disperses these, 
The faint scent of the lemon trees 
Mingles with that rich sigh which dwells 
Within the baubool's* golden bells. 
The dark green peepul's f glossy leaves, 
Like mirrors each a ray receives, 



* A favourite Indian flower. 

t A tree usually planted by graves. 



266 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



While luminous the moonlight falls, 
O'er pearl kiosk and marble walls, 
Those graceful palaces that stand 
Most like the work of peri-land. 
And rippling to the lovely shore, 

The river tremulous with light, 
On its small waves, is cover'd o'er 

With the sweet offerings of the night- 
Heaps of that scented grass whose bands 
Have all been wove by pious hands, 
Or wreaths, where fragrantly combined, 
Red and white lotus flowers are twined. 
And on the deep blue waters float 
Many a cocoanut's small boat, 
Holding within the lamp which bears 
The maiden's dearest hopes and prayers, 
Watch'd far as ever eye can see, 
A vain but tender augury. 
Alas ! this world is not his home, 
And still love trusts that signs will come 
From his own native world of bliss, 
To guide him through the shades of this 
Dreams, omens, he delights in these, 
For love is link'd with fantasies. 

But, hark ! upon the plaining wind 
Zilara's music floats again ; 

That midnight breeze could never find 
A meeter echo than that strain, 
Sad as the sobbing gale that sweeps 
The last sere leaf which autumn keeps, 
Yet sweet as when the waters fall, 
And make some lone glade musical. 



" Lady, sweet Lady, song of mine 
Was never meant for thee, 

I sing but from my heart, and thine — 
It cannot beat with me. 

" You have not knelt in vain despair, 

Beneath a love as vain, 
That desperate — that devoted love, 

Life never knows again. 

" What know you of a weary hope, 

The fatal and the fond, 
That feels it has no home on earth. 

Yet dares not look beyond ] 

" The bitterness of wasted youth, 

Impatient of its tears ; 
The dreary days, the feverish nights, 

The long account of years. 

" The vain regret, the dream destroy'd, 

The vacancy of heart, 
When life's illusions, one by one. 

First darken — then depart. 



" The vacant heart ! ah, worse, — a shrine 

.For one beloved name ; 
Kept, not a blessing, but a curse, 
Amid remorse and shame. 

" To know how deep, how pure, how true 

Your early feelings were ; 
But mock'd, betray'd, disdain'd, and changed 

They have but left despair. 

" And yet the happy and the young 

Bear in their hearts a well 
Of gentlest, kindliest sympathy, 

Where tears unbidden dwell. 

" Then, lady, listen to my lute ; 

As angels look below, 
And e'en in heaven pause to weep 

O'er grief they cannot know." 



The song was o'er, but yet the strings 
Made melancholy murmurings ; 
She wander'd on from air to air, 
Changeful as fancies when they bear 
The impress of the various thought, 
From memory's twilight caverns brought. 
At length, one wild peculiar chime, 
Recall'd this tale of ancient time. 



THE RAKI.* 

" There's dust upon the distant wind, and shadow 
on the skies, 

And anxiously the maiden strains her long-expect- 
ing eyes 

And fancies she can catch the light far flashing 
from the sword, 

And see the silver crescent raised, of him, the 
Mogul lord. 

" She stands upon a lofty tower, and gazes o'er 

the plain : 
Alas ! that eyes so beautiful, should turn to heaven 

in vain. 



* The Raki — The gift of a bracelet, whose acceptance 
was expressed by the return of a vest. It is a Rajpoot 
custom. Where there is both valour and beauty, it were 
hard not to find something of chivalric observance ; and tha 
one alluded to, excels in devotion any record of the old 
romances, however their heroes might be vou.es aux dames. 
The chieftain to whom the Raid (anglic6, bracelet) was 
sent, became bound to the service of some unknown dame, 
whose bright eyes could dispense no reward, inasmuch as 
he was never to see them; the "bracelet-bound brother," 
and his adopted sister, never holding any intercourse 
Humaioon accepted this gage from Kurnavati,the princess 
of Cheetore, and at her summons abandoned his nearly 
completed conquest of Bengal, and flew to succour, or &\ 
least avenge. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



261 



'Tis but a sudden storm whose weight is darken- 
ing on the air, 

The lightning sweeps the hill, but shows no com- 
ing warriors there. 

" Yet crimson as the morning ray, she wears the 

robe of pride, 
That binds the gallant Humaioon, a brother, to her 

side. 
His gift, what time around his arm the glittering 

band was roll'd, 
With stars of every precious stone enwrought in 

shining gold. 

" Bound by the Raid's sacred tie, his ready aid to 

yield, 
Though beauty waited in the bower, and glory in 

the field : 
Why comes he not, that chieftain vow'd, to this 

her hour of need ? 
Has honour no devotcdness 1 has chivalry no 

speed 1 

" The young Sultana gazes round, she sees the 

plain afar, 
Spread shining to the sun, which lights no trace 

of coming war. 
The very storm has past away, as neither earth nor 

heaven 
One token of their sympathy had to her anguish 

given. „ 

u And still more hopeless than when last, she on 

their camp look'd down, 
The foeman's gather'd numbers close round the 

devoted town : 
And daily in that fatal trench her chosen soldiers 

fall, 
And spread themselves a rampart vain, around that 

ruin'd wall. 

u Her eyes upon her city turn — alas ! what can 
they meet, 

But famine, and despair, and death, in every lone- 
ly street 1 

Women and children wander pale, or with de- 
spairing eye 

Look farewell to their native hearths, and lay them 
down to die. 

" She seeks her palace, where her court collects in 

mournful bands, 
Of maidens who but watch and weep, and wring 

their weary hands. 
One word there came from her white lips, one 

word, she spoke no more ; 
But that word was for life and death, the young 

queen named — the Jojr. 



" A wild shriek fill'd those palace halls— one 

shriek, it was the last, 
All womanish complaint and wail have in its 

utterance past : 
They kneel at Kurnavati's feet, they bathe her 

hands in tears, 
Then hurrying to their task of death, each calm 

and stern appears. 

" There is a mighty cavern close beside the palace 

gate, 
Dark, gloomy temple meet., to make such sacrifice 

to fate : 
There heap they up all precious woods, the sandal 

and the rose, 
While fragrant oils and essences like some sweet 

river flows. 

" And shawls from rich Cashmere, and robes from 

Decca's golden loom, 
And caskets fill'd with Orient pearls, or yet more 

rare perfume ; 
And lutes and wreaths, all graceful toys, of 

woman's gentle care, 
And heap'd upon that royal pile, the general doom 

to share. 

" But weep for those the human things, so lovely 
and so young, 

The panting hearts which still to life so passion- 
ately clung ; 

Some bound to this dear earth by hope, and some 
by love's strong thrall, 

And yet dishonour's high disdain was paramount 
with all. 

" Her silver robe flow'd to her feet, with jewel* 

circled round, 
And in her long and raven hair the regal gems 

were bound ; 
And diamonds blaze, ruby and pearl were glitter 

ing in her zone, 
And there, with starry emeralds set, the radiant 

Kandjar* shone. 

" The young Sultana led the way, while in her 
glorious eyes 

Shone spiritual, the clear deep light, that is ir ; 
moonlit skies : 

Pale and resolved, her noble brow was worthy of 
a race 

Whose proud blood flow'd in those blue veins un- 
conscious of disgrace. 



* The Kandjar.— The Kandjar is a small poniard, s<n 
with gems, worn in the girdle of royal females, as a sign oi 
their rank. ' 



268 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



1 Solemn and slow with mournful chant, come 

that devoted band, 
And Kumavati follows last — the red torch in her 

hand : 
She fires the pile, a death-black smoke mounts 

from that dreary cave — 
Fling back the city gates — the foe, can now find 

but a grave. 

" Hark the fierce music on the wind, the atabal, 
the gong, 

The stern avenger is behind, he has not tarried 
long; 

They brought his summons, though he stood be- 
fore his plighted bride ; 

They brought his summons, though he stood in 
all but victory's pride. 

" Yet down he flung the bridal wreath, he left the 

field unwon, 
All that a warrior might achieve, young Humaioon 

had done : 
Too late — he saw the reddening sky, he saw the 

smoke arise, 
A few faint stragglers lived to tell the Ranee's 

sacrifice. 

" But still the monarch held a sword, and had a 

debt to pay \. 
Small cause had Buhadour to boast — the triumph 

of that day ; 
Again the lone streets flow'd with blood, and 

though too late to save, 
Vengeance was the funeral rite at Kurnavati's 

grave." 



Deep silence chain'd the listeners round, 
When, lo, another plaintive sound, 
Came from the river's side, and there 
They saw a girl with loosen'd hair 
Seat her beneath a peepul tree, 
Where swung her gurrah* mournfully, 
Fill'd with the cool and limpid wave, 
An offering o'er some dear one's grave. 
At once Zilara caught the tone, 
And made it, as she sun^, her own. 



" weep nut o'er the quiet grave, 
Although the spirit lost be near : 

Weep not, for well those phantoms know 
How vain the grief above their bier. 



* Gurrah.— The Gurrah is the water-jar which the 
Hindoo women poise so gracefully on their heads. Heber 
mentions, that they hang gurrahs on the peepul, a species 
t»f sacred tree ; and much planted about graves, that the 
spirits of \ke deceased mav drink tha holy waves of the 
Ganges. 



Weep not — ah no, 'tis best to die, 
Ere all of bloom from life js fled ; 

Why live, when feelings, friends, and faith 
Have long been number'd with the dead ' 

" They know no rainbow hope that weeps 

Itself away to deepest shade ; 
Nor love, whose very happiness 

Should make the trusting heart afraid. 
Ah, human tears are tears of fire, 

That scorch and wither as they flow ; 
Then let them fall for those who live, 

And not for those who sleep below. 

" Yes, weep for those, whose silver chain 

Has long been loosed, and yet live on ; 
The doom'd to drink from life's dark spring, 

Whose golden bowl has long been gone. 
Aye, weep for those, the weary, worn, 

The bound to earth by some vain tie : 
Some lingering love, some fond regret, 

Who loathe to live, yet fear to die." 



A moment's rest, and then once more 
Zilara tried her memory's store, 
And woke, while o'er the strings she bow'd, 
A tale of Rajahstan the proud. 



KISHEN ROWER.* 

" Bold as the falcon that faces the sun, 
Wild as the streams when in torrents they run, 
Fierce as the flame when the jungle's on fire, 
Are the chieftains who call on the day-star as 

sire. 
Since the Moghuls were driven from stately 

Mandoo,j 
And left but their ruins their reign to renew, 
Those hills have paid tribute to no foreign lord, 
And their children have kept what they won by 

the sword. 



* Kishen Kower.— The history of Kishen Kower is of a 
later period than, properly speaking, becomes to my story. 
I trust the anachronism will be its own excuse. "Without 
entering into the many intrigues to which she was sacri- 
ficed, it is only needful to observe, that her hand was 
claimed by the kings of Jeypour and Joudpour. A de- 
structive war was the consequence, for marriage with the 
one must incur the enmity of the other. A weak father, 
and an ambitious minister, led to the immolation of the 
beautiful victim ; an unmarried daughter being held to Le 
the greatest possible disgrace. 

■f Julima Musjid, Mandoo.— Mandoo is the deserted ca 
pital of the Mohammedan sovereigns of Malwa, who after- 
wards gave way to the dynasty of the Kajpoots : it is a 
proof of its former magnificence, that seven hundred ele- 
phants, in velvet housings, belonged to one of its monarchs 
" The tiger now hath chief dominion there." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



269 



Yet downcast each forehead, a sullen dismay 
At Oudeypoor reigns in the Durbar* to-day, 
For bootless the struggle, and weary the fight, 
Which Adjeit Sing pictures with frown black as 

night : — 
" fatal the hour, when Makundra's dark passj- 
Saw the blood of our bravest sink red in the 

grass ; 
And the gifts which were destined to honour the 

bride, 
By the contest of rivals in crimson were dyed. 
Where are the warriors who once wont to stand 
The glory and rampart of Rajahstan's land 1 
Ask of the hills for their young and their brave, 
They will point to the valleys beneath as their 

graved 
The mother sits pale by her desolate hearth, 
And weeps o'er the infant an orphan from birth ; 
While the eldest boy watches the dust on the 

spear, 
Which as yet his weak hand is unable to rear. 
The fruit is ungather'd, the harvest unsown, 
And the vulture exults o'er our fields as his own : 
There is famine on earth — there is plague in the 

air, 
And all for a woman whose face is too fair." 
There was silence like that from the tomb, for no 

sound 
Was heard from the chieftains who darken'd 

around, 
When the voice of a woman arose in reply, 
' The daughters of Rajahstan know how to die.' 

" Day breaks, and the earliest glory of morn 
Afar o'er the tops of the mountains is borne ; 



* The court, or divan, to use a term familiar to most Eng- 
lish readers. 

t The Pass op Makundra.— A rocky entrance to 
Malwa, well suited to be the scene of any predatory ex- 
cursion. 

t Perawa.— A small town in Malwa ; doubtless, even 
within the last few years, witness to scenes like those 
sketched in the text. Like most mountain countries, the 
whole district was inhabited by a warlike and turbulent 
race ; a curious anecdote of the inflammable nature of the 
people, is told in the History of Central India. " The war 
with the Pindarries was over, and the country was in a 
atate of tolerable tranquillity, when a sudden agitation was 
produced among the peaceable inhabitants, by a number 
of cocoanuts being passed from village to village, with a 
mysterious direction to speed them in specific directions. 
The signal flew with unheard-of celerity. The potail of 
every village, wherever one of these cocoanuts came, car- 
lled it himself with breathless haste to another, to avert a 
curse, which was denounced upon all who impeded or 
stopped them for a moment. Every inquiry was instituted ; 
the route of the signal was traced for several hundred 
miles, but no certain information was obtained ; and a cir- 
cumstance, which produced for upwards of a month a very 
serious sensation over all Central India, remains to this 
moment a complete mystery.''— Elliot. It is really quite 
delightful to think that there should be such a thing as a 
mystery left in the world. 



Then the young Kishen Kowcr wander'd through 

the green bowers, 
That shelter'd the bloom of the island of flowers ; 
Where a fair summer palace arose 'mid the shade,. 
Which a thousand broad trees for the noon-hour 

had made. 
Far around spread the hills with their varying hue, 
From the deepest of purple to faintest of blue ; 
On one side the courts of the Rana are spread 
The white marble studded with granite's deep 

red ; 
While far sweeps the terrace, and rises the dome, 
Till lost in the pure clouds above like a home. 
Beside is a lake cover'd over with isles, 
As the face of a beauty is varied with smiles ; 
Some small, just a nest for the heron that 

springs 
From the long grass, and flashes the light from its 

wings ; 
Some bearing one palm tree, the stately and fair, 
Alone like a column aloft in the air ; 
While others have shrubs and sweet plants that 

extend 
Their boughs to the stream o'er whose mirror they 

bend. 
The lily that queenlike uprears to the sun, 
The loveliest face that his light is upon ; 
While beside stands the cypress, which darkens 

the wave 
With a foliage meant only to shadow the grave. 

" But the isle in the midst was the fairest of all 
Where ran the carved trellis around the light hall ; 
Where the green creeper's starry wreaths, scented 

and bright, 
Woo'd the small purple doves 'mid their shelter 

to light ; 
There the proud oleander with white tufts was 

hung, 
And the fragile clematis its silver showers flung, 
And the nutmeg's soft pink was near lost in the 

pride 
Of the pomegranate blossom that blush'd at its 

side. 
There the butterflies flitted around on the leaves, 
From which every wing its own colour receives ; 
There the scarlet-finch past like a light on the 

wind, 
And the hues of the bay as* like sunbeams com- 
bined ; 
Till the dazzled eye sought from such splendours t« 

rove, 
And rested at last on the soft lilac dove ;+ 



* The Bayas.— Small crested sparrows, with bright yer 
low breasts. 

t The Kokle.— Miss Roberts, to whose " Oriental 
Scenes" I am indebted for so much information, gracefully 
and fancifully says, " When listening to the song of th.R 

z2 



270 



MISS LAN DON'S WORKS. 



Whose song seern'd a dirge that at evening should 

be 
Pour'd forth from the height of the sad cypress 

tree. 
Her long dark hair plaited with gold on each 

braid : 
Her feet bound with jewels which flashed through 

the shade ; 
One hand fill'd with blossoms, pure hyacinth bells 
Which treasure the summer's first breath in their 

cells ; 
The other caressing her white antelope, 
In all the young beauty of life and of hope. 
The princess roved onwards, her heart in her eyes, 
That sought their delight in the fair earth and 



0, loveliest time ! O, happiest day ! 

When the heart is unconscious, and knows not its 

sway, 
When the favourite bird, or the earliest flower, 
Or the crouching fawn's eyes, make the joy of the 

hour, 
And the spirits and steps are as light as the sleep 
Which never has waken'd to watch or to weep. 
She bounds o'er the soft grass, half woman, half 

child, 
As gay as her antelope, almost as wild. 
The bloom of her cheek is like that on her years ; 
She has never known pain, she has never known 

tears, 
And thought has no grief, and no fear to impart ; 
The shadow of Eden is yet on her heart. 

" The midnight has fallen, the quiet, the deep, 
Yet in yon Zenana none lie down for sleep. • 
Like frighted birds gather'd in timorous bands, 
The young slaves within it are wringing their 

hands. 
The mother hath cover'd her head with her veil, 
She weepeth no tears, and she maketh no wail ; 
But all that lone chamber pass silently by ; 
She has flung her on earth to despair and to die. 
But a lamp is yet burning in one dismal room, 
Young princess ; where now is thy morning of 

bloom 1 
Ah, ages, long ages, have pass'd in a breath, 
And life's bitter knowledge has heralded death. 
At the edge of the musnud* she bends on her 

knee, 
While her eyes watch the face of the stern Chand 

Baee.y 



kokle, its melancholy cadences, and abrupt termination, 
always impressed my mind with the idea, that the broken 
strains were snatches of some mournful story, too full of 
wo to be told at once." 

* The Musnud. — A sort of matrass assigned as the place 
of honour, usually covered with gold cloth, velvet, or em- 
broidery, and placed on the floor. 

+ Chand Baee was the aunt of Kishan Kower, and on her 
devolved the task of preparing the unfortunate Princess. 



Proud, beautiful, fierce ; while she gazes, the tone 
Of those high murky features grows almost hei 

own; 
And the blood of her race rushes dark to her brow, 
The spirit of heroes has enter'd her now. 
" ' Bring the death-cup, and never for my sake 

shall shame 
Quell the pride of my house, or dishonour its 

name.' 
She drain'd the sherbet, while Chand Baee look'd 

on, 
Like a warrior that marks the career of his son. 
But life is so strong in each pure azure vein, 
That they take not the venom — she drains it 

again. 
The haughty eye closes, the white teeth are set, 
And the dew-damps of pain on the wrung brov» 

are wet : 
The slight frame is writhing — she sinks to the 

ground ; 
She yields to no struggle, she utters no sound — 
The small hands are clench' d — they relax — it is 

past, 
And her aunt kneels beside her — kneels weeping 

at last. 
Again morning breaks over palace and lake, 
But where are the glad eyes it wont to awake. 
Weep, weep, 'mid a bright world of beauty and 

bloom, 
For the sweet human flower that lies low in the, 

tomb. 
And wild through the palace the death-song is 

breathing, 
And white are the blossoms, the slaves weep while 

wreathing, 
To strew at the feet, and to bind round the head, 
Of her who was number'd last night with the 

dead : 
They braid her long tresses, they drop the shroud 

o'er, 
And gaze on her cold and pale beauty no more : 
But the heart has her image, and long after years 
Will keep her sad memory with music and tears." 



Days pass, yet still Zilara's song 

Beguiled the fair Sultana's hours, 
As the wind bears some bird along 

Over the haunted orange bowers. 
'Twas as till then she had not known 
How much her heart had for its own ; 
And Murad's image seem'd more dear, 

These higher chords of feeling strung : 
And love shone brighter for the shade 

That others' sorrows round it flung. 

It was one sultry noon, yet sweet 

The air which through the matted grass 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



271 



Came cool — its breezes had to meet 

A hundred plumes, ere it could pass ; 
The peacock's shining feathers wave 
Prom many a young and graceful slave ; 
Who silent kneel amid the gloom 
Of that dim and perfumed room. 

Beyond, the radiant sunbeams rest 
On many a minaret's glittering crest, 
And white the dazzling tombs below, 
Like masses sculptured of pure snow : 
While round stands many a giant tree, 
Like pillars of a sanctuary, 
Whose glossy foliage, dark and bright, 
Reflects, and yet excludes the light. 
sun, how glad thy rays are shed ; 
How canst thou glory o'er the dead 1 

Ah, folly this of human pride, 
What are the dead to one like thee, 

Whose mirror is the mighty tide, 
Where time flows to eternity 1 
A single race, a single age, 
What are they in thy pilgrimage ] 
The tent, the palace, and the tomb 
Repeat the universal doom. 
Man passes, but upon the plain 
Still the sweet seasons hold their reign, 
As if earth were their sole domain, 
And man a toy and mockery thrown 
Upon the world he deems his own. 

All is so Calm — the sunny air 
Has not a current nor a shade ; 

The vivid green the rice fields wear 
Seems of one moveless emerald made ; 
Tfie Ganges' quiet waves are roll'd 
In one broad sheet of molten gold ; 
And in the tufted brakes beside, 
The water fowls and herons hide. 
And the still earth might almost seem 
The strange creation of a dream. 
Actual, breathless — dead, yet bright — 
Unblest with life, yet mock'd with light, 
It mocks our nature's fate and power, 
When we look forth in such an hour, 

And that repose in nature see, 
The fond desire of every heart ; 

"But, O ! thou inner world, to thee, 
What outward world can e'er impart 1 

But turn we to that darken'd hall 
Where the cool fountain's pleasant fall 
Wakens the odours yet unshed 
From the blue hyacinth's drooping head j 
And on the crimson couch beside 
Reclines the young and royal bride; 
Not sleeping, though the water's chime y 
The lulling flowers, the languid time, 



Might soothe her to the gentlest sleep, 
O'er which the genii watchings keep, 
And shed from their enchanted wings, 
All loveliest imaginings : 
No, there is murmuring in her ear, 
A voice than sleep's more soft and dear ; 
While that pale slave with drooping eye 
Speaks mournfully of days gone by ; 
And every plaintive word is fraught 
With music which the heart has taught, 
A pleading and confiding tone, 
To those mute lips so long unknown. 
Ah ! all in vain that she had said, 
To feeling, " slumber like the dead ;" 
Had bade each pang that might convulse 
With fiery throb the beating pulse, 
Each faded hope, each early dream, 
Sleep as beneath a frozen stream ; 
Such as her native mountains bear, 
The cold white hills around Jerdair ;* 
Heights clad with that eternal snow, 
Which happier valleys never know. 
Some star in that ungenial sky, 
Might well shape such a destiny ; 
But till within the dark calm grave, 
There yet will run an under-wave, 
Which human sympathy can still 
Excite and melt to tears at will ; 
No magic any spell affords, 
Whose power like a few kind words. 

'Twas strange the contrast in the pair, 

That leant upon that cool fountain's side , 
Both very young, both very fair, 

By nature, not by fate allied : 
The one a darling and delight, 
A creature like the morning bright : 
Whose weeping is the sunny shower 
Half light upon an April hour ; 
One who a long glad childhood past, 

But left that happy home to 'bide 
Where love a deeper shadow cast, 

A hero's proud and treasured bride : 
Who her light footstep more adored, 
Than all the triumphs of his sword ; 
Whose kingdom at her feet the while, 
Had seem'd too little for a smile. 

But that pale slave was as the tomb 
Of her own youth, of her ow r n bloom ; 
Enough remain'd to show how fair, 
In other days those features were, 
Still linger'd delicate and fine, 
The shadow 7 of their pure outline : 
The small curved lip, the glossy brow, 

That melancholy beauty wore, 



* Jerdair is a small village situated amid the hiiis vi 
Gurvvall, within fifty miles of the Himalaya mountains. 



272 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Whose spell is in the silent past, 

Which saitli to love and hope, " No more ;" 
No more, for hope hath long forsaken 

Love, though at first it's gentle guide 
First lull' d to sleep, then left to 'waken, 

'Mid tears and scorn, despair and pride, 
And only those who know can tell, 
What love is after hope's farewell. 
And first she spoke of childhood's time, 

Little, what childhood ought to be, 
When tenderly the gentle child 

Is cherish'd at its mother's knee, 
Who deems that ne'er before, from heaven 
So sweet a thing to earth was given. 
But she an orphan had no share 
In fond affection's early care , 
She knew not love until it came 
Far other, though it bore that name. 

" I felt," she said, " all things grow bright ! 

Before the spirit's inward light. 

Earth was more lovely, night and day, 

Conscious of some enchanted sway, 

That flung around an atmosphere 

I had not deem'd could brighten here. 

And I have gazed on Moohreeb's face, 

As exiles watch their native place ; 

I knew his step before it stirr'd 

From its green nest the cautious bird. 

I woke, till eye and cheek grew dim, 

Then slept — it was to dream of him ; 

I lived for days upon a word 

Less watchful ear had never heard : 

And won from careless look or sign 

A happiness too dearly mine. 

He was my world — I wish'd to make 

My heart a temple for his sake. 

It matters not — such passionate love 

Has only life and hope above ; 

A wanderer from its home on high, 

Here it is sent to droop and die. 

He loved me not — or but a day, 

I was a flower upon his way : 

A moment near his heart enshrined, 

Then flung to perish on the wind." 

She hid her face within her hands — 
Methinks the maiden well might weep'. 

The heart it has a weary task 

Which unrequited love must keep ; 

At once a treasure and a curse, 

The shadow on its universe. 

Alas for young and wasted years, 

For long nights only spent in tears ; 

For hopes / like lamps in some dim un\ 

That but for the departed burn. 

Alas for her whose drooping brow 



At first Nadira wept to see 
That hopelessness of misery. 

But, O, she was too glad, too young, 
To dream of an eternal grief; 

A thousand thoughts within her sprung, 
Of solace, promise, and relief. 
Slowly Zilara raised her head, 
Then, moved by some strong feeling, raid, 
" A boon, sultana, there is one 
Which won by me, were heaven won ; 
Not wealth, not freedom — wealth to me 
Is worthless, as all wealth must be, 
When there are none its gifts to share : 
For whom have I on earth to care 1 
None from whose head its golden shrine 
May ward the ills that fell on mine. 
And freedom — 'tis a worthless boon, 
To one who will be free so soon ; 
And yet I have one prayer, so dear, 
I dared not hope — I only fear." 
" Speak, trembler, be your wish confest, 
And trust Nadira with the rest." 
" Lady, look forth on yonder tower, 
There spend I morn and midnight's hcor s 
Beneath that lonely peepul tree — * 
Well may its branches wave o'er me, 
For their dark wreaths are ever shed 
The mournful tribute to the dead — 
There sit I, in fond wish to cheer 
A captive's sad and lonely ear, 
And strive his drooping hopes to raise, 
With songs that breathe of happier days. 
Lady, methinks I scarce need tell 
The name that I have loved so well ; 
'Tis Moohreeb, captured by the sword 
Of him, thy own unconquer'd lord. 
Lady, one word — one look from thee, 
And Murad sets that captive free." 
" And you will follow at his side ?" 
" Ah, no, he hath another bride ; 
And if I pity, canst thou bear 
To think upon her lone despair 1 
No, break the mountain chieftain's chain, 
Give him to hope, home, love again." 

Her cheek with former beauty blush'd, 
The crimson to her forehead rush'd, 
Her eyes rekindled till their light 
Flash'd from the lash's summer night. 
So eager was her prayer, so strong 
The love that bore her soul along. 
Ah ! many loves for many hearts ; 

But if mortality has known 
One which its native heaven imparts 

To that fine soil where it has grown ; 



* Bishop Heber mentions a picturesque custom prevalent 
in one of the Rajpoot tribes. The death of a warrior is 
only announced to his family by branches of the peepul 
tree strewed before his door 



xMISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



273 



'Tis in that first and early feeling, 
Passion's most spiritual revealing ; 
Halt dream, all poetry — whose hope 
Colours life's charm'd horoscope 
With hues so beautiful, so pure — 
Whose nature is not to endure. 
As well expect the tints to last, 
The rainbow on the storm hath cast. 
Of all young feelings, love first dies, 
Soon the world piles its obsequies ; 
Yet there have been who still would keep 
That early vision dear and deep, 
The wretched they, but love requires 
Tears, tears to keep alive his fires : 
The happy will forget, but those 
To whom despair denies repose, 
From whom all future light is gone, 
The sad, the slighted, still love on. 

The ghurrees* are chiming the morning hour, 
The voice of the priest is heard from the tower, 
The turrets of Delhi are white in the sun, 
Alas ! that another bright day has begun. 
Children of earth, ah ! how can ye bear 
This constant awakening to toil and to care ! 
Out upon morning, its hours recall, 
Earth to its trouble, man to its thrall, 
Out upon morning, it chases the night, 
With all the sweet dreams that on slumber alight ; 
Out upon morning, which wakes us to life, 
With its toil, its repining, its sorrow and strife. 
And yet there were many in Delhi that day, 
Who watch'd the first light, and rejoiced in the 

ray; 
They wait their young monarch, who comes from 

the field 
With a wreath on his spear, and a dent on his 

shield. 
There's a throng in the east, 'tis the king and his 

train : 
And first prance the horsemen, who scarce can re- 
strain 
Their steedsf that are wild as the wind, and as bold 
As the riders who curb them with bridles of gold : 
The elephants follow, and o'er each proud head 
The chattah that glitters with gems is outspread, 
Whence the silver bells fall with their musical 

sound, 
While the howdaht red trappings float bright on 

the ground : 



* The Ghurree is a sort of gong, on which the hour is 
truck when the brazen cup fills, and sinks down in the 
water of the vessel on which it floats. This primitive 
method of reckoning time is still retained in India. 

t One fashion I confess to having omitted: however, 
here it is in plain prose. The tails of the chargers are often 
ilyed a bright scarlet, which, when at full gallop, has much 
/he appearance of leaving a track of fire after them. 

t The Howdah is the seat on the elephant's neck ; often 
,'ormed of pure silver. 

(35) 



Behind stalk the camels, which, weary and worn, 
Seem to stretch their long necks, and repine at the 

morn ; 
And wild on the air the fierce war-echoes cone, 
The voice of the atabal, trumpet, and dram: 
Half lost in the shout that ascends from the crowds 
Who delight in the young, and the brave, and the 

proud. 
'Tis folly to talk of the right and the wrong, 
The triumph will carry the many along. 

A dearer welcome far remains, 
Than that of Delhi's crowded plains •* 
Soon Murad seeks the shadowy hall, 
Cool with the fountain's languid fall ; 
His own, his best beloved to meet. 
Why kneels Nadira at his feet 1 
With flushing cheek, and eager air, 
One word hath won her easy prayer ; 
It is such happiness to grant, 
The slightest fancy that can haunt 
The loved one's wish, earth hath no gem, 
And heaven to hope, too dear for them. 

That night beheld a vessel glide, 
Over the Ganges' onward tide ; 
One watch'd that vessel from the shore, 
Too conscious of the freight it bore, 
And wretched in her granted vow, 
Sees Moohreeb leaning by the prow, 
And knows that soon the winding river 
Will hide him from her view forever. 

Next mom they found the youthful slave 
Still kneeling by the sacred wave ; 
Jtler head was leaning on the stone 

Of an old ruin'd tomb beside, 
A fitting pillow cold and lone, 

The dead had to the dead supplied ; 
The heart's last string hath snapt in twain, 
0, earth, receive thine own again : 
The weary one at length has rest 
Within thy chill but quiet breast. 
Long did the young sultana keep 

The memory of that maiden's lute ; 
And call to mind her songs, and weep, 

Long after those charmed chords w r ere mule. 
A small white tomb was raised to show 
That human sorrow slept below ; 
And solemn verse and sacred line 
Were graved on that funereal shrine. 
And by its side the cypress tree 
Stood, like unchanging memory. 



* Delhi.— "The remains of this once magnificent and 
populous city exhibit so desolate and melancholy a scene, 
that it has more the look of an assemblage of dilapidated 
mansions of the dead than the living; and it isat this time 
difficult to imagine it to have ever been any thing else than 
a vast and splendid cemetery."— Elliot. 



274 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



And even to this hour are thrown 

Green wreaths on that remember'd stone ; 

And songs remain, whose tunes are fraught 

With music which herself first taught, 

And, it is said, one lonely star 

Still brings a murmur sweet and far 

Upon the silent midnight air, 

As if Zilara wander'd there. 

O ! if her poet soul be blent 

With its aerial element, 

May its lone course be where the rill 

Goes singing at its own glad will ; 

Where early flowers unclose and die ; 

Where shells beside the ocean lie, 

Fill'd with strange tones ; or where the breeze 

Sheds odours o'er the moonlit seas : 

There let her gentle spirit rove 

Embalm'd by poetry and love. 



JOHN KEMBLE. 

O ! glorious triumph, thus to sway at will 
All feelings in our nature ; thus to work 
The springs of sympathy, the mines of thought, 
And all the deep emotions of the heart. 

To colour the fine paintings of the mind, 
And bid them move and breathe. Our island bard, 
He who flung human life upon his page, 
How much he owes the actor. Kemble once 
Made Hamlet, Cato, and the Noble Moor, 
Our own familiar friends — they lived, they look'd, 
And left an actual image on the soul. m 

I would I could remember them, but he 
Who looks yon pale and melancholy prince, 
Was past before my time — yet still the stage 
Is fancy's world of poetry to me — 
For I have heard the pathos of the Moor 
Tremble in broken music, when he bids 
His last farewell to Venice, and implores 
For charity and rest : — and I have wept 
When the stern father slays his only child, 
That he may keep her memory a thing 
To shelter in his heart. Nor is she least 
Amid these haunting shapes — that gentle wife, 
Who kept one stainless faith through long, long 

years, 
Of utter hopelessness, and yet loved on ; 
Till Mantua ranks within my memory, 
With those, Italian cities which have been 
The visions of my youth. 
I know not how it acts on other minds, 
But this I know, my most enchanted world 
Is hidden when the curtain falls, and leaves 
Remembrance only of its gorgeous dreams 
And beautiful creations. 



THE DANCING GIRL. 

A light and joyous figure, one that seems 
As if the air were her own element ; 
Begirt with cheerful thoughts, and bringing back 
Old days, when nymphs upon Arcadian plains 
Made musical the wind, and in the sun 
Flash'd their bright cymbals and their whites} 

hands. 
These were the days of poetry — the woods 
Were haunted with sweet, shadows ; and the caves 
Odorous with moss, and lit with shining spars, 
Were homes where Naiades met some graceful 

youth 
Beneath the moonlit heaven — all this is past ; 
Ours is a darker and a sadder age ; 
Heaven help us through it ! — 'tis a weary world 
The dust and ashes of a happier time. 



A LEGEND OF TEIGNMOUTH. 

A stout of the olden time, when hearts 
Wore truer faith than now — a carved stone 
Is in a little ancient church which stands 
'Mid yonder trees, 'tis now almost defaced ; 
But careful eye may trace the mould 'ring lines, 
And kind tradition has preserved the tale ; 
I tell it nearly in the very words 
Which are the common legend. 

Some few brief hours, my gallant bark, 

And we shall see the shore ; 
My native, and my beautiful, 

That I will leave no more. 

And gallantly the white sails swept 

On, on before the wind ; 
The prow dash'd through the foam and left 

A sparkling line behind. 

The sun look'd out through the blue sky, 

A gladsome summer sun ; 
The white cliffs like his mirrors show 

Their native land is won. 

And gladly from the tall ship's side, 

Sir Francis hail'd the land, 
And gladly in his swiftest boat, 

Row'd onward to the strand. 

" I see my father's castle walls 

Look down upon the sea ; 
The red wine will flow there to-night, 

And all for love of me. 



MISC 

" I left a gentle maiden there : 

For all the tales they say 
Of woman's wrong and faithlessness 

To him who is away ; 

" I'll wager on her lily hand, 
Where's still a golden ring ; 

But, lady, 'tis a plainer one 
That o'er the seas I bring." 

His bugle sound the turret swept 
They meet him in the hall ; 

But 'mid dear faces where is hers, 
The dearest of them all 1 

Ah ! every brow is dark and sad, 

And every voice is low ; 
His bosom beats not as it beat 

A little while ago. 

They lead him to a darken'd room. 

A heavy pall they raise ; 
A face looks forth as beautiful 

As in its living days. 

A ring is yet upon the hand, 

Sir Francis, worn for thee. 
Alas ! that such a clay-cold hand, 

Should true love's welcome be ! 

He kiss'd that pale and lovely mouth, 

He laid her in the grave ; 
And then again Sir Francis sail'd 

Far o'er the ocean wave. 

To east and west, to north and south, 

That mariner was known ; 
A wanderer bound to many a shore, 

But never to his own. 

At length the time appointed came, 

He knew that it was come ; 
With pallid brow and wasted frame, 

That mariner sought home. 

The worn-out vessel reach'd the shore, 
The weary sails sank down ; 

The seamen clear'd her of the spoils 
From many an Indian town. 

\nd then Sir Francis fired the ship ; 

Yet tears were in his eyes, 
When the last blaze of those old planks 

Died in the midnight skies. 

Next morning, 'twas a Sabbath morn 
They sought that church, to pray ; 

And cold beside his maiden's tomb 
The brave Sir Francis lay. 

0, Death ! the pitying that restored 

The lover to his bride ; 
Once more the marble was unclosed, 

They laid him at her side. 



ELLANEOUS POEMS. $75 

And still the evening sunshine sheds 

Its beauty o'er that tomb ; 
Like heaven's own hope, to mitigate 

Earth's too unkindly doom. 



AIREY FORCE. 

Ate, underneath yon shadowy side, 
I could be fain to fix my home ; 

Where dashes down the torrent's pride, 
In sparkling wave, and silver foam. 

No other sound is waking there, 

But that perpetual voice, which seems 

Like spirit music on the air, 

An echo from the world of dreams. 

They were more wise in other days ; 

Then turn'd the hermit to his cell, 
And left a world where all betrays, 

Apart with his own thoughts to dwell. 

Content to curb the heart, to be 
Indifferent, quiet, mournful, cold 

With hopes turn'd into memory, 

With feelings that had lost then hold 

Far better this, than such vain life 
As is in crowded cities known ; 

Where care, repining, grief, and strife, 
Make every passing hour their own. 

There, by yon torrent's rushing wave, 
I'd pass what yet of time remain'd ; 

And feel the quiet of the grave 

Long ere that grave itself were gain'd. 



THE REPLY OF THE FOUNTAIN 

How deep within each human heart, 
A thousand treasured feelings lie ; 

Things precious, delicate, apart, 
Too sensitive for human eye. 

Our purest feelings, and our best, 

Yet shrinking from the common view'; 

Rarely except in song exprest, 

And yet how tender, and how true ' 

They wake, and know their power, when ev*i 
Flings on the west its transient glow ; 

Yet long dark shadows dimly weave 
A gloom round some green path below 



2"?6 MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 

Who dreams not then — the young dream on- 
Life traced at hope's delicious will ; 

And those whose youth of heart is gone, 
Perhaps have visions dearer still. 



They rise, too, when expected least, 
When gay yourself, amid the gay, 

The heart from revelry hath ceased 
To muse o'er hours long past away. 

And who can think upon the past 
And not weep o'er it as a grave 1 

How many leaves life's wreath has cast ! 
What lights have sunk beneath the wave ! 

.But most these deep emotions rise 

When, drooping o'er our thoughts alone, 

Our former dearest sympathies 

Come back, and claim us for their own. 

Such mood is on the maiden's mind 

Who bends o'er yon clear fount her brow ; 

Long years, that leave their trace behind, 
Long years, are present with her now. 

Yet, once before she ask'd a sign 

From that wild fountains plaintive song ; 

And silvery, with the soft moonshine, 
Those singing waters pass along. 

It was an hour of beauty, made 

For the young heart's impassion'd mood, 
For love of its sweet self afraid, 

For hope that colours solitude. 

Alas," the maiden sigh'd, " since first 
I said, fountain, read my doom ; 
What vainest fancies have I nurst, 
Of which I am myself the tomb ! 

" The love was check' d — the hope was vain, 
I deem'd that I could feel no more ; 

Why, false one, did we meet again, 
To show thine influence was not o'er 1 

" I thought Wat I could never weep 

Again, as I had wept for thee, 
That love was buried cold and deep, 

That pride and scorn kept watch by me. 

" My early hopes, my early tears 
Were now almost forgotten things, 

And other cares, and other years 

Had brought what all experience brings — 

* Indifference, weariness, disdain, 

That taught and ready smile which grows 
A habit soon — as streams retain 

The shape and light in which they froze. 



" Again I met that faithless eye, 
Again I heard that charmed tonguf 

I felt they were my destiny, 
I knew again the spell they flung. 



" Ah ! years have fled, since last his name 
Was breathed amid the twilight dim ; 

It was to dream of him, I came, 
And now again I dream of him. 

" But changed and cold, my soul has beer 
Too deeply wrung, too long unmoved, 

Too harden'd in life's troubled scene 
To love as I could once have loved. 

" Sweet fountain, once I ask'd thy waves 
To whisper hope's enchanted spell ! 

Now I but ask thy haunted caves 
To teach me how to say farewell." 

She lean'd her head upon her hand, 
She gazed upon that fountain lone 

Which wander'd by its wild flower stranc 
With a low, mournful, ceaseless moan. 

It soothed her with a sweet deceit 
Of pity, murmur'd on the breeze ; 

Ah deep the grief, which seeks to cheat 
Itself with fantasies like these 



THE WISHING GATE.* 

Wishes, no ! I have not one, 
Hope's sweet toil with me is done , 
One by one have flitted by, 
All the rainbows of the sky. 
Not a star could now unfold 
Aught I once wish'd to be told. 
What have I to seek of thee 1 
Not a wish remains for me. 

Let the soldier pause to ask, 
Honour on his glorious task ; 
Let the parting sailor crave 
A free wild wind across the wave ; 
Let the maiden pause to frame 
Blessings on some treasured name ; 
Let them breathe their hopes in thee. 
Not a wish remains for me. 

Not a wish ! beat not my heart, 
Thou hast bade thy dreams depart ; 
They have past, but left behind 
Weary spirit, wasted mind. 



* I believe that to this haunted gate a common super- 
stition is attached, namely, that to wish and to have that 
wish fulfilled, is the result of such wish being uttered 
while passing. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



277 



Ah ! if this old charm were sooth, 
One wish yet might tax its truth ; 
I would ask, however vain, 
Never more to wish again. 



HEBE. 

Youth ! thou art a lovely time, 
With thy wild and dreaming eyes ; 

Looking onwards to their prime, 
Colour'd by their April skies. 

Yet I do not wish for thee, 

Pass, O ! quickly pass from me. 

Thou hast all too touch unrest, 
Haunted by vain hopes and fears : 

Though thy cheek with smiles be drest, 
Yet that cheek is wet with tears. 

Bitter are the frequent showers. 

Falling in thy sunny hours. 

Let my heart grow calm and cold, 
Calm to sorrow, cold to love ; . 

Let affections loose their hold, 
Let my spirit look above. 

I am weary — youth, pass on, 

All thy dearest gifts are gone. 

She in whose sweet form the Greek 
Bade his loveliest vision dwell ; 

She of yon bright cup and cheek, 
From her native heaven fell : 

Type of what may never last, 

Soon the heaven of youth is past. 

O ! farewell — for never more 
Can thy dreams again be mine ; 

Hope and truth and faith are o'er, 
And the heart which was their shrine 

Has no boon of thee to seek, 

Asking but to rest or break. 



SHUHUR,* JEYPORE. 

A lonely grave, far from all kindred ties ; 
Lonely like life, and that was past afar 
From friends and home. 'Tis well that youth has 
hopes 



* Shuhur is a small town, in a wild part of Jeypore. The 
recent death of a young acquaintance in its neighbourhood, 
led to the above lines. Every traveller alludes to the me- 
lancholy appearance of European burying-grounds; with- 
out mourners or memorial, and almost without the common 
decencies of sepulture. 



That gladden with the future present hours ; 
Or else how sorrowful would seem the time 
Which parts the young bird from its parent nest. 
To wing its passage through the dreary world. 

Alas ! hope is not prophecy, — we dream, 
But rarely does the glad fulfilment come : 
We leave our land and we return no more 
Or come again, the weary and the worn. 

But yonder grave, where the dark branches 
droop, 
The only sign of mourning, early closed 
O'er the young English stranger ; — former love 
And other days were warm about his heart, 

When it grew cold forever 

And many are the tombs that scatter'd lie 

Alone neglected, o'er the Indian plains — 

'Tis the worst curse, on this cur social world, . 

Fortune's perpetual presence — wealth, which now 

Is like life's paramount necessity. 

For this, the household band is broken up, 

The hearth made desolate — and sunder'd hearts 

Left to forget or break. For this the earth 

Is cover'd with a thousand English graves, 

By whose side none remain to weep or pray ; 

Alas ! we do mistake, and vainly buy 

Our golden idols at too great a price. 

I'd rather share the lowest destiny, 

That dares not look beyond the present day, 

But treads on native ground, breathes native 

air, — 
Than win the wealth of worlds beyond the wave ; 
And pine and perish 'ncath a foreign sky 



PRESTON 



In the year 1715, the friends of the Pretender were de- 
feated here by the forces of George the First, under the 
command of Generals Willis and Carpenter. Having 
been joined by disaffected people, great numbers of therr. 
were made prisoners, brought to trial, and found guilty of 
high treason. Richard Chorley, Esq., of Chorley, was one 
of the number. — Fisher's Lancashire. 



Lo ! the banquet is over, — but one, only one, 
Remains when the mirth of the revel is done ; 
His forehead is dark as he paces the hall, 
He is bound by an oath which he cannot recall. 

The youngest, though chief of his house and his 

line, 
He has pledged the Stuart's health in his cwn 

Spanish wine ; 
The sword on the wall must start forth from it* 

sheath, 
For Richard of Chorley is bound to the death 
2a 



278 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



He is brave as the bravest that ever wore brand, 
Yet downcast his eye, and reluctant his hand. 
He lingers enthrall'd by that tenderest tie, 
For whose sake the bold are unwilling to die. 

A step in the silence, a shade on the gloom, 
And a lady thrice lovely hath enter'd the room ; 
He can see her lip quiver, can hear her heart beat, 
She kneels on the floor, and she sinks at his feet. 

He dares not look on her, he turns from her now, 
For the moonlight falls clear on her beautiful 

brow : 
One word from those lips, one glance from those 

eyes ; 
"Pis for life, or for death — if he leave her, she dies. 

'Tis for love or for honour — a woman for love 
Will yield every hope upon earth, or above ; 
But a soldier has honour — life's first and best 

chord ; 
He may die for his love, but he lives for his word. 

He belts on his sword, and he springs on his 

steed, 
And the spur is dyed red as he urges its speed ; 
The road flies before him, he passes the wind, 
But he leaves not the thoughts that oppress him 

behind. 

Alas for the White Rose ! its hour is gone by 
Its toil is unfriendly, inclement its sky ; 
The day of its pride and its beauty is o'er, 
The White Rose in England will blossom no 
more. 

Alas for its victims ! the green fields are spread, 
The green fields of England, with dying and dead ; 
But deeper the wail where these prison-walls 

stand, 
Where the captives are gather'd with gyves on 

each hand. 

The daybreak is bright, as with joy overspread, 
The face of the east wears a glorious red ; 
The dew's on the hawthorn, the early wild flowers 
Smile out a sweet welcome to morning's glad 
hours. 

But dark looms the gibbet on high in the air, 
While the shuddering gaze turns from the sight 

that is there : 
Dishonour'd — degraded — a mock for the crowd, 
Can this be the doom of the young and the 

proud 1 

'Tis over — the traitors are left on the tree ! 
One sits 'neath their shadow, her head on her knee ;, 
A. cloak o'er the face of the mourner is spread, 
Thev raise it to look —and they look on the dead. 



Young Richard of Chorley she follow'd theo on, 
But thy life was her own. and with thfcac it is 

gone; 
Both true to their faith, both so fair and so young. 
Wo, wo, for the fate which on this worid is flung ! 
Now for their sake, when summer's sweet children 

unclose, 
Give a moment's sad thourht to the fatal Whit* 

Rose. 



THE MISSIONARY. 

It is a glorious task to seek, 

Where misery droops the patient head 
Where tears are on the widow's cheek, 



These are the moments when the heart 
Turns from a world no longer dear ; 

These are the moments to impart 
The only hope still constant here. 

That hope is present in our land, 
For many a sacred shrine is there ; 

Time-honOur'd old cathedrals stand ;* 
Each village has its house of prayer 

O'er all the realm one creed is spread — 
One name adored — one altar known 

If souls there be in doubt, or dread, 
Alas ! the darkness is their own 

The priest whose heart is in his toil 
Hath here a task of hope and love ; 

He dwells upon his native soil, 
He has his native sky above. 

Not so beneath this foreign sky , 
Not so upon this burning strand ; 

Where yonder giant temples lie,f 
The miracles of mortal hand. 

Mighty and beautiful, but given 
To idols of a creed profane ; 

That cast the shade of earth on heaven, 
By fancies monstrous, vile, and vain. 



* The Cathedral of Exeter. 

t Triad Figure. Interior of Elephakta.— " The 
figure that faces the entrance is the most remarkable in this 
excavation, and has given rise to numberless conjectures 
and theories. It is a gigantic bust of some three-headed 
being, or the three heads of some being to whom the tem- 
ple may be supposed to be dedicated. Some writers havo 
imagined that it is, what they have called the Hindoo Tri- 
nity of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva ; and very strange his- 
torical conclusions have been deduced from this hypothesis. 
The Hindoo Trimurti, or Trinity, as it has been called, 
does not occupy a very remarkable place in the theology 
of the Brahmins ; the word Trimurti means three forms, 
and is applied to any thiee-headed figure."— Elliot. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



279 



The votary here must half unlearn 
The accents of his mother-tongue ; 

Must dwell 'mid strangers, aud must earn 
Fruits from a soil reluctant wrung. 

His words on harden'd hearts must fall, 
Hxrden'd till God's appointed hour ; 

Ye> he must wait, and watch o'er all, 

Till hope grows faith, and prayer has power. 

ind many a grave neglected lies, 

Where sleep the soldiers of the Lord ; 
Who perish'd 'neath the sultry skies, 

Where first they preach'd that sacred word. 

But not in vain — their toil was blest; 

Life's dearest hope by them was won ; 
A blessing is upon their rest, 

And on the work which they begun. 

Yon city,* where our purer creed 

Was as a thing unnamed, unknown, 

Has now a sense of deeper need, 
Has now a place of prayer its own. 

And many a darken'd mind has light, 
And many a stony heart has tears ; 

The morning breaking o'er that night, 
So long upon those godless spheres. 

Our prayers be with them — we who know 

The value of a soul to save, 
Must pray for those, who seek to show 

The Heathen Hope beyond the grave. 



CONISTON WATER. 

Thou lone and lovely water, would I were 
A dweller by thy deepest solitude ! 
How weary am I of my present life, 
Its falsehoods, and its fantasies — its noise 
And the unkindly hurry of the crowd, 
Mid whom my days are number'd ! I would 

watch 
The tremulous vibration of the rays 
The moon sends down to kiss thy quiet waves ; 



* Cawnpore.— " At this place, the excellent missionary, 
Henry Martyn, laboured for some months, in the years 
1809 and 1810, both among the Europeans in the canton- 
ments, and among the natives in the town. In the life of 
Martyn there is an account of his first effort to preach the 
gospel puolicly to a mixture of the Hindoos and Moham- 
medans at Cawnpore. This attempt to make the word of 
God known to these people, seems to have had a peculiar 
blessing upon it ; and at times he drew together a congre- 
gation of eight hundred souls, who frequently burst into 
loud applause at what he said. Surely, the word of the 
Lord shall not return to him void "—Elliot. 



And .when they died, wish I could die like inera. 
Melting upon the still and silvery air : 
Or when' the autumn scatters the wan leaves 
Like ghosts, I'd meditate above their fall, 
And say " So perish all our earthly hopes." 
So is the heart left desolate and bare, 
And on us falls the shadow of the tomb, 
Before we rest within it — 



THE VISIONARY 

I phat thee do not speak to me 

As you are speaking now 
It brings the colour to my cheek, 

The shadow to my brow. 

I pray thee do not look at me, 

I cannot bear that gaze ; 
Though downcast be my eye, it sell 

Too much my heart betrays. 

I feel the past is written there, 
The past, long since gone by- — 

The past, where feelings, fancies, hopes, 
Alike unburied lie ; 

Unburied, for their restless ghosts 

Still haunt the sad domain, 
And mockeries of their former selves,, 

Come thronging back again. 

But changed as I and thou art changed, 

Or rather me alone, 
I never had your heart — but mine, 

Alas ! was all your own. 

O, magic of a tone and word, 
Loved all too long and well, 

I cannot close my heart and ear 
Against their faithless spell — ■ 

I know them false, I know them vuin, 

And yet I listen on — 
And say them to myself again, 

Long after thou art gone. 

I make myself my own deceit, 

I know it is a dream, 
But one that from my earliest youth 

Has colour'd life's deep stream ; 

Frail colours flung in vain, but yet 
A thousand times more dear 

Than any actual happiness 
That ever brighten'd here. 

The dear, the long, the dreaming hour* 

That I have past with thee, 
When thou hadst not a single thought 

Of how thou wcrt with me — 



280 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



I heard thy voice — I spoke again — 

I gazed upon thy face, 
And never scene of breathing life 

Could leave a deeper trace, 

Than all that fancy conjured up, • 
And made thee look and say, 

Till I have loathed reality, 

That chased such dream away. • 

Now, out upon this foolishness, 

Thy heart it is not mine ; 
And, knowing this, how can I waste 

My very soul on thine 1 

Alas ! I have no power to choose, 

Love is not at my will ; 
I say I must be careless, cold, 

But find I love thee still. 

I think upon my wasted life, 

And on my wasted heart, 
And turn, ashamed and sorrowful, 

From what will not depart. 

Thy haunting infinence, how it mocks 

My efforts to forget ! 
The stamp love only seals but once 

Upon my life is set. 

I hear from others gentle words, 

I scarcely heed the while ; 
Listen'd to, but with weariness, 

Forgotten with a smile. 

But thine, though chance and usual words 

Are treasured, as we keep 
Things lovely, precious, and beloved, 

O'er which we w r atch and weep. 

I scarcely wish to see thee now, 

It is too dear a joy : 
It is such perfect happiness, 

It must have some alloy. 

I dream of no returr from thee — 

Enough for me to kve ; 
I brood above my silent heart, 

As o'er its nest the dove. 

But speak not, look not, mock me not, 
With light and careless words ; 

It wounds me to the heart, it jars 
My spirit's finest chords. 

1 11 not forget thee ;— let me dream 

About thee as before. 
But, farewell, dearest; yes, farewell, 

For we must meet no more. 



ETTY'S ROVER. 

Thou lovely and thou happy child, 

Ah, how I envy thee ! 
I should be glad to change our state, 

If such a thing might be. 

And yet it is a lingering joy 

Tos>.vatch a thing so fair, 
To think that in our weary life 

Such pleasant moments are. 

A little monarch thou &rt there. 

And of a fairy realm, 
Without a foe to overthrow, 

A care to overwhelm. 

Thy world is in thy own glad will 

And in each fresh delight, 
And in thy unused heart, which makes 

Its own, its golden light. 

With no misgivings in thy past, 

Thy future with no fear ; 
The present circles thee around, 

An angel's atmosphere. 

How little is the happiness 
That will content a child — 

A favourite dog, a sunny fruit, 
A blossom growing wild. 

A word will fill the little heart 
With pleasure and with pride ; 

It is a harsh, a cruel thing, 
That such can be denied. 

And yet how many w r eary hours 
Those joyous creatures know ; 

How much of sorrow and restraint 
They to their elders owe ! 

How much they suffer from our fault:', ! 

How much from our mistakes ! 
How often, too, mistaken zeal 

An infant's misery makes \ 

We overrule, and overteach, 

We curb and we confine. 
And put the heart to school too scon, 

To learn our narrow line. 

No ; only taught by love to love, 
Seems childhood's natural task ; 

Affection, gentleness, and hope, 
A 1 -11 its brief years ask. 

Enjoy thy Uappiness, sweet child, 
With careless heart and eye . 

Enjoy those few bright hours which now 
E'en now, are nurrymg oy , 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



281 



.And let the gazer on thy face 
Grow glad with watching thee, 

And better, kinder ; — such at least 
Its influence on me. 



SASSOOR, IN THE DECCAN. 

It is Christmas, and the sunshine 

Lies golden on the fields, 
And flowers of white and purple, 

Yonder fragment creeper yields. 

Like the plumes of some bold warrior, 

The cocoa tree on high, 
Lifts aloft its feathery branches, 

Amid the deep blue sky. 

From yonder shadowy peepul, 

The pale fair lilac dove, 
Like music from a temple, 

Sings a song of grief and love. 

The earth is bright with blossoms, 
And a thousand jewell'd wings, 

'l\lid the green boughs of the tamarind 
A sudden sunshine flings. 

For the East is earth's first-born, 

And hath a glorious dower 
As Nature there had lavish'd 

Her ^eauty and her power. 

And yet I pine for England, 

For my own — my distant home ; 

My heart is in that island, 

Where'er my steps may roam. 

it is merry there at Christmas — 
We have no Christmas here ; 

'Tis a weary thing, a summer 
That lasts throughout the year. 

I remember how the banners 
Hung round our ancient hall, 

Bound with wreaths of shining holly, 
Brave winter's coronal. 

And above each rusty helmet 

Waved a new and cheering plume, 

A branch of crimson berries, 
And the latest rose in bloom. 

And the white and pearly misletoe 
Hung half conceal'd o'er head, 

I remember one sweet maiden, 
Whose cheek it dyed with red. 
(36} 



The morning waked with carols,* 

A young and joyous band 
Of small and rosy songsters, 

Came tripping hand in hand. 

And sang beneath our windows, 

Just as the round red sun 
Began to melt the hoar-frost, 

And the clear cold day begun. 

And at night the aged harper 

Play'd his old tunes o'er and o er ; 

From sixteen up to sixty, 

All were dancing on that floor. 

Those were the days of childhood, 

The buoyant and the bright ; 
When hope was life's sweet sovereign, 

And the heart and step were light. 

I shall come again — a stranger 

To all that once I knew, 
For the hurried steps of manhood 

From life's flowers have dash'd the dew 

I yet may ask their welcome, 

And return from whence I came ; 

But a change is wrought within me, 
They will not seem the same. 

For my spirits are grown weaiy, 
And my days of youth are o'er, 

And the mirth of that glad season 
Is what I can feel no more. 



HINDOO AND MAHOMMEDAN 
BUILDINGS. 

History hath but few pages — soon is told 

Man's ordinary life, 

Labour, and care, and strife, 
Make up the constant chronicle of old. 

First comes a dream — the infancy of earth, 

When all its untried powers 

Are on the conscious hours 
Warm with the light that call'd them into birth. 



* This is one of those pretty customs that yet remain at a 
due distance from London— London, that Thalaba of all 
observances. I remember once being awakened by a band 
of children coming up the old beech avenue, singing carols 
with all their heart. The tune was monotonous enough, and 
as to time, I will say nothing on the subject. Still tho 
multitude of infant voices, and the open air, and the dis 
tance, gave a singularly wild and sweet effect to the chant 
of the childish company. The words, which I subjoin, 
had a practical tendency. 

Ivy, holly, and misletoe, 
ftive me a penny, and let me go. 
2a2 



£82 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Tis but a dream — for over earth was said 

An early curse — time's flood 

Rolls on in tears and blood ; 
Blood that upon her virgin soil was shed. 

Abel the victim — Cain the homicide, 

Wert type and prophecy 

Of times that were to be, 
Thus redden'd from the first life's troubled tide. 

See where in great decay yon temple stands, 

Destruction has began 

Her mockery of man, 
Bowing to dust the work of mortal hands. 

What are its annals — such as suit all time 

Man's brief and bitter breath, 

Hurrying unwelcome death, 
And something too that marks the East's bright 
clime. 

For mighty is the birthplace of the sun 
All has a vaster scale 
Than climes more cold and pale, 

Where yet creation's work is half begun. 

Her conquests were by multitudes, — the kings 
Who warr'd on each vast plain, 
Look'd on a people slain, 

As amid conquests customary things. 

Her wealth — our gold is one poor miser's store, 
Her pomp was as the night, 
With glittering myriads bright, 

Her palace floors with gems were cover'd o'er. 

Her summer's prodigality of hues, 
Trees like eternal shrines, 
Where the rich creeper twines, 

And all lit up with morn's most golden dews. 

'Tis a past age — the conqueror's banner furl'd, 

Droops o'er the falling tower ; 

Yet was the East's first hour 
The great ideal of the material world. 

The beautiful — the fertile and the great, 
The terrible — and wild, 
Were round the first-born child 

Of the young hour of earth's imperial state : 

And yet the mind's high tones were wanting 
there, 

The carved and broken stone 

Tells glories overthrown : 
Religions, empires, palaces are — where 1 

Such annals have the tempest's fire and gloom ; 

They tell of desperate power, 

Famine and battle's hour, 
War, want, disorder, slavery, and the tomb. 



Not such the history that half redeems 

The meanness of our clay ; 

That intellectual sway 
Which works the excellence of which it dreams. 

Fall, fall, ye mighty temples to the gT;"«nd ; 

Not in your sculptured rise 

Is the real exercise 
Of human nature's highest power found. 

'Tis in the lofty hope, the daily toil, 

'Tis in the gifted line, 

Tn each far thought divine, 
That brings down heaven to light our common scai 

'Tis in the great, the lovely, and the true, 

'Tis in the generous thought, 

Of all that man has wrought, 
Of all that yet remains for man to do. 



HONISTER CRAG, 

CUMBERLAND. 



"In this wild and picturesque glen a skirmish took place 
between the Elliotts and the Grsemes, in which the young 
leader of the Scottish clan was slain, though his party 
were victorious. They buried him in an opening on the 
hillside ; and every clansman brought a fragment of rock, 
to raise a rudei monument to his honour. On the summit 
of the pile they placed his bonnet, shield, and claymore, 
that neither friend nor foe should pass irreverently the 
youthful warrior's grave." 



Not where the green grass hides 

His kindred before him ; 
Not where his native trees 

Droop to deplore him ; 
But in the stranger's land 

Must we bestow him. 
Leave there his sword and shield. 

That all may know him. 

Never was fairer youth, 

Never was bolder ; 
Who would have met his sword 

A few summers older 1 
Ne'er will our chieftain's line 

Yield such another ; 
Who can, amid us all 1 

Tell it his mother. 



THE ORPHAN BALLAD SINGERS 

0, weart, weary are our feet, 

And weaiy, weary is our way ; 
Through many a long and crowded street 

We've wander 'd mournfully to-day. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



283 



My little sister she is pale; 

She is too tender and too young 
To bear the autumn's sullen gale, 

And all day long the child has sung. 

She was our mother's favourite child, 

Who loved her for her eyes of blue, 
And she is delicate and mild, 

She cannot do what I can do. 
She never met her father's eyes, 

Although they were so like her own ; 
In some far distant sea he lies, 

A father to his child unknown. 

The first time that she lisp'd his name, 

A little playful thing was she ; 
How proud we were, — yet that night came 

The tale how he had sunk at sea. 
My mother never raised her head ; 

How strange, how white, how cold she grew 
It was a broken heart they said — 

I wish our hearts were broken too. 

We have no home — we have no friends, 

They said our home no more was ours ; 
Our cottage where the ash tree bends, 

The garden we had fill'd with flowers. 
The sounding shells our father brought, 

That we might hear the sea at home ; 
Our bees, that in the summer wrought 

The winter's golden honeycomb. 

We wander'd forth 'mid wind and rain, 

No shelter from the open sky ; 
I only wish to see again 

My mother's grave, and rest and die. 
Alas, it is a weary thing 

To sing our ballads o'er and o'er ; 
The songs we used at home to sing — 

Alas, we have a home no more ! 



ST. MAWGAN CHURCH AND LANHERN 
NUNNERY, CORNWALL. 



The old Mansion of Lanhern belonged to the Lords 
Arundell, of Wardour. It was given in 1794 by Kenry, 
eighth Lord Arundell, as an asylum for a convent of 
English Theresian nuns, who had migrated from Antwerp, 
in consequence of the invasion of the French. The sister- 
hood, or rather their successors, still continue secluded in 
the old and lonely house now called the Lanhern .Nun- 
nery. 



It stands amid the sheltering boughs, 
A place of peace — a place of rest, 

Where the veil'd virgin's hourly vows 
By prayer and penitence are blest. 



The sunshine rests upon the walls 
More golden than the common day, 

And there a stiller shadow falls 

Than rests on life's tumultuous way. 

Alas ! why should this quiet place 

Bring fancies of unrest to me ; 
Why looks forth that beloved face 

I seem in every place to see 1 
Ah, what may not those walls conceal ! 

The sunshine of that sainted shrine 
Might from its inmost depths reveal 

Some spirit passionate as mine ; 

Some one condemn' d in youth to part 

From all that made her youth so dear, 
To listen to her beating heart, 

In shame — in solitude and fear : 
To know no hope before the grave, 

To fear there is no hope beyond, 
Yet scarcely dare of heaven to crave 

Forgiveness for a faith too fond : 

To feel the white and vestal veil 

Grow wet and warm with worldly tears, 
To pass the midnight watching pale, 

Yet tremble when the day appears 
Prostrate before the cross to kneel, 

With eyes that may not look above ; 
How dare the delicate to feel 

The agony of earthly love 1 

! misery, for the young heart doom'd 

To waste and weep its youth away, 
To be within itself entomb'd, 

And desperate with the long decay ! 
Yes, misery ! but there may be 

A yet more desperate despair ; 
There is a love whose misery 

Mocks all those cells may soothe and sham. 

There the pale nun at least can keep 

One treasured and unbroken dream ; 
The love for which she wakes to weep, 

Seems ever what it once could seem. 
She knows not time's uncharming touch 

Destroying every early hue ; 
The false ! — she dreameth not of such ■ 

Her love is still the deep, the true. 

Not so the love of common life, 

'Tis colour'd by the common air ; 
Its atmosphere with death is rife, 

A moral pestilence is there. 
Fever' d — exacting — false and vain, 

Like a disease, it lingers on, 
Though all that blest its first sweet reigu 

Its morning dew and light, are gone 



284 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Such is the actual life of love, 

Such is the love that I have known ; 
Unworthy of the heaven above — 

Dust, like the earth where it has grown. 
Ah ! better far alone to dwell, 

Dreaming above the dearest past, 
And keeping in the silent cell, 

Life's best illusions to the last. 



SCENE IN KATTIAWAR. 



*' The north-western portion of Guzerat is inhabited by a 
warlike and robber race ; her.oe travellers need an escort. 
This is sometimes given by the native chieftains. More 
frequently the merchant hires a guard. The shelter af- 
forded by the ruined temples and tombs, occasion such 
resting-places to be usually made in their vicinity." 



I have a steed, to leave behind 

The wild bird, and the wilder wind : 

I have a sword, which does not know 

How to waste a second blow : 

I have a matchlock, whose red breath 

Bears the lightning's sudden death ; 

I have a foot of fiery flight, 

I have an eye that cleaves the night. 

I win my portion in the land 

By my high heart and strong right hand. 

The starry heavens lit up the gloom 
That lay around Al Herid's tomb ; 
The wind was still, you might have heard 
The falling leaf, the rustling bird ; 
Yet no one heard my footstep fall, 
None saw my shadow on the wall : 
Yet curses came with morning's light, 
Where was the gold they hid at night 1 
Where was the gold they loved so well, 
My heavy girdle best could tell 1 

Three travellers cross'd by yonder shrine ; 

I saw their polish'd pistols shine, 

And swore they were, or should be mine. 

The first, his head was at my feet ; 

The second I was glad to greet ; 

He met me like a man, his sword, 

Damascus true, deserved its lord ; 

Yet soon his heart's best blood ran red : 

I sought the third — the slave had fled. 

I have a lovely mountain bower, 
Where blooms a gentle Georgian flower ; 
She was my spear's accustom'd prize, 
The antelope hath not such eyes. 
Now my sweet captive loves her lot, 
What has a queen that she has not 1 



Let her but wish for shawls or pearls, 
To bind her brow, to braid her curls ; 
And I from east to west would fly, 
Ere she should ask and I deny. 
But those rich merchants must be nea., 
Away, I cannot linger here ; 
The vulture hovers o'er his prey, 
Come, my good steed — away ! — away ' 



SPEKE HALL. 

O, fair old house — how Time doth honoul 
thee, 
Giving thee what to-day may never gain, 
Of long respect arid ancient poesy 1 
The yew trees at thy doors are black with years, 
And filled with memories of those warlike days, 
When from each bough was lopp'd a gallant bow ; 
For then the yew was what the oak is now, 
And what our bowmen were, our sailors are. 
How green the ivy grows upon the walls, 
Ages have lent their strength to those frail boughs, 
A venerable wreath upon the past, 
Which here is paramount ; — the past, which is 
Imagination's own gigantic realm. 



THE COQUETTE. 

She danced upon the waters, 

Beneath the morning sun, 
Of all old Ocean's daughters 

The very fairest one. 
An azure zone comprest her 

Round her white and slender side, 
For her gallant crew had drest her 

Like a beauty and a bride. 

She wore her trappings gayly, 

As a lady ought to do, 
And the waves which kiss'd her daily 

Proud of their mistress grew. 
They clung like lovers round her, 

And bathed her airy feet ; 
With white foam wreaths they bound her, 

To grace her, and to greet. 

She cut the blue wave, scorning 

Our dull and common land; 
To the rosy airs of morning, 

We saw her sails expand. 
How graceful was their drooping 

Ere the winds began to blow, 
While the gay Coquette was stooping 

To her clear green glass below ! 



How gallant was their sweeping, 

While they swell'd upon the air ; 
As the winds were in their keeping, 

And they knew they were so fair ! 
A shower of spray before her, 

A silvery wake behind, 
A cloud of canvass o'er her, 

She sprang before the wind. 

She was so loved-, the fairy, 

Like a mistress or a child ; 
For she was so trim and airy, 

So buoyant and so wild. 
And though so young a rover, 

She knew what life could be ; 
For she had wander'd over 

Full many a distant sea. 

One night, 'twas in September, 

A mist arose on high ; 
Not the oldest could remember 

Such a dense and darken'd sky : 
And small dusk birds came hovering 

The gloomy waters o'er ; 
The waves mock'd their sweet sovereign, 

And would obey no more. 

There was no wind to move them, 

So the sails were furl'd and fast, 
And the gallant flag above them 

Dropp'd down upon the mast. 
All was still as if death's shadow 

Were resting on the grave; 
And the sea, like some dark meadow, 

Had not one rippling wave : 

When the sky was rent asunder 

With a flood of crimson light, 
And one single burst of thunder 

Aroused the silent night. 
'Twas the signal for their waking ! 

The angry winds arose, 
Like giant captives breaking 

The chain of forced repose. 

Yet bravely did she greet them, 

Those jarring winds and waves; 
Ready with scorn to meet them, 

They who had been her slaves. 
She faced the angry heaven, 

Our bold and fair Coquette ; 
Her graceful sides are riven, 

But she will brave it yet. 

Like old oak of the forest, 

Down comes the thundering mast 

Her need is at the sorest, 
She shudders in the blast. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Hark to that low quick gushing ! 



285 



The hold has sprung a leak ; 
On their prey the waves arc rushing, 
The valiant one grows weak.- 

One cry, and all is quiet, 

There is nor sight nor sound ; 
Save the fierce gale at its riot, 

And the angry waters round. 
The morn may come with weeping, 

And the storm may cease to blow ; 
But the fair Coquette is sleeping 

A thousand fathoms low. 



JAHxVRA BAUG, AGRA. 



THE HISTORY OF SHAH DABA's FLIGHT.AND DEATH. 



Agra was Shah Jehan's city of residence. It was from 
its walls that he witnessed the overthrow of Prince Dara, 
his eldest son. The Jahara Baug is one of the gardens ad- 
joining the river. 



It was the lovely twilight-time went down o'er 

Agra's towers, 
And silent were her marble halls, and tranquil 

were her bowers ; 
The crimson colours of the rose were melting on 

the air, 
And from the ivory minarets arose the evening 

prayer. 

The snowy herons to the roofs were flocking for 

the night, 
Ths columns and the cupolas were bathed in 

purple light ; 
And the large lilies on the stream grew fairer in 

their hue, 
As they flung up each silver cup to catch the fall 

ing dew. 

Fill'd with the sweet good-night of flowers tha 

sigh themselves to sleep, 
Along the quiet river's side, the shadowy gardens 

sweep ; 
While fair and pale, like some young girl who 

pines with early love, 
The young moon seems as if she fear'd to take her 

place above. 

Is there no feasting in those halls 1 why is that 

palace mute 1 
The silvery cadences unheard of the young 

dancer's foot : 



286 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



How changed since that glad marriage eve, when 

with the dance and song 
Prince Dara led his cousin-bride, those lighted 

halls along. 

How changed since that imperial day, when at his 

father's hand, 
The eldest born sat down to share that father's 

high command ; 
And the proud nobles of the court drew forth the 

glittering sword, 
In token all were at his will, and waited but his 

word. 

An old man sits upon the walls that guard the 
eastern side ; 

'Tis not to hear the wild wind wake the music of 
the tide : 

The rising of the evening star, the perfume from 
the bough, 

The last sweet singing of the doves — all pass un- 
heeded now. 

The aged king sits on his tower, and strains his 

eyes afar, 
And asks of every passer by for tidings of the 

war ; 
They come — he sees the scatter'd flight of Dara's* 

broken bands ; 
At last a fugitive himself — his son before him 

stands. 

The monarch hid his face and wept, he heard his 

first-born say, 
" The crown you placed upon my brow this hour 

has past away ; 
My brother is my enemy — a traitor is my friend, 
And I must seek these ancient walls, to shelter and 

defend." 

" Not so," the old king said, " my son ; fly thou 

with spear and shield, 
For never walls could stand for "those who stood 

not in the field ;" 
He wept before his father's face — then fled across 

the plain ; 
The desolate and the fugitive — they never met 

again. 

Time has past on, and Dara's doom is darkly draw- 
ing nigh, 

The vanquish' d prince has only left to yield — 
despair and die ; 



* Prince Dara was the favourite son of Shah Jehan, who 
associated him with himself on the throne. The talents 
and good fortune, however, of Aurungzebe, the younger 
brother, turned the scale in his own favour. The struggle 
mween the two was long and severe ; and the final ca- 
tastrophe fatal to the unfortunate Dara. 



The faithless friend, the conquering foe, have been 

around his path, 
And now a wild and desert home, is all Prmce 

Dara hath. 

The sands are bare, the wells are dry, and not a 

single tree 
Extends its shade o'er him who had a royal 

canopy : 
There is not even safety found amid those burning 

sands ; 
The exile has a home to seek in far and foreign 

lands. 

He lingers yet upon his way — within his tents is 

death ; 
He cannot fly till he has caught Nadira's latest 

breath. 
How can he bear to part with her — she who, since 

first his bride, 
In wo and want his comforter, has never left his 

side. 

He kiss'd the pale unconscious cheek — he flung 

him at her feet ; 
He gazed how fondly on those eyes he never more 

might meet ; 
" Tis well," he cried, " my latest friend is from my 

bosom flown, 
Go bear her to her father's tomb, while I go forth 

alone." 

The traitor is upon his way, the royal prey is 

found, 
And by ignoble hands and chains, the monarch's 

son is bound ; 
Garb'd as a slave, they lead him forth the public 

ways along, 
But on his noble brow is scorn, and on his lip a 

song.* 

'Tis midnight ; but the midnight crime is darker 
than the night, 

And Aurungzebe with gloomy brow awaits the 
morning light ; 

The morning light is dyed for him with an ac- 
cusing red, 

They bring to the usurper's feet his brother Dara's 
head.f 



* Having a talent for poetry, he composed many affect- 
ing verses on his own misfortunes, with the repetition of 
which he often drew tears from the eyes of the common 
soldiers who guarded his person. " My name," said he, 
" imports that I am in pomp like Darius ; I am also like that 
monarch in my fate. The friends whom he trusted were 
more fatal than the swords of his enemies." 

t Aurungzebe passed the night destined for his brother's 
death in great fear and perplexity, when Najis, the instru^ 
ment of his crime, brought before him the last fatal relic. 
The head of Dara being disfigured with blood, he ordered 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



287 



IVY BRIDGE, DEVONSHIRE. 

0, recall not the past, though this valley be fill'd 

With all we remember, and all we regret ; 
The flowers of its summer have long been distill'd, 

The essence has perish'd, ah ! let us forget. 
What avails it to mourn over hours that are gone, 

O'er illusions by youth and by fantasy nurst 1 
Alas ! of the few that are lingering, none 

Wear the light or the hues that encircled the 
first. 

Alas for the springtime ! alas for our youth ! 

The grave has no slumber more cold than the 
heart, 
When languid and darken'd it sinks into truth, 

And sees the sweet colours of morning depart. 
Life still has its falsehoods to lure and to leave, 

But they cannot delude like the earlier light ; 
We know that the twilight encircles the eve, 

And sunset is only the rainbow of night. 



OTLINTHUS GREGORY, 

LL.D., F.R.A.S., &c. 



" The following lines allude to Dr. Gregory's late do- 
mestic calamity. Mr. Boswell Gregory, his eldest son, 
was drowned by the boat's upsetting as he was returning 
Horns by water to his father's house at Woolwich." 



Is there a spot where Pity's foot, 

Although unsandall'd, fears to tread, 
A silence where her voice is mute, 

Where tears, and only tears, are shed 1 
It is the desolated home, 

Where Hope was yet a recent guest, 
Where Hope again may never come, 

Or come, and only speak of rest. 

They gave my hand the pictured scroll, 

And bade me only fancy there 
A parent's agony of soul, 

A parent's long and last despair ; 
The sunshine on the sudden wave, 

Which closed above the youthful head, 
Mocking the green and quiet grave, 

Which waits the time appointed dead. 

I thought upon the lone fireside, 

Begirt with all familiar thought, 
The future, where a father's pride 

So much from present promise wrought ; 

it to be thrown into a charger of water ; and when he had 
wiped it with his handkerchief, he recognised the features 
of his brother. He is said to have exclaimed, " Alas, unfor- 
tunate man !" and then to have shed some tears. 



The sweet anxiety of fears, 

Anxious for love's excess alone, 

The fond reliance upon years 

More precious to us than our own. 

All past — then weeping words there came 

From out a still and darken'd room T 
They could not bear to name a name 

Written so newly on the tomb. 
They said he was so good and kind, 

The voices sank, the eyes grew dim ; 
So much of love he left behind, 

So much of life had died with him. 

Ah, pity for the long beloved, 

Ah, pity for the early dead ; 
The young, the promising, removed 

Ere life a light or leaf had shed. 
Nay, rather pity those whose doom 

It is to wait and weep behind, 
The father, who within the tomb 

Sees all life held most dear enshrined. 



CORFU. 

Now, doth not summer's sunny smile 

Sink soft o'er that Ionian isle, 

While round the kindling waters sweep 

The murmur'd music of the deep, 

The many melodies that swell 

From breaking wave and red-lipp'd shell l 

Love mine ! how sweet it were to leave 

This weary world of ours behind, 
And borrow from the blushing eve 

The wild wings of the wandering wind. 
Would we not flee away and find 
Some lonely cave beside the shore 1 
One, where a Nereid dwelt of yore, 
And shelter'd in its glistening bowers, 
A love almost as fond as ours 1 
A diamond spar incrusts the walls, 
A rainbow light from crystal falls ; 
And, musical amid the gloom, 
A fountain's silvery showers illume 
The further darkness, as with ray 
And song it finds its sparkling way. 
A natural lute and lamp — a tone, 
A light, to wilder waves unknown. 
The cave is curtain'd with the vine, 
And inside wandering branches twine, 
While from the large green leaves escapo 
The blooming clusters of the grape ; — 
Fruit with such hyacinthine glow 
As southern sunbeams only know 



288 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



We will not leave it, till the moon 

Lulls with her languid look the sea ; 
Sleep, shadow, silence for the noon, 

But midnight Love to wake with thee, 
When the sweet myrtle trees exhale 
The odours of their blossoms pale, 
And dim and purple colours steep 
Those blossoms in their perfumed sleep ; 
Where closed are the cicala's wings, 
And no leaf stirs, nor wild jird sings, 
Lull'd by the dusk air, warm and sweet ; 
Then kneeling, dearest, at thy feet, 
Thy face the only sight I see, 

Thy voice the only sound I hear, 
While midnight's moonlit mystery 

Seems the full heart's enchanted sphere. 
Then should thy own low whisper tell 
Those ancient songs thou lovest so well ; 
Tales of old battles which are known 
To me but from thy lip alone ; 
Dearer than if the bard again 
Could sound his own imperial strain. 
Ah, folly ! of such dreaming hours, 
That are not, that may not be ours. 
Farewell ! thou far Ionian isle 
That lighted for my love awhile, 
A sweet enchantment form'd to fade, 
Of darker days my life is made ; 
Embittering my reality 
With dreams of all that may not be. 
Such fairy fancies when they part, 
But leave behind a wither'd heart ; 
Dreaming o'er all it hath not known ; 
Alas ! and is such heart mine own 1 



MANCHESTER. 

Go back a century on the town, 

That o'er yon crowded plain, 
With wealth its dower, and art its crown, 

Extends its proud domain. 
Upon that plain a village stood, 

Lonely, obscure, and poor ; 
The sullen stream roll'd its dull flood 

Amid a barren moor. 

Now, mark the hall, the church, the street, 

The buildings of to-day ; 
Behold the thousands now that meet 

Upon the peopled way. 
Go, silent with the sense of power, 

And of the mighty mind 
Which thus can animate the hour, 

And leave its work behind. 

Go through that city, and behold 

What intellect can yield, 
How it brings forth an hundred-fold 

From time's enduring field. 



Those walls are fill'd with wealth, the spoil 

Of industry and thought, 
The mighty harvest which man's toil 

Out of the past has wrought. 

Science and labour here unite 

The thoughtful and the real, 
And here man's strength puts forth its might 

To work out man's ideal. 
The useful is the element 

Here labour'd by the mind, 
Which, on the active present bent, 

Invented and combined. 

•The product of that city, now 

Far distant lands consume ; 
The Indian wears around his brow 

The white webs of her loom. 
Her vessels sweep from East to West; 

Her merchants are like kings ; 
While wonders in her walls attest 

The power that commerce brings. 

From wealth hath sprung up nobler fruit, 

Taste link'd with arts divine ; 
The Gallery and the Institute 

Enlighten and refine. 
And many an happy English home 

With love and peace repays 
The care that may be yet to come, 

The toil of early days. 

Had I to guide a stranger's eye 

Around our glorious land, 
Where yonder wondrous factories lie 

I'd bid that stranger stand. 
Let the wide city spread display'd 

Beneath the morning sun, 
And in it see for England's trade 

What yonder town hath done.* 



THE NIZAM'S DAUGHTER. 

She is as yet a child in years, 
Twelve springs are on her face, 

Yet in her slender form appears 
The woman's perfect grace. 



* " In a speech last year, at the British Association, Mi- 
Brand well advised the members to take the manufacturing 
districts of England on their way to the north, and to ex 
pi ore the wonders there accumulated. Manchester is the 
great miracle of modern progress. Science, devoted to 
utility and industry, have achieved the most wonderful re- 
sults. Intellectual advancement denoted in a taste for 
literature and the fine arts,— employment for the highest 
as well as the lowest;— public buildings, liberal institu- 
tions, and all that can mark wealth, and a knowledge of 
its best purposes ;— all this is the growth of a single cen- 
tury." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



289 



Her silken hair, tnat glossy black, 

But only to be found 
There, or upon the raven's back, 

Falls sweeping to the ground. 

'Tis parted in two shining braids 

With silver and with gold, 
And one large pearl by contrast aids 

The darkness of each fold. 
And, for she is so young, that flowers 

Seem natural to her now, 
There wreaths the champac's snowy showers 

Around her sculptured brow. 

Close to her throat the silvery vest 

By shining clasps is bound, 
Scarce may her graceful shape be guest, 

'"Mid drapery floating round. 
But the small curve of that vein'd throat, 

Like marble, but more warm, 
The fairy foot and hand denote 

How perfect is the form. 

Upon the ankle and the wrist 

There is a band of gold, 
No step by Grecian fountain kiss'd 

Was of diviner mould. 
In the bright girdle round her waist, 

Where the red rubies shine, 
The kandjar's* glittering hilt is placed, 

To mark her royal line. 

Her face is like the moonlight pale, 

Strangely and purely fair, 
For never summer sun nor gale 

Has touch'd the softness there. 
There are no colours of the rose, 

Alone the lip is red ; 
No blush disturbs the sweet repose 

Which o'er that cheek is shed. 

And yet the large black eyes, like night, 

Have passion and have power ; 
Within their sleepy depths is light, 

For some wild wakening hour. 
A world of sad and tender dreams 

'Neath those long lashes sleep, 
A native pensiveness that seems 

Too still and sweet to weep. 

Of such seclusion know we naught ; 

Yet surely woman here 
Grows shrouded from all common thought, 

More delicate and dear. 
And love, thus made a thing apart, 

Must seem the more divine, 
When the sweet temple of the heart 

Is a thrice veiled shrine. 

* The kandjar is the small poniard worn by Hindoo 
princesses. 

C37^ 



DURHAM CATHEDRAL. 



Those dark and silent aisles are fill'd with night, 
There breathes no murmur, and there shines no 

light ; 
The graves beneath the pavement yield their 

gloom, 
'Till the cathedral seems one mighty tomb. 
The Cross invisible — the words unseen 
That tell where Faith and Hope in death have 

been. 
But day is breaking, and a ros}* smile 
Colours the depths of each sepulchral aisle. 
The orient windows kindle with the morn, 
And 'mid the darkness are their rainbows bom ; 
Each ray that brightens, and each hue that falls, 
Attest some sacred sign upon the walls ; — 
Some sculptured saint's pale head — some graven 

line 
Of promise, precept, or belief divine : 
Then sounds arise, the echoes bear along 
Through the resounding aisles the choral song. 
The billowy music of the organ sweeps, 
Like the vast anthem of uplifted deeps ; 
The bells ring forth — the long dark night is done. 
The sunshine of the Sabbath is begun. 

What is that temple but a type sublime ! 
Such was the moral night of ancient time ; 
Cold and obscure, in vain the king and sage 
Gave law and learning to the darken'd age. 
There was no present faith, no future hope, 
Earth bounded then the earth-drawn hoi'oscope , 
Till to the east there came the promised star — 
Till rose the Sun of Righteousness afar — 
Till, on a world redeem'd, the Saviour shone, 
Earth for his footstool — Heaven for his throne. 



COTTAGE COURTSHIP. 

Now, out upon this smiling, 

No smile shall meet his sight ; 
And a word of gay reviling 

Is all he'll hear to-night, 
For he'll hold my smiles too lightly, 

If he always sees me smile ; 
He'll think they shine more brightly 

When I have frown'd awhile. 

'Tis not kindness keeps a lover, 

He must feel the chain he wears , 
All the sweet enchantment's over, 

When he has no anxious cares. 
The heart would seem too common, 

If he thought that heart his own-. 
Ah ! the empire of a woman 

Is still in the unknown. 
26 



'290 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Let change without a reason, 

Make him never feel secure ; 
For it is an April season 

That a lover must endure. 
They are all of them so faithless, 

Their torment is your gain ; 
Would you keep your own heart scathless, 

Be the one to give the pain. 



CALDRON SNOUT 

WESTMORLAND. 



A place of rugged rocks, adown whose sides 
The mountain torrent rushes ; on whose crag3 
The raven builds her nest, and tells her young 
Of former funeral feasts. 
* * * * * * 



Long years have past since last I stood 

Alone amid this mountain scene, 
Unlike the future which I dream'd, 

How like my future it has been ! 
A cold gray sky o'erhung with clouds, 

With showers in every passing shade, 
How like the moral atmosphere 

Whose gloom my horoscope has made ! 

I thought if yet my weary feet 

Could rove my native hills again, 
A world of feeling would revive, 

Sweet feelings wasted, worn in vain. 
?r1y early hopes, my early joys, 

I dream'd those valleys would restore ; 
I ask'd for childhood to return, 

For childhood, which returns no more. 

Surely the scene itself is changed ! 

There did not always rest as now 
That shadow in the valley's depth, 

That gloom upon the mountain's brow. 
Wild flowers within the chasms dwelt 

Like treasures in some fairy hold, 
And morning o'er the mountains shed 

Her kindling world of vapory gold. 

Another season of the year 

Is now upon the earth and me ; 
Another spring will light these hills — 

No other spring mine own may be : 
I must retune my unstrung heart, 

I must awake the sleeping tomb, 
I must recall the loved and lost, 

Ere spring again for me could bloom. 

I've wander'd, but it was in vain 
In many a far and foreign clime 

Absence is not forgetfulness, 

And distance cannot vanquish time. 



One face was ever in my sight, 
One voice was ever on my ear, 

From all earth's loveliness I turn'd 

To wish, ah ! that the dead were here ! 

! weary wandering to no home, 
! weary wandering alone, 

1 turn'd to childhood's once glad scenes 
And found life's last illusion flown. 

Ah ! those who left their childhood's scenes 
For after years of toil and pain, 

Who but bring back the breaking heart 
Should never seek those scenes aa:ain. 



SCENE IN BUNDELKHUND 

She sat beneath the palm tree, as the night 
Came with a purple shadow on the day, 
Which died away in hues of crimson shades, 
Blushes and tears. The wind amid the reeds, 
The long green reeds, sung mournfully, and shook 
Faint blossoms on the murmuring river's face. 
The eve was sweet and silent— she who sat 
Beneath the deepening shadow of the palm, 
Look'd like an ancient and a pastoral dream ; 
Dreams — dreams indeed ! It is man's actual lot 
That gives the future hope, and fills the past 
With happiness that is not — may not be. 
— O, tranquil earth and heaven — but their repose 
What influence hath it on the mourner there 1 
Her eye is fix'd in terrible despair, 
Her lip is white with pain, and, spectre-like, 
Her shape is worn with famine — on her arm 
Rests a dead child — she does not weep for it. 
Two more are at her side, she'd weep for them, 
But that she is too desperate to weep : 
Dust has assumed dominion, she has now 
No tenderness, nor sweet solicitudes 
That fill the youthful mother with fond fears. 
Our fierce and cruel nature, that which sleeps 
In all, though lull'd by custom, law, and ease, 
In her is roused by suffering. There is death 
Within those wolfish eyes. Not for herself ! 
Fear, the last vestige of humanity, 
Makes death so horrible that she will buy 
Its absence, though with blood — that blood \er 

own, 
Once dearer that it ran in other veins : 
She'll kill those children — for they share her food. 

And SUCH IS HUMAN NATURE, AND OUR OWN.* 



* Distress :n Bundelkhund.— The Samarchar Dur- 
pun, of Feb. 22, contains a description of the horrible stato 
of the native population of Bundelkhund, in consequence 
of the famine which has prevailed there for some time past 
The price and scarcity of grain have put it far beyond tha 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



291 



ST. KNIGHTON'S KIEVE. 

Silent and still was the haunted stream, 
Feeble and faint was the moon's pale beam, 
And the wind that whisper'd the waving bough 
Was like the sound of some godless vow. 

Far i*n the distance the waters fell 
Foaming o'er many a pinnacle ; 
They waged with the crags an angry fight, 
'Twas a dreary sound in the dead of night. 

But the place where we stood was a quiet nook, 
Like a secret page in nature's book ; 
Down at our feet was the midnight well, 
Naught of its depths can the daylight tell. 

An old oak tree grows near to the spot, 
Gray with moss of long years forgot; 
They say that the dead are sleeping below, 
'Twas a shrine of the Druids ages ago. 

One alone stood beside me there, 
The dismal silence I could not bear ; 
A mariner wild from beyond the sea : 
I wish that he had not been with me. 

Over the gloomy well we hung, 
And a long, long line with the lead we flung ; 
And as the line and the hook we threw, 
Darker and darker the waters grew. 

With gibe and jest that mariner stood, 
Mocking the night of that gloomy flood ; 
Quoth he, " when the line brings its treasure up, 
I'll drain a deep draught from the golden cup. 

" I only wish it were fill'd with wine, 

Water has little love of mine ; 

But the eyes I'll pledge will lend a glow, 

They're the brightest and wickedest eyes I know. 

'' Though those eyes light up a cloister now, 
Little she recks of the veil and the vow ; 
And let but the well yield its gold to-night, 
And St. Valerie's nun will soon take flight." 

Black and more black the midnight grew, 
Black and more black was the water's hue ; 
Then a ghastly sound on the silence broke, 
And I thought of the dead beneath the oak. 



reach of the poorer classes, more particularly as there ap- 
pears to be great difficulty in the way of finding employ- 
ment. For some time they obtained a miserable subsistance 
on bijers, a sort of astringent and acid berry ; but even this 
wretched supply has now ceased. A most appalling and 
Ditiable condition of human misery is the consequence. 
Mothers have been seen to devour the dead bodies of their 
wn children ! 



" Thank God, thank God for light below, 

'Tis the charm'd cup that is flashing now ;" 

" No thanks to God," my comrade cries, 

" 'Tis our own good skill that has won the prize." 

There came a flash of terrible light, 

And I saw that my comrade's face was white , 

The golden cup rose up on a foam, 

Then down it plunged to its mystical home. 

Then all was night — and I may not tell* 
What agony there on my spirit fell ; 
But I pray'd for our Lady's grace as I lay, 
And the pain and the darkness past away. 

Years have past, yet that sinful man, 
Though his hair is gray and his face is wan, 
Keeps plunging his line in the gloom of that well 
He is under the Evil Spirit's spell. 

'Twas the fairies carved that cup's bright mould, 
What have we to do with their gold 1 
Now our Lady forgive my hour of sin, 
That ever I sought that cup to win.* 



WINDLESHAW ABBEY. 

Mark you not yon sad procession, 
'Mid the ruin'd abbey's gloom, 

Hastening to the worm's possession, 
To the dark and silent tomb ! 

See the velvet pall hangs over 

Poor mortality's remains ; 
We should shudder to discover 

What that coflin's space contains. 

Death itself is lovely — wearing 
But the colder shape of sleep ; 

Or the solemn statue bearing 
Beauty that forbids to weep. 

But decay — the pulses tremble 
When its livid signs appear : 

When the once-loved lips resemble 
All we loathe, and all we fear. 

Is it not a ghastly ending 
For the body's godlike form, 

Thus to the damp earth descending, 
Food and triumph to the worm 1 



* I am indebted to a communication from Mr. Clarke for 
this legend. He has not stated the attempt to gain the 
golden cup, hidden in the well, to be an act so reprehen- 
sible as I have made it. However, I only follow common 
custom, in putting upon any act the worst possible construe 
tion. 



292 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Better far the red pile blazing 

"With the spicy Indian wood, 
Incense unto heaven raising 

From the sandal oil's sweet flood. 

In the bright pyre's kindling flashes, 

Let my yielded soul ascend; 
Fling to the wild winds my ashes 

'Till with mother earth they blend. 

Not so, — let the pale urn keep them ; 

Touch'd with spices, oil, and wine ; 
Let there be some one to weep them ; 

Wilt thou keep that urn 1 Love mine ! 



RAPHAEL SANZIO. 



This celebrated Italian was essentially the painter of 
ueauty. Of the devotion with which he sought its inspira- 
tion in its presence, a remarkable instance is recorded. He 
either could not or would not paint without the presence of 
his lovely mistress, La Fornarina. 



[Ah ! not for him the dull and measured eye, 
Which colours nothing in the common sky, 
Which sees but night upon the starry cope, 
And animates with no mysterious hope. 
Which looks upon a quiet face, nor dreams 
If it be ever tranquil as it seems ; 
Which reads no histories in a passing look, 
Nor on the cheek which is the heart's own book, 
Whereon it writes in rosy characters 
Whate'er emotion in its silence stirs. 

Such are the common people of the soul, 
Of whom the stars write not in their bright scroll. 
These, when the sunshine at the noontide makes 
Golden confusion in the forest brakes, 
See no sweet shadows gliding o'er the grass, 
Which seems to fill with wild flowers as 



they 



pass 



These, from the twilight music of the fount 

Ask not its secret and its sweet account ; 

These never seek to read the chronicle 

Which hides within the hyacinth's dimlit bell: 

They know not of the poetry which lies 

Upon the summer rose's languid eyes ; 

They have no spiritual visitings elysian, 

They dream no dreamings, and they see no vision. 

The young Italian was not of the clay, 
That doth to dust one long allegiance pay. 
No ; he was temper'd with that finer flame, 
Which ancient fables say from heaven came ; 
The sunshine of the soul, which fills the earth 
With beauty borrow'd from its place of birth. 



Hence has the lute its song, the scroll its line ; 
Hence stands the statue glorious as its shrine ; 
Hence the fair picture, kings are fain to win, 
The mind's creations from the world within.] 

* ***** 

Not without me ! — alone, thy hand 

Forgot its art awhile ; 
Thy pencil lost its high command, 

Uncherish'd by my smile. 
It was too dull a task for thee 

To paint remember'd rays ; 
Thou, who were wont to gaze on me, 

And colour from that gaze. 

I know that I am very fair, 

I would I were divine, 
To realize the shapes that share 

Those midnight hours of thine. 
Thou sometimes tellest me, how in sleep 

What lovely phantoms seem ; 
I hear thee name them, and I weep, 

Too jealous of a dream. 

But thou didst pine for me, my love, 

Aside thy colours thrown ; 
'Twas sad to raise thine eyes above, 

Unanswer'd by mine own : 
Thou who art wont to lift those eyes, 

And gather from my face 
The warmth of life's impassion'd dyes, 

Its colour and its grace. 

Ah ! let me linger at thy side, 

And sing some sweet old song, 
That tells of hearts as true and tried, 

As to ourselves belong. 
The love whose light thy colours give, 

Is kindled at the heart ; 
And who shall bid its influence live, 

My Raphael, if we part 1 



MARDALE HEAD.* 



Why should I seek these scenes again, the past 
Is on yon valley like a shroud ? 



Weep for the love that fate forbids, 

Yet loves unhoping on, 
Though every light that once illumed 

Its early path be gone. 



* " Among the mountains which form the southern 
boundary of Haweswater is Mardale Head, a wild and so- 
litary region, wherein nature, working with a master hand, 
seems to have produced the very beau ideal of romantic 
grandeur and sublimity.' 1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



293 



Weep for the love that must resign 
The heart's enchanted dream, 

And float, like some neglected bark, 
Adown life's lonely stream. 

Weep for the love these scenes recall, 

Like some enduring spell ; 
It rests within ihe soul which loved 

Too vainly, and too well. 

Weep for the breaking heart condemn'd 

To see its youth pass by, 
Whose lot has been in this cold world 

To dream, despair, and die. 



THE SHEPHERD BOY. 



" Now as they were going along, and talking, they spied 
a boy feeding his father's sheep. The boy was in very 
mean clothes, but of a fresh and well-favoured counte- 
nance ; and as he sat by himself, he sung. Then said the 
guide, Do you hear him 1 I will dare to say, this boy lives 
a merrier life, and wears more of the herb called hearts- 
ease in his bosom, than he that is clad in silk and velvet." 
—Pilgrim's Progress. 



Like some vision olden 

Of far other time, 
When the age was golden, 

In the young world's prime ; 
Is thy soft pipe ringing, 

lonely shepherd boy, 
What song art thou singing, 

In thy youth and joy 1 

Or art thou complaining 

Of thy lowly lot, 
And thine own disdaining, 

Dost ask what thou hast not I 
Of the future dreaming, 

Weary of the past, 
For the present scheming, 

All but what thou hast. 

No, thou art delighting 

In thy summer home ; 
Where the flowers inviting 

. Tempt the bee to roam ; 
Where the cowslip bending, 

With its golden bells, 
Of each glad hour's ending 

With a sweet chime tells. 

All wild creatures love him 

When he is alone, 
Every bird above him 

Sings its softest tone. 



Thankful to high Heaven, 
Humble in thy joy 

Much to thee is given, 
Lowly shepherd boy. 



THE CAVES OF ELEPHANTA, 



" These celebrated Caves are situated in the beautiful 
island of their own name. It is composed of two hills, 
with a narrow valley between them. Ascending the nar- 
row path where the two hills are knit together, there lies 
below the superb prospect of the sea and the adjacent 
shores. Gradually an open space is gained, and we come 
suddenly on the grand entrance of a magnificent temple, 
whose huge massy columns seem to give support to the 
whole mountain which is above. The entrance into tha 
temple, which is entirely hewn out of a stone resembling 
porphyry, is by two massy pillars forming three openings, 
under a steep rock overhung by reeds and wild shrubs." 



What know we of them? Nothing — there 
they stand, 
Gloomy as night, inscrutible as fate. 
Altars no more divine, and shrines which know 
Nor priests, nor votaries, nor sacrifice ; 
The stranger's wonder all their worship now. 
And yet coeval as the native rock 
Seem they with mother earth — immutable. 

Time — tempest — warfare — ordinary decay, 
Is not for these. The memory of man 
Has lost their rise — although they are his work. 

Two senses here are present ; one of Power, 
And one of Nothingness ; doth it not mock 
The mighty mind to see the meaner part, 
The task it taught its hands, outlast itself? 
The temple was a type, a thing of stone, 
Built by laborious days which made up years ; 
The creed which hallow'd it was of the soul ; 
And yet the creed hath past — the temple stands. 

The high beliefs which raised themselves tc 
heaven ; 
The general truths on which religions grow ; 
The strong necessity of self-restraint ; 
The needful comfort of some future hope 
Than that whose promise only binds to-day, 
And future fear, parent of many faiths : 
Those vast desires, unquenchable, which sweep 
Beyond the limits of our little world, 
And know there is another by themselves * 
These constitute the spiritual of man. 
'Tis they who elevate and who redeem, 
By some great purpose, some on-looking end, 
The mere brute exercise of common strength. 
Yet these have left no trace. The mightv 

shrine, 
Undeified, speaks force, and only force, 
Man's meanest attribute. 

262 



294 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



THE FAIRY OF THE FOUNTAINS. 



The legend, on which this story is founded, is imme- 
diately taken from Mr. Thoms's most interesting collec- 
tion. I have allowed myself some license, in my arrange- 
ment of the story ; but fairy tales have an old-established 
privilege of change ; at least, if we judge by the various 
shapes which they assume in the progress of time, and by 
process of translation. 



Why did she love her mother so 1 * 
It hath wrought her wondrous wo. 

Once she saw an armed knight 
In the pale sepulchral night ; 
When the sullen starbeams throw 
Evil spells on earth below ; 
And the moon is cold and pale, 
And a voice is on the gale, 
Like a lost soul's heavenward cry, 
Hopeless in its agony. 

He stood beside the castle gate, 

The hour was dark, the hour was late ; 

With the bearing of a king 

Did he at the portal ring, 

And the load and hollow bell 

Sounded like a Christian's knell. 

That pale child stood on the wall 

Watching there, and saw it all. 

Then she was a child as fair 

As the opening blossoms are : 

But with large black eyes, whose light 

Spoke of mystery and might. 

The stately stranger's head was bound 
With a bright and golden round ; 
Curiously inlaid, each scale 
Shone upon his glittering mail ; 
His high brow was cold and dim, 
And she felt she hated him. 
Then she heard her mother's voice, 
Saying, " *Tis not at my choice ! 
Wo forever, wo the hour, 
When you sought my secret bower, 
Listening to the word of fear, 
Never meant for human ear 
Thy suspicion's vain endeavour, 
Wo ! wo ! parted us forever." 

Still the porter of the hall 

Heeded not that crown'd knight's call. 

When a glittering shape there came, 

With a brow of starry flame ; 

And he led that knight again 

O'er the bleak and barren plain. 

He flung, with an appalling cry, 

His dark and desperate arms on high ; 

And from Melusina's sight 

Fled away through thickest night. 



Who has not, when but a child, 
Treasured up some vision wild ; 
Haunting them with nameless fear, 
Filling all they see or hear, 
In the midnight's lonely hour, 
With a strange mysterious power 1 
So a terror undefined 
Enter'd in that infant mind ; — 
A fear that haunted her alone, 
For she told her thought to none. 

Years pass'd on, and ea,ch one threw 
O'er those walls a deeper hue ; 
Large and old the ivy leaves 
Heavy hung around the eaves, 
Till the darksome rooms within 
Daylight never enter'd in. 
And the spider's silvery line 
Was the only thing to shine. 

Years past on, — the fair child now 
Wore maiden beauty on her brow — 
Beauty such as rarely flowers 
In a fallen world like ours. 
She was tall ; a queen might wear 
Such a proud imperial air ; 
She was tall, yet when unbound, 
Swept her bright hair to the ground, 
Glittering like the gold you see 
On a young laburnum tree. 
Yet her eyes were dark as night, 
Melancholy as moonlight, 
With a fierce and wilder ray 
Of a meteor on its way. 
Lonely was her childhood's time, 
Lonelier was her maiden prime ; 
And she wearied of the hours 
Wasted in those gloomy towers ; 
Sometimes through the sunny sky 
She would watch the flowers fly, 
Making of the air a bath, 

In a thousand joyous rings ; 
She would ask of them their path, 

She would ask of them their wings. 
Once her stately mother came, 
With her dark eyes funeral flame. 
And her cheek as pale as death, 
And her cold and whispering breath ; 
With her sable garments bound 
By a mystic girdle round, 
Which, when to the east she turn'd, 
With a sudden lustre burn'd. 
Once that ladye, dark and tall, 
Stood upon the castle wall ; 
And she mark'd her daughter's eyes 
Fix'd upon the glad sunrise, 
With a sad yet eager look, 
Such as fixes on a book 
Which describes some happy lot, 
Lit with joys that we have not. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



295 



And the thought of what has been, 

And the thought of what might be, 
Makes us crave the fancied scene, 

And despise reality. 
'Twas a drear and desert plain 
Lay around their own domain ; 
But, far off, a world more fair 
Outlined on the sunny air ; 
Hung amid the purple clouds, 
With which early morning shrouds 
All her blushes, brief and bright, 
Waking up from sleep and night. 

In a voice so low and dread, 
As a voice that wakes the dead ; 
Then that stately lady said : 
" Daughter of a kingly line, — 
Daughter, too, of race like mine, — 
Such a kingdom had been thine ; 
For thy father was a king, 
Whom I wed with word and ring. 
But in an unhappy hour, 
Did he pass my secret bower, — 
Did he listen to the word, 
Mortal ear hath never heard ; 
From that hour of grief and pain 
Might we never meet again. 

" Maiden, listen to my rede, 
Punish' d for thy father's deed, 
Here, an exile, I must stay, 
While he sees the light of day. 
Child, his race is mix'd in thee, 
With mine own more high degree. 
Hadst thou at Christ's altar stood, 
Bathed in his redeeming flood ; 
Thou of my wild race had known 
But its loveliness alone. 
Now thou hast a mingled dower, 
Human passion — fairy power. 
But forefend thee from the last : 
Be its gifts behind thee cast. 
Many tears will wash away 
Mortal sin from mortal clay. 
Keep thou tnen a timid eye 
On the hopes that fill yon sky ; 
Bend thou with a suppliant knee, 
And thy soul yet saved may be ; — 
Saved by Him who died to save 
Man from death beyond the grave." 
Easy 'tis advice to give, 

Hard it is advice to take. 
Years that lived — and years to live, 

Wide and weary difference make. 
To that elder ladye's mood, 
Suited silent solitude : 
For her lorn heart's wasted soil 
Now repaid not hope's sweet toil. 
Never more could spring flowers grow 
On the worn-out soil below ; 



But to the young Melusine, 
Earth and heaven were yet divine. 
Still illusion'spurple light 

Was upon the morning tide, 
And there rose before her sight 

The loveliness of life untried. 
Three sweet genii, — Youth, Love, Hope,- 
Drew her future horoscope. 
Must such lights themselves consume 1 
Must she be her own dark tomb ? 
But far other thoughts than these — 
Life's enchanted fantasies, 
Were, with Melusina now, 
Stern and dark, contracts her brow ; 
And her bitten lip is white, 
As with passionate resolve. 
Mutter'd she, — u It is my right ; 
On me let the task devolve : 
Since such blood to me belongs 

I shall seek its own bright sphere ; 
I will well avenge the wrongs 

Of my mother exiled here." 

***** 

Two long years are come and past, 
And the maiden's lot is cast ; — 
Cast in mystery and power, 
Work'd out by the watching hour, 
By the word that spirits tell, 
By the sign and by the spell. 
Two long years have come and gone, 
And the maiden dwells alone. 
For the deed which she hath done, 
Is she now a banish'd one ; — 
Banish'd from her mother's arms, 
Banish'd by her mother's charms. 
With a curse of grief and pain, 
Never more to meet again. 
Great was the revenge she wrought, 
Dearly that revenge was bought. 

When the maiden felt her powers, 
Straight she found her father's towers, 
With a sign, and with a word, 
Pass'd she on unseen, unheard. 
One, a pallid minstrel born 
On Good Friday's mystic morn, 
Said she saw a lady there, 
Tall and stately, strange and fair, 
With a stern and glittering eye, 
Like a shadow gliding by. 
All was fear and awe next day, 
For the king had pass'd away. 
He had pledged his court at night, 
In the red grape's flowing light. 
All his pages saw him sleeping ; 
Next day there was wail and weeping 
Halls and lands were wander'd o'er, 
But they saw their king no more. 



296 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Strange it is, and sad to tell, 
What the royal knight befell. 
Far upon a desert land, 
Does a mighty mountain stand ; 
On its summit there is snow, 
While the bleak pines moan below ; 
And within there is a cave 
Open'd for a monarch's grave. 
Bound in an enchanted sleep 
She hath laid him still and deep. 
She, his only child, has made 
That strange tomb where he is laid : 
Nothing more of earth to know, 
Till the final trumpet blow. 
Mortal lip nor mortal ear, 
Were not made to speak nor hear 
That accursed word which seal'd, — 
All those gloomy depths conceal'd. 

With a look of joy and pride, 
Then she sought her mother's side. 
Whispering, on her bended knee, 
" ! my mother, joyous be ; 
For the mountain torrents spring 
O'er that faithless knight and king." 
Not another word she spoke, 
For her speech a wild shriek broke ; 
For the widow'd queen upsprung, 
Wild her pale thin hands she wrung. 
With her black hair falling round, 
Flung her desperate on the ground ; 
While young Melusine stood by, 
With a fix'd and fearful eye. 

When her agony was past, 
Slowly rose the queen at last ; 
With her black hair, like a shroud, 
And her bearing high and proud ; 
With the marble of her brow, 
Colder than its custom now : 
And her eye with a strange light, 
Seem'd to blast her daughter's sight. 
And she felt her whole frame shrink, 
And her young heart's pulses sink ; 
And the colour left her mouth, 

As she saw her mother signing, 
One stern hand towards the south, 

Where a strange red star was shining. 
With a mutter'd word and gaze, 
Fix'd upon its vivid rays ; 
Then she spoke, but in a tone, 
Her*, yet all unlike her own. — 
" Spirit of our spirit-line, 
Curse for me this child of mine. 
Six days yield not to our powers, 
But the seventh day is ours. 
By yon star, and by our line, 
Be thou cm-sed, maiden mine." 
Then the maiden felt hot pain 
"Run through every burning vein. 



Sudden, with a fearful cry, 
Writhes she in her agony ; 
Burns her cheek as with a flame, 
For the maiden knows her shame 



PART II. 



By a lovely river's side, 

Where the water-lilies glide, 

Pale, as if with constant care 

Of the treasures which they bear 5 

For those ivory vases hold 

Each a sunny gift of gold. 

And blue flowers on the banks, 

Grow in wild and drooping ranks, 

Bending mournfully above, 

O'er the waters which they love ; 

But which bear off, day by day, 

Their shadow and themselves away. 

Willows by that river grow 

With their leaves half green, half snow 

Summer never seems to be 

Present all with that sad tree. 

With its bending boughs are wrought 

Tender and associate thought, 

Of the wreaths that maidens wear 

In their long-neglected hair. 

Of the branches that are thrown 

On the last, the funeral stone. 

And of those torn wreaths that suit 

Youthful minstrel's wasted lute. 

But the stream is gay to-night 
With the full moon's golden light. 
And the air is sweet with singing, 
And the joyous horn is ringing, 
' While fair groups of dancers round 
Circle the enchanted ground. 
And a youthful warrior stands 
Gazing not upon those bands, 
Not upon the lovely scene, 
But upon its lovelier queen, 
Who with gentle word and smile 
Courteous prays his stay awhile. 

The fairy of the fountains, she 
A strange and lovely mystery, 
She of whom wild tales have birth, 
When beside a winter hearth, 
By some aged crone is cold, 
Marvel new or legend old. 
But the ladye fronts him there, 
He but sees she is so fair, 
He but hears that in her tone 
Dwells a music yet unknown ;. 
He but feels that he could die 
For the sweetness of her sigh. 
But how many dreams take fligh 
With the dim enamour'd night ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEM!* 



29' 



Cold the morning light has shone, 
And the fairy train are gone, 
Melted in the dewy air, 
Lonely stands young Raymond there. 
Yet not all alone, his heart 
Hath a dream that will not part 
From that beating heart's recess ; 
"What that dream that lover's guess. 

Yet another year hath flown 
In a stately hall alone, 
Like an idol in a shrine 
Sits the radiant Melusine. 
It is night, yet o'er the walls, 
Light, but light unearthly, falls. 
Not from lamp nor taper thrown, 
But from many a precious stone, 
With whose variegated shade 
Is the azure roof inlaid, 
And whose colour'd radiance throws 
Hues of violet and rose. 
Sixty pillars, each one shining 
With a wreath of rubies twining, 
Bear the roof — the snow-white floor 
Is with small stars studded o'er. 
Sixty vases stand between, 
FhTd with perfumes for a queen ; 
And a silvery cloud exhales 
Odours like those fragrant gales, 
Which at eve float o'er the sea 
From the purple Araby. 
Nothing stirs the golden gloom 
Of that dim enchanted room. 
Not a step is flitting round, 
Not a noise except the sound 
Of the distant fountains falling, 
With a soft perpetual calling, 
To the echoes which reply 
Musical and mournfully. 

Sits the fairy Iadye there, 
Like a statue, pale and fair ; 
From her cheek the rose has fled, 
Leaving deeper charms instead. 
On that marble brow are wrought 
Traces of impassion'd thought ; 
Such as without shade or line 
Leave their own mysterious sign. 
While her eyes, they are so bright, 
Dazzle with imperious light, 
Wherefore doth the maiden bend 
Wherefore doth the blush ascend, 
Crimson even to her brow, 
Sight nor step are near her now 1 
Hidden by her sweeping robe, 
Near her stands a crystal globe, 
Gifted with strange power to show 
All that she desires to know. 
(38). 



First she sees \ v (J* hm gate, 
With its steps of marble s^te ; 
Where two kneeling forms seem weeping 
O'er the watch which they are kaq,irwr, 
While around the dusky boughs 
Of a gloomy forest close : 
Not for those that blush arose. 
But she sees beside the gate, 
A young and anxious palmer wait 
Well she knows it is for her, 
He has come a worshipper. 
For a year and for a day, 
Hath he worn his weary way ; 
Now a sign from that white hand, 
And the portals open stand. 
But a moment, and they meet, 
Raymond kneels him at her feet j 
Reading in her downcast eye, 
All that woman can reply. 

Weary, weary had the hours 
Pass'd within her fairy bowers ; 
She was haunted with a dream 
Of the knight beside the stream. 
Who hath never felt the sense 
Of such charm'd influence. 
When the shapes of midnight sleej 
One beloved object keep, 
Which amid the cares of day 
Never passes quite away 1 
Guarded for the sweetest mood 
Of our happy solitude, 
Link'd with every thing we love, 
Flower below or star above : 
Sweet spell after sweet spell thrown 
Till the wide world is its own. 

Turn'd the ladye deadly pale, 
As she heard her lover's tale, 
" Yes," — she said, — O ! low sweet word 
Only in a whisper heard. 
" Yes, if my true heart may be 
Worthy, Christian knight, of thee, 
By the love that makes thee mine 
I am deeply, dearly thine. 
But a spell is on me thrown,- 
Six days may each deed be shown, 
But the seventh day must be 
Mine, and only known to me. 
Never must thy step intrude 
On its silent solitude. 
Hidden from each mortal eye 
Until seven years pass by. 
When*these seven years are flown, 
All my secret may be known. 
But if, with suspicious eye, 
Thou on those dark hours wilt pry, 
Then farewell, beloved in vain, 
Never might we meet again." 



298 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Gazing on one worshipp'd brow, 
When hath lover spared a vow 1 
With an oath and with a prayer 
Did he win the prize he sought, 
Never was a bride so fair, 
As the bride that Raymond brought 
From the wood's enchanted bowers 
To his old ancestral towers. 

0, sweet love, could thy first prime 

Linger on the steps of time, 

Man would dream the unkind skies 

Shelter' d still a Paradise. 

But, alas, the serpent's skill 

Is amid our gardens still. 

Soon a dark inquiring thought 
On the baron's spirit wrought : 
She, who seem'd to love him so, 
Had she aught he might not know, - ? 
Was it wo, how could she bear 
Grief he did not sooth nor share 1 
Was it guilt 1 no— heaven's own grace 
Lighten'd in that loveliest face. 
Then his jealous fancies rose, 
(Our lady keep the mind from those !) 
Like a fire within the brain, 
Maddens that consuming pain. 
Henceforth is no rest by night, 
Henceforth day has no delight 
Life hath agonies that tell 
Of their late left native hell. 
But 'mid their despair is none 
Like that of the jealous one. 

'Tis again the fatal day, 
When the ladye must away, 
To her lonely palace made 
Far within the forest shade, 
Where the mournful fountains sweep 
With a voice that seems to weep, 
On that morn Lord Raymond's bride 
Ere the daybreak leaves his side. 
Never does the ladye speak 
But her tears are on his cheek, 
And he hears a stifled moan 
As she leaves him thus alone. 
Hath she then complaint to make, 
Is there yet some spell to break 1 
Come what will, of weal or wo, 
'Tis the best the worst to know. 

He hath follow'd — wo, for both, 
That the knight forgot his oath. 

Where the silvery fountains fall, 
Stands no more the charmed hall, 
But the dismal yew trees droop, 
And the pines above them stoop, 
While the gloomy branches spread, 
As they would above the dead, 
In some churchyard large and drear 
Haunted with perpetual fear. 



Dark and still like some vast gTave, 
Near there yawns a night-black cave. 
O'er its mouth wild ivy twines 
There the daylight never shines. 
Beast of prey or dragon's lair, 
Yet the knight hath enter'd there. 

Dimly doth the distant day 
Scatter an uncertain ray, 
While strange shapes and ghastly eyes 
'Mid the spectral darkness rise. 
But he hurries on, and near 
He sees a sudden light appear, 
Wan and cold like that strange lamp 
Which amid the charnal's damp 
Shows but brightens not the gloom 
Of the corpse and of the tomb. 
With a cautious step he steals 
To the cave that light reveals. 
'Tis such grotto as might be, 
Nereid's home beneath the sea. 
Crested with the small bright stars 
Of a thousand rainbow spars 
And a fountain from the side 
Pours beneath its crystal tide, 
In a white and marble bath 
Singing on its silvery path ; 
While a meteor's emerald rays 
O'er the lucid water plays. — 
Close beside, with wild flowers laid, 
Is a couch of green moss made 
There he sees his lady lie; 
Pain is in her languid eye, 
And amid her hair the dew 
Half obscures its golden hue ; 
Damp and heavy, and unbound, 
Its wan clusters sweep around. 
On her small hand leans her head, — 
See the fever'd cheek is red, 
And the fiery colour rushes 
To her brow in hectic blushes. — 
What strange vigil is she keeping ! 
He can hear that she is weeping. — 
He will fling him at her feet, 

He will kiss away her tears. 
Ah, what doth his wild eyes meet, 

What below that form appears 1 
Downwards from that slender waist, 
By a golden zone embraced, 
Do the many folds escape, 
Of the subtle serpent's shape. — 
Bright with many-colour'd dyes 
All the glittering scales arise, 
With a red and purple glow 
Colouring the waves below ! 
At the strange and fearful sight, 
Stands in mute despair the knight,— 
Soon to feel a worse despair 
Melusina sees him there ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



299 



And to seo him is to part 

With the idol of her heart, 

Part as just the setting sun 

Tells the fatal day is done. 

Vanish all those serpent rings, 

To her feet the lady springs, 

And the shriek rings through the cell, 

Of despairing love's farewell, — 

Hope and happiness are o'er, 

They can meet on earth no more. 

***** 
Years have past since this wild tale- 
Still is heard that lady's wail, 
Ever round that ancient tower, 
Ere its lord's appointed hour. 
With a low and moaning breath 
She must mark approaching death, 
While remains Lord Raymond's line 
Doom'd to wander and to pine. 
Yet, before the stars are bright, 
On the evening's purple light, 
She beside the fountain stands 
Wringing sad her shadowy hands, 
May our lady, as long years 
Pass with their atoning tears, 
Pardon with her love divine 
The fountain fairy — Melusinel* 



THE HINDOO MOTHER. 

She leaves it to the sacred stream, 

She leaves it to the tide, 
Her little child — her darling one, 

And she has none beside. 

She used to sit beneath the palm, 

Her boy upon her knee ; 
And dreaming of the future years, 

That were his own to be : 

She saw him with a stately steed, 

The sabre in his hand ; 
His pistols gleaming -at his waist, 

The foremost of his band : 

She saw him with his father's smile, 
Beside some maiden dear ; 

She smiled to hear familiar words ! 
Alas ! and is he here 1 



* Eaymond, first Lord of Lusignan, died as a hermit, at 
Monserrat. Melusina's was a yet harsher doom: fated 
to flit over the earth, in pain and sorrow, as a spectre. 
Only when one of the race of Lusignan were about to die, 
does she become visible,— and wanders wailing around the 
Castle. Tradition also represents her shadow as hovering 
over the Fountain of Thirst.— T Horn's Lays and Legeiids. 



The light has vanish'd from her day, 
The hope gone from her heart ; 

The young, the bright, and the beloved 
O ! how could he depart 1 

No more his sunny smile will make 
Her own, her household light ; 

No more will her sweet voice be heard, 
Above his sleep at night. 

Her heart and home are desolate, 

But for one dearest tie ; 
But for the father of her child, 

She would lay down and die. 

The tide rolls on beneath the moon, 
Down to the mighty main ; 

To-morrow may the mother seek, 
And seek her child in vain* 



IMMOLATION OF A HINDOO WIDOW 

Gather her raven hair in one rich cluster, 
Let the white champac light it, as a star 
Gives to the dusky night a sudden lustre, 

Shining afai 

Shed fragrant oils upon her fragrant bosom, 
Until the breathing air around grows sweet ; 
Scatter the languid jasmine's yellow blossom 

Beneath her feet. 



* Of the custom alluded to above, Mrs. Belnos gives the 
following interesting description : — "Hindoos of high caste 
burn their dead ; but if unable to do so from poverty, are 
forced to throw them into the Ganges, after having per- 
formed the ceremony of burning the mouth with a wisp of 
straw. The expenses attending the burning of the dead 
are too great for any but the rich. When the infant of a 
poor Hindoo dies, the wretched mother takes it up in her 
arms, and carries it to the river, on the bank of which she 
lays it forsometimeon a piece of mat, or on the sands; she 
stands weeping over the body a little while, then retires a 
few paces back, where she sits down watching for the re- 
turn of the tide to wash away the body, and to prevent the 
birds of prey and Pariah dogs from approaching it; at 
intervals she breaks forth in loud lamentations (something 
resembling a chant, which is often heard at a great dis- 
tance) in the following words:— 'O! my child! who has 
taken thee, my child ! I nourished thee and reared thee, 
and now where art thou gone ! take me with thee, O ! my 
child, my child ! thou play-dst around me like a gold top, 
my child ! the like of thy face I have never seen, my 
child ! let fire devour the eyes of men, my child. The in- 
fant continually called memah, mah, (mother, mother ;) the 
infant used to say mah, let me sit upon thy lap ! my child 
his father never stayed at home since he was born, my 
child ! my child ! but bore him continually in his arms for 
men to admire. What has become now of that admira- 
tion ! Evil befall the eyes of men ! O ! my life, say man 
again, my child! my child! My arms and my lap feel 
empty, who will fill them again? O, my sweet burden, 
my eyesight has become darkened, now that thou hasl 
vanished from before it '." 



300 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Those small white feet are bare — too soft are they 
To tread on aught but flowers ; and there is roll'd 
Round the slight ankle, meet for such display, 
The band of gold. 

Chains and bright stones are on her arms and 

neck; 
What pleasant vanities are link'd with them, 
Of happy hours, which youth delights to deck 
With gold and gem. 

She comes ! So comes the Moon, when has she 

found 
A silvery path wherein through heaven to glide 1 
Fling the white veil — a summer cloud— around ; 
She is a bride ! 

And yet the crowd that gather at her side 
Are pale, and every gazer holds his breath. 
Eyes fill with tears unbidden, for the bride — 
The bride of Death ! 

She gives away the garland from her hair, 
She gives the gems that she will wear no more ; 
All the affections, whose love-signs they were, 
Are gone before, 

The red pile blazes — let the bride ascend, 
And lay her head upon her husband's heart, 
Now in a perfect unison to blend — 

No more to part. 



THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 



"A fair young face— yet mournful in its youth — 
Brooding above sad thoughts." 



It is the last token of love and of thee ! 
Thy once faith is broken, thou false one to me. 
I think on the letters with which I must part ; 
Too dear are the fetters which wind round my 
heart. 

Thy words were enchanted — and ruled me at will ; 
My spirit is haunted, remembering them still. 
So earnest, so tender — the full heart was there ; 
A.h ! song might surrender its lute in despair. 

v deem'd that I knew thee as none ever knew ; 
That 'twas mine to subdue thee, and thine to be 

true. 
I deem'd to my keeping thy memory had brought 
The depths that were sleeping of innermost 

thought. 

The bitter concealings life's treacheries teach, 
The long-subdued feelings the world cannot 
reach — 



Thy mask to the many was worn not for me ; 
I saw thee — can any seem like unto thee ] 

No other can know thee as I, love, have known 
No future will show thee a love like mine own. 
That love was no passion that walketh by dav ? 
A fancy — a fashion that fiitteth away. 

'Twas life's whole emotion — a storm in its might 
'Twas deep as the ocean, and silent as night. 
It swept down life's flowers, the fragile and fair, 
The heart had no powers from passion to spare. 

Thy faults but endear'd thee, so stormy and wild 
My lover ! I fear'd thee as feareth a child. 
They seem'd but the shrouding of spirit too high, 
As vapours come crowding the sunniest sky. 

I worshipp'd in terror a comet above ; 
Ah ! fatal the error — ah ! fatal the love ! 
For thy sake life never will charm me again ; 
Its beauty forever is vanish'd and vain. 

Thou canst not restore me the depth and the truth 
Of the hopes that came o'er me in earliest youth. 
Their gloss is departed — their magic is flown, 
And sad and faint-hearted I wander alone. 

'Tis vain to regret me — you will not regret ; 
You will try to forget me — you cannot forget. 
We shall hear of each other — O ! misery to hear 
Those names from another that once were so dear ! 

What slight words will sting us that breathe of 

the past, 
And slight things will bring us thoughts fated to 

last. 
The fond hopes that centred in thee are all dead, 
But the iron has enter 'd the soul where they fed. 

Like others in seeming, we'll walk through life's 

part, 
Cold, careless, and dreaming, — with death in the 

heart, 
No hope — no repentence ; the spring of life o'er ; 
All died with that sentence 1 love thee no 

more ! 



SCENES IN LONDON:— PICCADILLY 

The sun is on the crowded street, 

It kindles those old towers ; 
Where England's noblest memories meet, 

Of old historic hours. 

Vast, shadowy, dark, and indistinct, 

Tradition's giant fane, 
Whereto a thousand years are link'd 

In one electric chain. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



301 



So stands it when the morning light 
First steals upon the skies ; 

And shadovv'd by the fallen night, 
The sleeping city lies. 

It stands with darkness round it cast, 
Touch'd by the first cold shine ; 

Vast, vague, and mighty as the past 
Of which it is the shrine. 

'Tis lovely when the moonlight falls 
Around the sculptured stone, 

Giving a softness to the walls, 
Like love that mourns the gone. 

Then comes the gentlest influence 
The human heart can know, 

The mourning over those gone hence 
To the still dust below. 

The smoke, the noise, the dust of day, 
Have vanish'd from the scene ; 

The pale lamps gleam with spirit ray 
O'er the park's sweeping green. 

Sad shining on her lonely path, 
The moon's calm smile above, 

Seems as it lull'd life's toil and wrath 
With universal love. 

Past that still hour, and its pale moon, 

The city is alive ; 
It is the busy hour of noon, 

When man must seek and strive. 

The pressure of our actual life 

Is on the waking brow ; 
Labour and care, endurance, strife, 

These are around him now. 

How wonderful the common street, 

Its tumult and its throng, 
The hurrying of the thousand feet 

That bear life's cares along. 

How strongly is the present felt, 
With such a scene beside ; 

All sounds in one vast murmur melt 
The thunder of the tide. 

All hurry on — none pause to look 

Upon another's face : 
The present is an open book 

None read, yet all must trace. 

The poor man hurries on his race, 

His daily bread to find ! 
The rich man has yet wearier chase, 

For pleasure's hard to bind. 

All hurry, though it is to pass 
For which they live so fast — 



What doth the present but amass, 
The wealth that makes the past. 

The past is round us — those old spires 
That glimmer o'er our head ; 

Not from the present is their fires, 
Their light is from the dead. 

But for the past, the present's powers 
Were waste of toil and mind ; 

But for those long and glorious hours 
Which leave themselves behind. 



WARKWORTH HERMITAGE.* 

The lonely cavern, like a chapel carved, 
Is situate amid the lonely hills ; 
The scutcheon, cross, and altar hewn in rock , 
And by the altar is cenotaph, 
In marble there a lovely lady lies ; 
An angel, with a welcome at her side, 
A welcome to the soul he beareth heaven. 
And near a warrior stands — the desolate ! 
The wide earth only holds one tomb for him. 
Such must have been his history, who first 
Cut this sad hermitage within the rock: 
Some spirit-broken and world-weary man, 



* Warkworth Hermitage is situated about half a mile 
above "Warkworth castle, on the brink of the Coquet river. 
This venerable retreat is probably the best preserved and 
the most entire work of its kind now remaining in the 
kingdom. It contains three apartments, all of them formed 
by excavation of the solid rock, and impends over the river 
clothed in a rich mantle of ancient trees, remains of the 
venerable woods which in olden times sheltered the in- 
mates of this romantic solitude. Mr. Grose, in his Anti- 
quities, " ventures to call the three apartments, by way of 
distinction, the chapel, the sacristy, and antechapel." 

The chapel is eighteen feet in length, by about seven 
and a half in width and height; and is beautifully model- 
led in the Gothic style of architecture. The sides are 
adorned with neat octagon pillars, branching orT to the 
ceiling, and terminating in small pointed arches at the 
groins. At the east end is a plain altar, ascended. by two 
steps ; and behind is a little niche, in which was probably 
placed the crucifix. 

The sacristy is a plain oblong apartment, running 
parallel with the chapel. The remains of an altar may 
still be seen at the east end, at which mass was occas on 
ally performed. Between this room and the chapel is a 
small opening, whence the hermit might make confessi3n, 
and behold the elevation of the host. Near this opening 
is a door leading into the chapel, and over it a small 
escutcheon with all the emblems of the passion— the cross 
—the crown of thorns— the nails— the spear— and the 
sponge. On the south side of the altar is a cenotaph sup- 
porting three figures ; the principal one being that of a 
female, over whom an angel is hovering; the remaining 
figure is a warrior, in an erect position, at the lady's feet. 

The beautiful ballad by Bishop Percy, in which he has 
recorded the traditional history of this hermitage, is fami 
liar to the readers of English poetry 

3c 



302 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Whose love was in the grave — whose hope in 

heaven. 
Yet a fine nature must have been his own ; 
A sense of beauty — and a strong delight 
In the brave seeming of the visible world, 
Whose loveliness is like a sympathy. 
Winds the fair river through the vale below, 
With sunshine on its waters. Green the woods 
Hang the far summits with their changeful shade. 
In the soft summer fields are many flowers, 
Which breathe at evening on the scented wind. 
Still the wild cherry trees are growing round, 
Which first he planted, — yet he loved the 

world — 
The bright — the beautiful — the glorious world — 
But loved it as those love who love on earth, 
Only the hope that looketh up to heaven. 



THE SNOWDROP. 

Thou beautiful new comer, 

With white and maiden brow ; 
Thou fairy gift from summer, 

Why art thou blooming now 1 
This dim and shelter'd alley 

Is dark with winter green ; 
Not such as in the valley 

At sweet springtime is seen. 

The lime tree's tender yellow, 

The aspen's silvery sheen, 
With mingling colours mellow 

The universal green. 
Now solemn yews are bending 

'Mid gloomy fires around ; 
And in long dark wreaths descending, 

The ivy sweeps the ground. 

No sweet companion pledges 

Thy health as dewdrops pass ; 
No rose is on the hedges, 

No violet in the grass. 
Thou art watching, and thou only, 

Above the earth's snow tomb ; 
Thus lovely, and thus lonely, 

I bless thee for thy bloom. 

Though the singing rill be frozen, 

While the wind forsakes the west ; 
Though the singing birds have chosen 

Some lone and silent rest ; 
Like thee, one sweet thought lingers 

In a heart else cold and dead, 
Though the summer's flowers, and singers, 

And sunshine, long hath fled : 



'Tis the love for long years cherish'd, 

Yet lingering, lorn, and lone ; 
Though its lovelier lights have perish'd, 

And its earlier hopes are flown. 
Though a weary world hath bound it, 

With many a heavy thrall ; 
And the cold and changed surround it, 

It blossometh o'er all. 



THE ASTROLOGER. 

Alas ! for our ancient believings, 
We have nothing now left to believe ; 

The oracle, augur, and omen 
No longer dismay and deceive. 

All hush'd are the oaks of Dodona ; 

No more on the winds of the north, 
As it sways to and fro the huge branches, 

The voice of the future comes forth. 

No more o'er the flower-wreathed victim 
The priest at the red altar bends : 

No more on the flight of the vulture 
The dark hour of victory depends. 

The stars have forgotten their science, 
Or we have forgotten its lore ; 

In the rulers, the bright ones of midnight, 
We question of fortune no more. 

O folly ! to deem that far planets 
Recorded the hour of our birth ; 

To glorious they arc, and too lovely, 
For the wo and the weakness of earth. 

Now the science of fate is grown lowly, 
We question of gipsies and cards ; 

'Tis a question how much of the actual 
The fate of the votary rewards. 

'Tis the same in all ages ; the future 
Still seems to the spirit its home ; 

We are weary and worn with the presen . 
But happiness still is to come. 



THE INDIAN GIRL. 

She sat alone beside her hearth — 

For many nights alone ; 
She slept not on the pleasant couch 

Where fragrant herbs were strown. 

At first she bound her raven hair 
With feather and with shell ; 

But then she hoped ; at length, like night, 
Around her neck it fell. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



<o:3 



They saw her wandering 'mid the woods, 

Lone, with the cheerless dawn, 
And then they said, " Can this be her 

We call'd 'The Startled Fawn.' " 

Her heart was in her large sad eyes, 

Half sunshine and half shade ; 
And love, as love first springs to life, 

Of every thing afraid. 

The red leaf far more heavily 

Fell down to autumn earth, 
Than her light feet, which seem'd to move 

To music and to mirthc 

With the light feet of early youth, 

What hopes and joys depart ! 
Ah ! nothing like the heavy step 

Betrays the heavy heart. 

It is a usual history 

That Indian girl could tell ; 
Fate sets apart one common doom 

For all who love too well. 

The proud — the shy — the sensitive, — 

Life has not many such ; 
They dearly buy tneir happiness, 

By feeling it too much. 

A stranger to her forest home, 

That fair young stranger came 
They raised for him the funeral song — 

For him the funeral flame. 

Love sprang from pity, — and her arms 

Around his arms she threw ; 
She told her father, " If he dies, 

Your daughter dieth too." 

For her sweet sake they set him free — 

He linger'd at her side ; 
And many a native song yet tells 

Of that pale stranger's bride. 

Two years have pass'd — how much two years 

Have taksn in their flight ! 
They've taken from the lip its smile, 

And from the eye its light. 

Poor child ! she was a child in years — 

So timid and so young ; 
With what a fond and earnest faith 

To desperate hope she clung! 

His eyes grew cold — his voice grew strange — 

They only grew more dear. 
She served him meekly, anxiously, 

With love— half faith, half fear. 



And can a fond and faithful heart 

Be worthless in those eyes 
For which it beats 1 — Ah ! wo to those 

Who such a heart despise. 

Poor child ! what lonely days she pass'd, 

With nothing to recall 
But bitter taunts, and careless words, 

And looks more cold than all. 

Alas ! for love, that sits at home, 

Forsaken, and yet fond ; 
The grief that sits beside the hearth, 

Life has no grief beyond. 

He left her, but she follow'd him — 
She thought he could not bear 

When she had left her home for him 
To look on her despair. 

Adown the strange and mighty stream 

She took her lonely way ! 
The stars at night her pilots were, 

As was the sun by day. 

Yet mournfully — how mournfully ! — 

The Indian look'd behind, 
When the last sound of voice or step 

Died on the midnight wind. 

Yet still adown the gloomy stream 

She plied her weary oar ; 
Her husband — he had left their home, 

And it was home no more. 

She found him — but she found in vain — 

He spurn'd her from his side ; 
He said, her brow was all too dark, 

For her to be his bride. 

She grasp'd his hands, — her own were cold, 

And silent turn'd away, 
As she had not a tear to shed, 

And not a word to say. 

And pale as death she reach'd her boat, 

And guided it along ; 
With broken voice she strove to raise 

A melancholy song. 

None watch'd the lonely Indian girl, — 

She pass'd unmark'd of all, 
Until they saw her slight canoe 

Approach the mighty Fall !* 

Upright, within that slender boat 

They saw the pale girl stand, 
Her dark hair streaming far behind — 

Upraised her desperate hand. 

* Niagara. 



304 



MrSS LANDON'S WORKS. 



The air is fill'd with shriek and shout- 
They call, but call in vain ; 

The boat amid the waters dash'd — 
'Twas never seen again ! 



THE HINDOO GIRL'S SONG. 



This song alludes to a well-known superstition among 
the young Hindoo girls. They make a little boat out of a 
cocoanut shell, place a small lamp and flowers within this 
tiny ark of the heart, and launch it upon the Ganges. If it 
float out of sight with its lamp stll burning, the omen is 
prosperous : if it sinks, the love of which it questions, is ill- 
fated. 



Float on — float on — my haunted bark, 

Above the midnight tide ; 
Bear softly o'er the waters dark 

The hopes that with thee glide. 

Float on — float on — thy freight is flowers, 

And every flower reveals 
The dreaming of my lonely hours, 

The hope my spirit feels. 

Float on — float on — thy shining lamp, 

The light of love, is there ; 
If lost beneath the waters damp, 

That love must then despair. 

Float on — beneath the moonlight float, 

The sacred billows o'er : 
Ah, some kind spirit guards my boat, 

For it has gain'd the shore. 



THE 

RUSH-BEARING AT AMBLESIDE.* 

Summer is come, with her leaves and her flowers — 
Summer is come, with the sun on her hours; 
The lark in the clouds, and the thrush on the 

bough, 
And the dove in the thicket, make melody now. 
The noon is abroad, but the shadows are cool 
Where the green rushes grow in the dark forest 

pool. 



* In the olden time, when the churches were strewn with 
rushes, the ceremony of changing them was a yearly reli- 
gious festival. The custom, once universal, now lingers 
only in some of the remote northern districts. There, 
bunches of rushes, gayly ornamented, attended by banners 
anil music, are still borne in triumph by the young people 
©f tho village. Last remains of that pastoral poetry which 
«tn..e characterized " merrie England." 



We seek not the hedges where violets blow, 
There alone in the twilight of evening we go ; 
They are love-tokens offer'd, when heavy with 

dew, 
To a lip yet more fragrant — an eye yet more blue, 
But leave them alone to their summer-soft dream — 
We seek the green rushes that grow by the stream. 

Away from the meadow, although the long grass 
Be fill'd with young flowers that smile as we 

pass; 
Where the bird's eye is bright as the sapphires that 

shine 
When the hand of a beauty is deck'd from the 

mine. 
We want not their gems, and we want not then' 

flowers, 
But we seek the green rush in the dark forest 

bowers. 

The cowslip is ringing its fairy like chime, 
Sweet bells, by whose music Titania keeps time : 
The rose bush is cover'd with cups that unfold 
Their petals that tremble in delicate gold. 
But we seek not their blossoms in garlands to 

blend, 
We seek the green rush where the willow trees 

bend. 

The green rush, the green rush, we bear it along 
To the church of our village with triumph and 

song ; 
We strew the cold chancel, and kneel on it there, 
While its fresh odours rise with our voices in 

prayer. 
Hark the peal from the old tower in praise of it 

rings, 
Let us seek the green rush by the deep woodland 

springs. 



THE YOUNG DESTRUCTIVE. 

Iu truth, I do not wonder 
To see them scatter'd round ; 

So many leaves of knowledge — 
Some fruit must sure be found. 

The Eton Latin Grammar 
Has now its verbs declined ; 

And those of Lindley Murray 
Are not so far behind. 

! days of bread and water — 

How many I recall, 
Past — sent into the corner ; 

Your face towards the wall. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



306 



O ! boundaries of Europe ! 

! rivers great and small ! 
! islands, gulfs, and capitals ! 

How I abhorr'd ye all ! 

And then those dreadful tables 
Of shillings, pence, and pounds! 

Though I own their greater trouble 
In after life abounds. 

'Tis strange how memory lingers 
About those early hours ; 

And we talk of happy childhood, 
As if such had been ours. 

But distance lends enchantment 
To all we suffer'd then ; 

Thank Heaven, that I never 
Can be a child again ! 



FISHING BOATS IN THE MONSOON. 



The western coasts of India abound with a great variety 
offish, of excellent quality ; and a considerable population 
in the villages along the seashore is occupied in catching 
it, and, in a great measure, subsist upon it. The mode of 
catching the fish is as follows : piles or stakes, of consider- 
able size and length, are sunk and secured at certain dis- 
tances from the shore, extending sometimes several miles 
out to sea-, these are driven or forced down by fastening 
boats to them at high water, heavily laden with ballast, 
which, by their own weight as the tide falls, force the 
stakes deeper into the sandy or muddy bottom. This ope- 
ration is further assisted at the same time by a number of 
boatmen swaying upon ropes made fast to the upper part 
of the stake. To the stakes are attached nets of great 
length, and of very tough materials, capable of sustaining 
the weight of such draughts as occasionally appear almost 
miraculous, exhibiting a motley assemblage of varieties of 
fish and other marine productions. 



Burx yet awhile, my wasting lamp, 
Though long the night may be ; 

The wind is rough, the air is damp, 
Yet burn awhile for me. 

The peepul tree beside our door, 
How dark its branches wave ; 

They seem as they were drooping o'er 
Its usual haunt, the grave. 

Why was it planted here to bring 

The images of death ? 
£urely some gladder tree should spring 

Near human hope and breath. 

dove that dwellest its leaves among, 
I hear thee on the bough ; 

1 hear thy melancholy song, 

Why art thou singing now 1 
(30) 



All things are omens to the iicart 

That keeps a vigil lone, 
When wearily the hours depart, 

And vet night is not flown. 

I see the lights amid the bay, 
How pale and wan they shine , 

wind, that wanderest on thy way, 
Say which of them is mine. 

A weary lot the fisher hath 

Of danger and of toil, 
Over the wild waves is his path, 

Amid their depths his spoil. 

1 cannot hear the wind go by 

Without a sudden fear ; 
I cannot look upon the sky, 
Nor fear that storms are near. 

I look upon the sunny sea, 
And think of rocks below ; 

Still present are the shoals to me 
O'er which my love must go. 

I cannot sleep as others sleep, 
Night has more care than day ; 

My heart is out upon the deep, 
I weep — I watch — I pray. 

Ah, see a speck the waves among, 
A light boat cuts the foam, 

The wild wind beareth me his song, 
Thank God, he is come home. 



SCENES IN LONDON. 

THE SAVOYARD IN GROSVENOR SQUARE. 

He stands within the silent square, 
That square of taste, of gloom ; 

A heavy weight is on the air, 
Which hangs as o'er a tomb. 

It is a tomb which wealth and rank 
Have built themselves around — 

The general sympathies have shrank, 
Like flowers on high dry ground. 

None heed the wandering boy who sings. 

An orphan though so young ; 
None think how far the singer brings 

The songs which he has sung. 

None cheer him with a kindly look. 

None with a kindly word ; 
The singer's little pride must brooV 

To be unpraised, unheard. 
2 c 2 



306 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



At home, their sweet bird he was styled. 

And oft, when days were long, 
His mother call'd her favourite child, 

To sing her favourite song. 

He wanders now through weary streets, 

Till cheek and eye are dim ; 
How little sympathy he meets, 

For music or for him. 

Sudden his dark brown cheek grows bright, 

His dark eyes fill with glee, 
Cover'd with blossoms snowy-white, 

He sees an orange tree. 

No more the toil-worn face is pale, 

No faltering step is sad ; 
He sees his distant native vale, 

He sees it, and is glad. 

He sees the squirrel climb the pine, 
The doves fly through the .dell, 

The purple clusters of the vine ; 
He hears the vesper bell. 

His heart is full of hope and home, 

Toil, travel, are no more ; 
And he has happy hours to come 

Beside his father's door. 

charm of natural influence ! 

But for thy lovely ties, 
Never might the world-wearied sense 

Above the present rise. 

Bless'd be thy magic everywhere, 

O Nature, gentle mother ; 
How kindlier is for us thy care, 

Than ours is for each other. 



BEVERLEY MINSTER. 

Built in far other times, those sculptured walls 
Attest the faith which our forefathers felt, 
Strong faith, whose visible presence yet remains ; 
We pray with deeper reverence at a shrine 
Hallow'd by many prayers. For years, long years, 
Years that make centuries — those dimlit aisles, 
Where rainbows play, from colour'd windows 

flung, 
Have echo'd to the voice of prayer and praise ; 
With the last lights of evening flitting round, 
Making a rosy atmosphere of hope. 
The vesper hymn hath risen, bearing heaven, 
But purified the many cares of earth. 
How oft has music rock'd those ancient towers, 
When the deep bells were tolling ; as they rung, 
The castle and the hamlet, high and low, 



Obey'd the summons : earth grew near to God, 
The piety of ages is around. 
Many the heart that has before yon cross 
Laid down the burden of its heavy cares, 
And felt a joy that is not of this world. 
There are both sympathy and warning here ; 
Methinks as down we kneel by those old graves 
The past will pray with us. 



THE MONTMORENCY WATERFALL 
AND CONE. 



" When the river St. Lawrence is frozen below the Falls, 
the level ice becomes a support on which the freezing 
spray descends as sleet; it there remains, and gradually 
assumes the figure of an irregular cone, which continues to 
enlarge its dimensions till, towards the close of the winter, 
it becomes stupendous. The height of the cone varies 
considerably, in different seasons ; as the quantity of spray 
depends on the supply of water to the Falls— the spray, of 
course, being most dense when the rush of water is strong 
and impetuous. In 1829 and 1832, it did not reach a greater 
altitude than one hundred and thirty feet. The face of the 
cone, opposite to the Falls, differs from the rest of its sur- 
face, it being composed of stalactites; this formation arises 
from the dashing of the water against its base, which 
freezes in its descent, and by the continual action pro- 
duces enormous icicles."— " The formation of this cone 
may serve to explain the origin of g'aciers." 

" To the inhabitants of Quebec, the cone is a source of 
endless amusement. When the weather is temperate, 
parties in single-horse curricles and tandems are seen 
hurrying to the spot, to enjoy the beauty of the scene, and 
to make descents, upon small sleighs, from the top c* tha 
cone to the plain below." 



We do not ask for the leaves and flowers 
That laugh as they look on the summer hours ; 
Let the violets shrink and sigh, 
Let the red rose pine and die : 
The sledge is yoked, away we go, 
Amid the firs, o'er the soundless snow. 

Lo ! the pine is singing its murmuring song, 
Over our heads as we pass along ; 
And every bough with pearl is hung, 
Whiter than those that from ocean sprung. 
The sledge is yoked, away we go, 
Amid the firs, o'er the soundless snow. 

The ice is bright with a thousand dyes 
Like the changeful light in a beauty's eyes, 
Now it weareth her blush, and now 
It weareth the white of her marble brow. 
The sledge is yoked, and away we go, 
Beneath the firs, o'er the soundless snow. 

We are wrapp'd with ermine and sable round, 
By the Indian in trackless forests found ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



307 



The sunbeams over the white world shine, 
And we carry with us the purple wine. 
The sledge is yoked, and away we go, 
Beneath the firs, o'er the soundless snow. 



DUNOLD MILL-HOLE,* 

IN THE VILLAGE OF KELLET, ABOUT FIVE MILES FROM 
LANCASTER. 

I fly from the face of my foe in his might, 
I ask from the sky but the shadow of night, 
I am lonely, yet dread lest the wandering wind 
Should bring me the step or the voice of my 
kind. 
I hear the soft voices that sing in the cave, 
When from the rent limestone out-gushes the 

wave ; 
While the echoes that haunt the dim caverns re- 
peat, 
The music they make in repeating more sweet. 

There are colours like rainbows spread over the 
wall, 
For the damps treasure sunbeams wherever they 

fall; 
In each little nook where the daylight finds room 
Wild fiow'rets like fairy gifts burst into bloom. 
The small lakes are mirrors, which give back 
the sky, 
The stars in their depths on a dark midnight lie, 
I gaze not on heaven — I dare not look there, 
But I watch the deep shadows, and know my de- 
spair. 

From the sparry roof falls a perpetual shower, 
Doth nature then weep o'er some evil-starr'd hour, 
While memory all that it mourns for endears, 
Such sorrow is gentle, for blessed are tears. 

I weep not, I sit in my silence alone, 
My heart, like the rock that surrounds me, is 

stone, 
Beside me forever a pale shadow stands, 
My hands clasp for prayer, but there's blood on 
those hands. 

I rue not my anger — I rue but my shame: 
Let my old halls be lonely, and perish my name ! 



* A rugged path leads to this beautiful and spacious 
cavern, which may well, in former days, have been the 
place of refuge supposed in the foregoing poem. The 
brook which runs through it is broken by the pointed rock 
into many waterfalls, and also feeds several small lakes ; 
a spring trickles from the roof, and the sides are covered 
with a profusion of moss, and weeds, and wild flowers. 
Like most of these caverns, the walls are covered with 
eparry incrustations. 



She made them lonely, 'twas she flung the stain, 
I slew her while sleeping — I'd slay her again. 
O sweet bird, that lovest in that old tree to 

sing, 
Whose home is the free air, I envy thy wing, 
Yet where'er these wild wings my spirit might 

bear, 
She still must be with me, the false and the fair. 



RUINS ABOUT THE TAJ MAHAL. 



An arid plain leads to the luxuriant gardens which still 
adorn the mausoleum where Nour Jahan and the lovely 
partner of his throne "sleep the sleep that knows no 
waking." Fonds of gold and silver fish are the common 
ornaments of a great man's grounds in India. They are 
covered after sunset with a gauze frame, to protect them 
from their various nightly enemies. Notwithstanding the 
care taken for their preservation, they often become the 
prey of the kingfisher. Tombs in India are palaces, vast 
and immutable as the slumbers which they cover. As n to 
add the contrast of natural fertility to human decay, the 
garden always surrounds the grave. 



Mournfully they pass away, 
The dearest and the fairest ; 
Beauty, thou art common clay, 
Common doom thou sharest. 
Though the rose bestow its dyes 
For a blush too tender ; 
Though the stars endow thine eyes 
With their midnight splendour. 

Though thy smiles around thee fling 

Atmosphere elysian ; 

Though thy presence seems to spring 

Like a poet's vision ; 

Though the full heart worship thee, 

Like a thing enchanted ; 

Though the cold earth common be, 

When thy touch is wanted : 

Yet thou dost decay and die, 

And beside thee perish 

All that grew beneath thine eye, 

All that we wont cherish, 

Every gentle hope and thought 

Which thou bearest hither ; 

Hues from thine own heaven brought, 

Hues thou takest thither. 

Fare thee well — thou soon art flown 
From a world that loved thee ; 
Heaven, that claims thee for its own, 
Soon from us removed thee. 
Here thy shadows only come, 
Fleeting, though divinest; 
But in thine eternal home 
Steadfastly thou shinest 



308 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



THE WIDOW'S MITE. 

It is the fruit of waking hours 

When others are asleep, 
When moaning round the low thatch'd roof 

The winds of winter creep. 

It is the fruit of summer days 

Past in a gloomy room, 
When others are abroad to taste 

The pleasant morning bloom. 

Tis given from a scanty store 

And miss'd while it is given : 
'Tis given — for the claims of earth 

Are less than those of heaven. 

Few save the poor feel for the poor, 

The rich know not how hard 
It is to be of needful food 

And needful rest debarr'd. 

Their paths are paths of plenteousness ; 

They sleep on silk and down, 
And never think how heavily 

The weary head lies down. 

They know not of the scanty meal 

With small pale faces round ; 
No fire upon the cold, damp hearth, 

When snow is on the ground. 

They never by their window sit, 

And see the gay pass by ; 
Yet take their weary work again, 

Though with a mournful eye. 

The rich, they give— they miss it not — 

A blessing cannot be 
Like that which rests, thou widow'd one, 

Upon thy gift and thee ! 



SIR THOMAS HARDY, 

GOVERNOR OF GREENWICH HOSPITAL. 

Sieence is now upon the seas, 

The silent seas of yore ; 
The thunder of the cannonade 

Awakes the wave no more. 

The battle-flag droops o'er the mast, 

There quiet let it sleep ; 
For it hath won in wilder hours 

Its empire o'er the deep. 



Now let it wave above their home, 

Of those who fought afar ; 
The victors of the Baltic sea, 

The brave of Trafalgar. 

Upon a. terrace by the Thames, 

I saw the Admiral stand ; 
He who received the latest clasp* 

Of Nelson's dying hand. 

Age, toil, and care had somewhat bow'd 
His bearing proud and high ; 

But yet resolve was on his lip, 
And fire was in his eye. 

I felt no wonder England holds 

Dominion o'er the seas ; 
Still the red cross will face the world, 

While she hath men like these. 

And gather'd there beneath the sun ■ 
Were loitering veterans old ; 

As if of former victories 
And former days they told. 

No prouder trophy hath our isle, 
Though proud her trophies be, 

Than that old palace where are housed 
The veterans of the sea. 

Her other domes — her wealth, her pride, 

Her science may declare ; 
But Greenwich hath the noblest claim, 

Her gratitude is there. 



ESKDALE, CUMBERLAND.! 

! no: I do not wish to see 

The sunshine o'er these hills again ; 
Their quiet beauty wakes in me 
A thousand wishes wild and vain. 

1 hear the skylark's matin songs 

Breathe of the heaven he singeth near ; 
Ah ! heaven, that to our earth belongs, 
Why is thy hope so seldom here 1 






* His favourite captain ;— Nelson died in Sir Thomaa 
Hardy's arms. Too long for extract here, the account 
of that battle and death is at once the most exciting and 
yet touching record I know in English history. 

t In the midst of these secluded mountain districts, says 
Mr. Warren in his Northern Tour, lives one of the most 
independent, most moral, and most respectable characters 
existing, the estatesman, as he is called in the language 
of the country, whose hospitality to the wayfarer and tra- 
veller has been thus touchingly illustrated: — "Go," said 
an estatesman to a person whom he had entertained for 
some days at his house, "go to the vale on the other side 

of the mountain, to the house of* , (naming the party,) 

and tell him you came from me. I know him not, but he 
will receive you kindly, for our sheep mingle on th* 
mountains." 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



309 



The grass is filFd with early flowers, 
Whereon the dew is scarcely dry ; 

While singing to the silent hours, 

The glittering waves are murmuring by. 

And fancies from afar are brought 

By magic lights and wandering wind ; 

Such scene hath poet never sought, 
But he hath left his heart behind. 

It is too sad to feel how blest 

In such a spot might be our home ; 

And then to think with what unrest 
Throughout this weary world we roam. 



SCENES IN LONDON: 



THE CITY CHURCHYARD. 



If there be one object more material, more revolting, 
more gloomy than another, it is a crowded churchyard in 
a city. It has neither sympathy nor memory. The pressed- 
down stones lie heavy upon the very heart. The sunshine 
cannot get at them for smoke. There is a crowd ; and, 
.ike most crowds, there is no companionship. Sympathy 
is the softener of death, and memory of the loved and the 
lost is the earthly shadow of their immortality. But who 
turns aside amid those crowds that hurry through the 

thronged and noisy streets 1 No one can love London 

better than I do; but never do I wish to be buried there. It 
is the best place in the world for a house, and the worst for 
a grave. An Irish patriot once candidly observed to me, 
u Give me London to live in ; but let me die in green Ire- 
■ and :"— now, this is precisely my opinion. 



I prat thee lay me not to rest 
Among these mouldering bones, 

Too heavily the earth is prest 
By all these crowded stones. 

Life is too gay — life is too near — > 

W T ith all its pomp and toil ; 
I pray thee, do not lay me here, 

In such a world-struck soil. 

The ceaseless roll of wheels would wake 

The slumbers of the dead ; 
I cannot bear for life to make 

Its pathway o'er my head. 

The flags around are cold and drear, 

They stand apart, alone ; 
And no . ne ever pauses here, 

To soi row for the gone 

No : lay me in the far green fields 
The summer sunshine cheers ; 

A.nd where the early wild flower yields 
The tribute of its tears ; 



Where shadows the sepulchral yew, 
Where droops the willow tree ; 

Where the long grass is fill'd with dew 
O ! make such grave for me ! 

And passers-by, at evening's close, 
Will pause beside the grave, 

And moralize o'er the repose 
They fear, and yet they crave. 

Perhaps some kindly hand may bring 

Its offering to the tomb ; 
And say, as fades the rose in spring, 

So fadeth human bloom. 

But here there is no kindly thought 

To soothe, and to relieve ; 
No fancies and no flowers are brought, 

That soften while they grieve. 

Here Poesy and Love come not — 

It is a world of stone ; 
The grave is bought — is closed — forgot . 

And then life hurries on. 

Sorrow, and beauty — nature — love 
Redeem man's common breath ; 

Ah ! let them shed the grave above — 
Give loveliness to death. 



BORRO BOEDOOR* 

An - ancient temple of an ancient faith, 
When man, to show the vanity of man, 
Was left to his own fantasies. All life 
Was conscious of a God ; — the sun, the wind, 
The mighty ocean, and the distant stars, 
Become his prototypes. At length there came 
The great appointed hour ; the Truth shone forth. 
The living waters of the Gospel flow'd, 
And earth drank life and hope. The work is still 
Gradual and incomplete ; — it is man's task, 
And more his glorious privilege, to aid. 
Our England is a living fountain now, 
Whence flow the waves of life, — eternal life. 

0, what a power and duty is our own ! 
'Tis ours to shed upon man's present day 
The blessing of the future and the past. 
How much of India yet in darkness lies ! 
We must dethrone the idol, and dispel 
The shadows that but herald the true faith. 



* The temple of Borro Boedoor was in former days th«? 
most celebrated Budha temple in the Island of Java 
equally distinguished for its extent and its magnificence. 



310 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



We must give peace, love, charity, to earth ; 

And from olo superstitions, vain beliefs, 

And false religions, realize the true : 

So morning springs from out the depths of night. 



THE PHANTOM. 

I come from my home in the depth of the sea, 
I come that thy dreams may be haunted by me ; 
Not as we parted, the rose on my brow, 
But shadowy, silent, I visit thee now. 
The time of our parting was when the moon shone, 
Of all heaven's daughters the loveliest one ; 
No cloud in her presence, no star at her side, 
She smiled on her mirror and vassal, the tide. 

Unbroken its silver, undream'd of its swell, 
There was hope, and not fear, in our midnight 

farewell ; 
While drooping around were the wings white and 

wild, 
Of the ship that was sleeping, as slumbers a child. 
I turn'd to look from thee, to look on the bower, 
Which thou hast been training in sunshine and 

shower ; 
So thick were the green leaves, the sun and the 

rain 
Sought to pierce through the shelter from summer 

in vain. 

It was not its ash tree, the home of the wren, 
And the haunt of the bee, I was thinking of then ; 
Nor yet of the violets, sweet on the air, 
But I thought of the true love who planted them 

there. 
I come to thee now, my long hair on the gale, 
It is wreath'd with no red rose, is bound with no 

veil, 
It is dark with the sea damps, and wet with the 

spray, 
The gold of its auburn has long past away. 

And dark is the cavern wherein I have slept, 
There the seal and the dolphin their vigil have 

kept ; 
And the roof is incrusted with white coral cells, 
Wherein the strange insect that buildeth them 

dwells. 
There is life in the shells that are strew'd o'er the 

sands, 
Not fill'd but with music as on our own strands ; 
Around me are whitening the bones of the dead, 
And a starfish has grown to the rock overhead. 

Sometimes a vast shadow goes darkly along, 
The shark or the sword-fish, the fearful and 
strong : 



There is fear in the eyes that are glaring around, 
As they pass like the spectres of death without 

sound : 
Over rocks, without summer, the dull sea-weeds 

trail, 
And the blossoms that hang there are scentless and 

pale ; 
Amid their dark garlands, the water-snakes glide, 
And the sponge, like the moss, gathers thick at 

their side, 

O ! would that the sunshine could fall on my 

grave, 
That the wild flower and willow could over it 

wave ; 
O ! would that the daisies grew over my sleep, 
That the tears of the morning could over me weep 
Thou art pale 'mid the dreams, I shall trouble no 

more, 
The sorrow that kept me from slumber is o'er : 
To the depths of the ocean in peace I depart, 
For I still have a grave greener far in thy heart ' 



FOUNTAIN'S ABBEY.* 

Alas, alas ! those ancient towers, 
Where never now the vespers ring, 

But lonely at the midnight hours, 
Flits by the bat on dusky wing. 

No more beneath the moonlight dim, 
No more beneath the planet ray, 

Those arches echo with the hymn 
That bears life's meaner cares away 

No more within some cloister'd cell, 
With windows of the sculptured stone, 

By sign of cross, and sound of bell, 
The world-worn heart can beat alone. 

How needful some such tranquil place, 
Let many a weary one attest, 

Who turns from life's impatient race, 
And asks for nothing but for rest. 

How many, too heart-sick to roam, 
Still longer o'er the troubled wave, 

Would thankful turn to such a home— 
A home already half a grave. 



* The remains of Fountain's Abbey are considered the 
finest in England. The cloisters are a vast extent of 
straight vault, three hundred feet long, and forty-two 
broad ; divided lengthways by nineteen pillars and twenty 
arches ; each pil lar divides into eight ribs at the top, which 
diverge and intersect each other on the roof Here is a 
large stone basin, the remains of a fountain. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



311 



DR. ADAM CLARKE AND THE TWO 
PRIESTS OF BUDHA. 



I have rarely been so interested as by the account Sir 
Alexander Johnstone gave me of the two young Priests, 
whose enterprise had as many difficulties, and a far higher 
object, than our forefathers' pilgrimages to the Holy Land. 
They waited on Sir Alexander, to consult him as tc the 
means of reaching England. Lady Johnstone's health 
rendering an instant return imperative, he had fitted out 
a small vessel, whose accomodations were too limited to 
admit more than his own family and suite. In this ship, 
however, they worked their way as common sailors. Be- 
fore we can appreciate this sacrifice, we must understand 
that they were of birth, education, and high standing in 
their own country. Let us for a moment suppose one of 
our prelates working before the mast on a mission of Chris- 
tian faith ; we shail then comprehend the depth and sin- 
cerity of the belief that urged the young Cingalese. Sir 
Alexander placed them under the care of Dr. Adam Clarke, 
of Liverpool, rightly judging that London, with its usual 
selfish and stimulating course of lionization, would defeat 
the high purposes of their visit. The progress of the 
strangers was so satisfactory, that at the end of two years 
Dr. Clarke publicly baptized them. They returned to 
Ceylon, wheie one is employed as a Missionary, and the 
other is an officer in the civil service. The benefit of their 
example and instruction may be more easily imagined 
than calculated . 



They heard it in the rushing wind, 

They read it in the sky ; 
They felt it in the thousand flowers 

That by the river sigh ; 

That there must be some holier faith 
Than they themselves had known, 

Whose temple was within the heart, 
And not of brick nor stone. 

They saw this world was very fair, 

And question'd of what hand, 
That with the beautiful and good 

Had gifted sea and land. 

Their idols answer'd not — the mind 

Ask'd something more divine 
Than ever breathed from carved wood, 

Or from the golden shrine. 

They heard of more exalted hopes, 

Revealing God above, 
That spoke a universal creed, 

Of universal love, 

And look'd beyond the little space 

That is appointed here, 
And made of yonder glorious heaven 

Men's own and native sphere. 

They craved for knowledge, who'oe pure light 

Might pierce the moral gloom , 
They left the temple of their race, 

They left their father's tomb: 



They left them for a distant isle. 

Far o'er the distant main ; 
But they were strong in faith, and felt 

It would not \)& in vain. 

What high and holy thoughts sustain'd 

Their progress o'er the sea, 
They left their home, which never more 

Again their home might be ; 

A power far mightier than their own 
Was with them night and day ; 

They fear'd not, and they falter' d not 
God kept them on their way. 

At last they reach'd our English isle, 

The glorious and the free : 
O England, in thine hour of pride 

How much is ask'd of thee 1 

Thy ships have master'd many a sea, 

Thy victories many a land ; 
A power almost as strong as fate 

Is in thy red right hand. 

A nobler enterprise awaits 

Thy triumph and thy toil ; 
'Tis thine to sow the seeds of good 

In many a foreign soil. 

Freedom, and knowledge, justice, truth, 
Are gifts which should be thine; 

And, more than all, that purer faith 
Which maketh men divine. 

Those strangers sought an English home, 

And there they learnt to know 
Those hopes which sweeten life and cheer, 

Yet have no rest below. 

They learnt to lisp in foreign words 

The faith of foreign prayer, 
Yet felt it a familiar faith, 

That every one should share. 

They bear it to their native land, 

And labour to impart 
The Christian knowledge that subdues 

Yet elevates me heart. 

0, noble enterprise ! how much 

For man by man is won ! 
Doth it not call on all mankind 

To see what two have done 1 

0, fair thou art, thou lovely isle, 
The summer loves thine hours ; 

Thy waves are fill'd with warm white pcarla 
Thy groves with spice and flowers. 

But nature hath no gift assign'd, 

Though prodigal she be, 
Like that pure creed of Christian love 

Thy sons have brought to thee. 



312 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



THE COLERATNE SALMON LEAP. 



" So numerous are the fish frequenting this river, that the 
average amount is estimated at £1,000 per annum ; and on 
cne occasion 1,500 salmon were taken at a single drag 
of the net."— I, however, have only celebrated the exploits 
of a single fisher. 

I remember a curious exploit of a gentleman, who went 
out in the morning to shoot, and shot a salmon ; in the af- 
ternoon to fish, and caught a hare. The fact was, there 
had been a flood, which had dashed a salmon on the 
banks, where a gun was the readiest means of despatch- 
ing it. The same flood had swept away a hare, and the 
line furnished the means of its capture. 



I vis dreaming that I went 
Through the ocean element, 
Like a conqueror on my way, 
Shark and sword-fish were the prey ; 
With a spear I smote the waves 
Down amid the coral caves. 
I have waken'd, — let me go 
Where the mountain torrents flow. 

I will realize my dream 
In the dashing of the stream ; 
Pouring 'mid the summer woods 
All the gather'd winter floods ; 
When the ice and when the snow 
Melt into a sunny flow : 
'Mid the bright waves leaping forth 
Comes the salmon from the north. 

Let the meaner angler seek, 
In the willow-hidden creek, 
For the trout whose spotted side 
Crimsons like a star the tide ; 
Let him .'mid dark waters search 
For the carp and for the perch ; 
While the silver graylings shiver 
Like bright arrows in a quiver. 

Mine a nobler prey shall be, 
Guest from yonder sounding sea, 
Comes the salmon proud and strong, 
Darting like a ray along. 
For his lure, the artful fly 
Does the peacock's plume supply ; 
Royal bird, whose radiant wing 
Suiteth with the river king. 

See, he bears the line away, 
Round him flies the snowy spray. 
I have given him length and line, 
One last struggle, he is mine. 
Fling the green arbutus bough 
On the glowing ashes now ; 
Let the cup with red wine foam, — 
I have brought the salmon home. 



CHRISTMAS IN THE OLDEN 
TIME, 1650. 



"At Wycoller Hall the family usually kept open nouse 
the twelve days at Christmas. Their entertainment was, 
a large hall of curious ashler work, a long table, plenty 
of furmenty, like new milk, in a morning, made of husked 
wheat, boiled and roasted beef, with a fat goose, and a 
pudding, with plenty of good beer for dinner. A round 
about fireplace, surrounded with stone benches, where the 
young folks sat and cracked nuts, and diverted themselves, 
and in this manner the sons and daughters got matching 
without going much from home." — Family MS. of the Cun* 
liffes. 



You must come back, my brother, 

For Christmas is so near, 
And Christmas is the crowning time, 

The purple of the year ; 
He calls his court about him, 

He is the fairy king, 
Whose revel is at midnight 

Within a charmed ring. 
Christmas is coming, my brother dear, 
And Christmas comes, my brother, but once a year. 

The last leaf hath departed 

From off the old oak tree, 
But there is the wreath of misletoe 

Where the green leaf used to be. 
And we'll hang up the charmed coronal 

Above the highest door, 
And strangers all must pay the fine 

Ere they tread the fairy floor. 
Christmas is coming, my brother dear, 
And Christmas comes, my brother, but once a yeai 

The trees are white with hoar-frost 

And snow is on the ground, 
But there are yet some roses 

Beside the casement found ; 
And the terrace yet has myrtle ; 

Both shall be saved for you ; 
And you shall give them, my brother, 

But I must not guess to who ! 
Christmas is coming, my brother dear, 
And Christmas comes, my brother, but once a yeai 

The willow lake is frozen, 

You will have such skaiting there ; 
And the trees, like lovelorn maidens, 

Hang down their glittering hair. 
The holly's scarlet berries, 

Amid the leaves appear ; 
It is an elfin armory, 

With banner and with spear. 
Christmas is coming, my brother dear, 
And Christmas comes, my brother, but once a 

year. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



313 



We shall gather c^erv evening 

Beside the ancient hearth, 
But one vacant place beside it, 

Would darken all its mirth. 
At any time but Christmas 

We give you leave to roam, 
But now come back, my brother, 

You are so miss'd at home. 
Christmas is coming, my brother dear, 
And Christmas comes, my brother, bat ojive a year. 



THE QUEEN'S ROOM: 

SIZERGH HALL, WESTMORLAND. 



Tradition has conferred on this apartment the name 
of the Queen's Eoom. Catherine Parr, the last queen 
of Henry VIII., is said to have occupied this apartment for 
several nights after the king's death. 



Ar, regal the chamber, and stately the gloom 
That the old oaken panels fling over the room ; 
The carving is gilded — the hangings are rare ; 
Yet, stranger, I warn thee — O ! slumber not there. 

For when the lamp dies in tli3 dead of the night, 
And when the wan moon has exhausted her light, 
By that mirror of silver a pale lady stands, 
And rends her long tresses and wrings her white 
hands. 

Years have pass'd since that lady smooth'd back 

her bright hair, 
And ask'd of the glass if her image was fair : 
It was not for her husband she braided its gold, 
Or flung from its brightness the veil's silver fold. 

He slew her while watching her cheek where the 

rose 
Was reddening in beauty, like sunshine on snows. 
He slew her — the glass was yet warm with her 

breath — 
She turn'd to her lover — she turn'd to her death. 

Less crimson the wine-cup that stood at her side, 
Than the red stream which gush'd with her life on 

its tide, 
A groan and a gasp, and the struggle is o'er — 
The blood which he spilt is yet there — on the 

floor. 

No prayer by her death-bed — no mass for her 

soul — 
No bell on the depths of the midnight to toll ; 
Unshrouded, uncoffin'd they laid her to rest, 
The grave was unholy — the ground was unblest. 
(40) 



She comes with the midnight — meet not her cold 

eye, 
It shines but on those who are fated to die. 
She comes with the midnight, when spirits have 

power — 
She comes with the midnight, and evil the hour. 

She comes from the grave, with its secret and pain, 

The grave which recalleth its truant again. 

The chamber grows damp with the charnel-like 

air; 
Then, stranger, I warn thee — O ! slumber not 

there. 



HINDOO TEMPLES AND PALACE 
AT MADURA.* 

Little the present careth for the past, 

Too little,— 'tis not well ! 

For careless ones we dwell 
Beneath the mighty shadow it has cast. 

Its blessings are around our daily path, 

We share its mighty spoil, 

We live on its great toil, 
And yet how little gratitude it hath. 

Look on these temples, they were as a shrine 

From whence to the far north 

The human mind went forth, 
The moral sunshine of a world divine — 

The light that is of heaven shone there the first, 

The elements of art, 

Mankind's diviner part ; 
There was young science in its cradle nurst. 

* Madura was at one period the centre of " might, 
majesty, and dominion" in India. One of its ancient 
monarchs in the second century sent an embassy on a 
splendid scale to Augustus Caesar at Rome. It was also the 
spot, from the meridian of which the Hindoo astronomers 
made their calculations. The mode of calculating by the 
ten numerals, after having been invented and long prac- 
tised here, was first introduced into Europe by the Arabs. 
Here, too, was the celebrated college whose influence was 
exercised so beneficially on the intellect of India; though 
at present much decayed, it is still in great repute for the 
magnificent ruins which surround it, and for the fine 
pagoda and choultry in its neighbourhood. 

Among other anecdotes connected with the spirit of im- 
provement now alive in India, Sir Alexander Johnstone, 
whose kindness in communicating information I cannot 
sufficiently acknowledge, told me one, of his relative, tha 
late Mrs. Damer. The question of female education was 
much disputed, and popular opinion was certainly against 
it. Sir Alexander, however, brought this instance of a 
connexion of his own, who united birth and all social 
advantages with the highest degree of cultivation. At his 
request, Mrs. Damer made a bust of Nelson, and sent it as 
a present to the king of Tanjore. It was received with 
great attention, and the skill with which it was executea 
paade a strong impression in favour of female education 

2d 



314 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



That inward woild which maketh of our clay 

Its temporary home ; 

From whence those lightnings come, 
That kindle from a far and better day. 

Mighty the legacies by mind bequeath'd, 

For glorious were its pains 

Amid those giant fanes, 
And mighty were the triumphs it achieved. 

A woman's triumph* 'mid them is imprest, 

One who upon the scroll 

Flung the creative soul, 
Disdainful of life's flowers and of its rest. 

Vast was the labour, vast the enterprise, 

For she was of a race 

Born to the lowest place, 
Earth insects, lacking wings where®n to rise. 

How must that youthful cheek have lost its bloom, 

How many a dream above 

Of early hope and love 
Must that young heart have closed on like a tomb. 

Such throw life's flowers behind them, and aspire 

To ask the stars their lore, 

And from each ancient store 
Seek food to stay the mind's consuming fire. 

Her triumph was complete and long, the chords 

She struck are yet alive ; 

Not vainly did she strive 
To leave her soul immortal on her words. 

A great example she has left behind, 

A lesson we should take, 

Whose first task is to wake 
The general wish to benefit our kind. 

Our sword has swept o'er India ; there remains 

A nobler conquest far, 

The mind's ethereal war, 
That but subdues to civilize its plains. 

Let us pay back the past the debt we owe, 

Let us around dispense 

Light, hope, intelligence, 
Till blessings track our steps where'er we go. 

England, thine be the deliverer's meed, 

Be thy great empire known 

By hearts made all thine own, 
By thy free laws and thy immortal creed. 

* When I speak of " a woman's triumph," I allude to 
the celebrated Avyia. She was a Pariah of the lowe3t 
class, but obtained such literary distinction, that her works 
are to this day the class-books of the scholars of the high- 
est rank and caste in all the Hindoo schools of the Peria- 
sula of India. 



THE AISLE OF TOMBS. 



The interior of Chester-le-Street church, Durnam, con-, 
tains a singular collection of monuments, bearing effigies 
of the deceased ancestry of the Lumley family, from the 
lime of Liulphus to the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 



The quiet and the dullness 

Of the aisle of tombs ; 
The shadow and the stillness 
A rosy light illumes : 

Like the memory of the past, 
On the carved arms delaying, 
On the marble pall 

O'er the blood-red scutcheon playing 
With a crimson fall, 

Into sudden sunshine cast 
Are the ancient warriors, 
The warriors of olden time. 

So with kindled heart we love them, 

Dwelling on their fame, 
So doth memory fling above them 
Its shadow of a name ; 

Noblest shadow flung on earth : 
We remember many a story 

Of the old chivalric day, 
When the red cross, like a glory, 
Shone above the fray ; 

'Twas a glorious age gave birth 
To the ancient warriors, 
The warriors of olden time. 

Though the sword no more be trusted 

As it was of old ; 
Though the shining spear be rusted, 
And the right hand cold ; 

They have left their fame behind, 
Still a spirit from their slumbers 

Rises true and brave ; 
Asks the minstrel for his numbers, 
Music from their grave : 

Noble, gentle, valiant, kind, 

Were the ancient warriors, 
Tlie warriors of olden time 

All their meaner part hath perish'd 

In the earth at rest ; 
And the present hour hath cherish'd 
What of them was best. 

What a knight should be we keep ; 
For the present doth inherit 

All the glories of the past ; 
We retain what was its spirit, 
While its dust to dust is cast, 
All good angels guard the sleep 
Of the ancient warriors, 
The warriors of olden tinw 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



315 



THE 

PALACE CALLED BEAUTIFUL. 



" He lifted up his eyes, and behold there was a very 
Stately palacebefore him, the name of which was 'Beauti- 
ful. Looking very narrowly before him as he went, he 
espied two lions in the way."— Pilgrim's Progress. 



He wander'd on a weary way, 
A weary way he wander'd on ; 

Till eagerness and fortitude — 
Till all but hope were gone. 

The night fell dark around his steps, 

And terrible is falling night, 
For cheerful thoughts of enterprise 

Attend on morning's light. 

And there were Lions in the way — 
The lion mighty in his wrath — 

No marvel that the traveller shrank 
From such a dreary path. 

Then spake the Porter of the house, 

The house that was so fair, 
The house whose name was Beautiful, 

And bade him not despair. 

Chain'd were the Lions on his way, 
And he could safely pass along, 

If that he had a steadfast hope, 
And if his faith were strong. 

He enter' d in the lovely place : 

Four maidens at the door, 
With wine, and bread, and pleasant words, 

His fainting soul restore. 

Next morn they furnish' d him with arras, 

That, in the sunshine glow'd. 
Who were the maidens setting forth 

The Christian on his road 1 

Prudence and Piety, intent 

On every work of Love, 
And Chanty, whose youthful heart 

Is tender as the dove. 



VALLEY OF LINMOUTH : 

NORTH DEVON. 

'Tis a gloomy place, but I like it well ; 
There would I choose, alone, to dwell ; 
The rocks around should friends supply, 
Less cold, less hard than those I fly. 



I do not care for the rosy flowers, 
On them is the shadow of other hours. 
I gather'd a rose beneath the sun, 
In an hour its lovely life was done. 

No ! here I will find for myself a cave, 
Half a home, and half a grave ; 
Dark in the noontide hour 'twill be — 
Dark — and the darker the fitter for me. 

The hills are rough, and the hills are bare. 
More like the heart that harboureth there. 
I shall hear the storm as it rolleth by, 
I shall watch the clouds that shadow the sky. 

All I ask is never to hear 

Of human hope or of human fear ; 

1 have had enough of both in my day, 

And I know how their seeming passes away. 

The wind may sometimes bear along 
The distant sound of the shepherd's song ; 
I shall rejoice that no more I share 
In fancies and follies that make his care. 

The falling leaves will make my bed, 
The granite stone will pillow my head ; 
The cave in the rock is a fitting shrine 
For heart so wither' d and worn as mine. 



PULO PENAN G. 



The sail from Penang to Singapore presents the loveliest 
succession of scenery which ocean can produce. The sea 
is studded with tracts of fairy land, glittering like emeralds 
in the golden sun, where the waving trees dip their long 
branches into the water, where the smooth sands are 
covered with shells, sparkling with all the hues of the 
prism. Birds, too, of Orient plumage, skim over the sur- 
face of the silver sea, or glance in and out from groves 
laden with fruit and flowers. The ocean land, locked by 
these flowery labyrinths, retains its tranquillity evec 
during the summer tempests. 



Never — that fairy isle can be 

No lengthen'd resting-place of mine ; 
I love it dearest when I see 

Its shadow lengthen on the brine : 
And then my heart with softness fills ; 

I think upon its palmy groves, 
I hear the murmur of its rills, 

I hear the singing of its doves. 

I see the white catalpa bend, 

As when beneath thy whiter hand, 

The buds in snowy showers descend, 
To wreath for thy dark hair a band 



316 MISS LANDON 

And then I sigh to be on shore 

To linger languid at thy side ; 
I think that I will part no more 

From thee, my own, my idol bride. 

O, only those who part can know 

How dear the love that absence brings ; 
O'er wind and wave my fancies go, 

As if my very heart had wings : 
And yet, when listless on the land, 

Impatient in my happiness, 
I long again to grasp my brand, 

Again I long the deck to press. 

I love to see my red flag sweep ; 

I love to see my sabre shine ; 
Almost as much I love the deep 

As I love those sweet eyes of thine. 
I bring thee Measures from afar ; 

For thy dear sake I sweep the sea ; 
But for the honour won in war, 

I should be too unworthy thee. 



SCENES IN LONDON: 

OXFORD STREET. 

Life in its many shapes was there, 

The busy and the gay ; 
Faces that seemed too young and fair 

To ever know decay. 

Wealth, with its waste, its pomp, and pride, 

Led forth its glittering train ; 
And poverty's pale face beside 

Ask'd aid, and ask'd in vain. 

The shops were fill'd from many lands — 
Toys, silks, and gems, and flowers ; 

The patient work of many hands, 
The hope of many hours. 

Yet 'mid life's myriad shapes around 

There was a sigh of death ; 
There rose a melancholy sound, 

The bugle's wailing breath. 

They piay'd a mournful Scottish air 

That on its native hill 
Had caughc the notes the night winds bear 

From weeping leaf and rill. 

Twas strange to hear that sad wild strain 

Its warning music shed, 

"Rising above life's busy train, 

In memory of the dead. 



S WORKS. 

There came a slow and silent banc 

In sad procession by : 
Reversed the musket in each hand, 

And downcast every eye. 

They bore the soldier to his grave 

The sympathizing crowd 
Divided like a parted wave 

By some dark vessel plough'd. 

A moment, and all sounds were mats 

For awe was over all ; 
You heard the soldier's measured foot 

The bugle's wailing call. 

The gloves were laid upon the bier, 

The helmet and the sword ; 
The drooping war-horse followed neai 

As he, too, mourn'd his lord. 

Slowly — I follow'd too — they led 

To where a church arose, 
And flung a shadow o'er the dead 

Deep as their own repose. 

Green trees were there — beneath the shade 

Of one was made a grave ; 
And there to his last rest was laid 

The weary and the brave. 

They fired a volley o'er the bed 

Of an unconscious ear ; 
The birds sprang fluttering overhead, 

Struck with a sudden fear. 

All left the ground ; the bugles died 

Away upon the wind ; 
Only the tree's green branches sigh'd 

O'er him they left behind. 

Again, all fill'd with light and breath, 

I pass'd the crowded street — 
0, great extremes of life and death, 

How strangely do ye meet ! 



ROBERT BLAKE, 

ADMIRAL AND GENERAL OP THE PARLIAMENTARY FORCEfl 

What ! will they sweep the channels, 

And brave us as they go ! 
There's no place in English annals 

For the triumph of a foe. 

Thus spoke the English admiral, 

His hand was on his sword ; 
Hurrah ! was the sole answer 

From everv man on board. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



317 



The Dutch came o'er the ocean, 

As if it were their home, 
With a slow and gliding motion 

The stately vessels come. 

The sky is blue above them, 

But ere an hour be past, 
The shadows of the battle 

Will over heaven be cast. 

They meet— it is ir thunder, 
The thunder of sthe gun ; 

Fire rends the smoke asunder 
The battle is be$un. 

He stands amid his ««eamen, 
Our Admiral of the White, 

And guides the strife more calmly, 
Than of that strife I write. 

For over the salt water 

The grape-shot sweeps around ; 
The decks are red with slaughter, 

The dead are falling round. 

But the bold flag of old England 
Flies bravely at the mast ; 

The Dutch take down their colours, 
While the cannons lire their last. 

From that hour victorious 

Have we kept the seas, 
And our navy glorious, 

Queens it o'er the breeze. 

Long may we keep such empire, 

It is a noble debt 
We owe to those past triumphs, 

We never may forget. 



REBECCA. 

She looketh on the glittering scene 

With an unquiet eye ; 
The shadow of the wakening heart 

Is passing darkly by. 
The heart that is a woman's world, 

Her temple and her home, 
Which coloureth with itself her cares, 

Whence all her joys must come. 



* The victory over the Dutch was won by Admiral Blake 
In the time of the Protectorate. Van Tromp sailed into 
the channel with a bnom at his masthead, intimating that 
he would sweep the eeaa of the English. The result is 
stated above. 



All generous feelings nursed the lovo 

That out of pity came ; 
Womanly kindness, suffering truth, 

Might sanctify its claim. 
But better had she shared the doom, 

She bade from him depart ; 
Death has no bitterness like life, 

Life with a wasted heart. 

Proud — beautiful — she bowetli down 

Beneath one deep despair ; 
Youth lingers lovely on her cheek, 

It only lingers there. 
She will command herself, and bear 

The doom by Fate assign'd ; 
In natures high as hers, the heart 

Is master'd by the mind. 

But not the less 'tis desolate, 

All lofty thoughts and dreams ; 
The poetry, with whose deep life 

All stronger feeling teems. 
These aggravate the ill, and give 

A misery of their own ; 
The gifted spirit suffers much, 

To common ones unknown. 

Why did she love 1 Alas, such cnoice 

Is not at woman's will ; 
Once must she love, and on that cast 

Is set life's good or ill. 
Sorrows, and timid cares, and tears, 

The happiest entertain ; 
But this world has no other hope, 

For her who loves in vain. 



CAFES IN DAMASCUS.* 



"And Mahomet turned aside, and would not enter the 
fair city : 'It is,' said he, 'too delicious.' " 



Laxguidxy the night wind bloweth 

From the gardens round, 
Where the clear Barrada flowetL. 

With a lulling sound. 

Not the lute note's sweetest shivei 

Can such music find, 
As is on a wandering river, 

On a wandering wind. 



* The cafes are perhaps the greatest luxury that a stran 
ger finds in Damascus. Gardens, kiosques, fountains, and 
groves are abundant around every Eastern capital; but 
cafes on the very bosom of a rapid river, and bathed by its 
waves, are peculiar to this ancient city: they are formed 
so as to exclude the rays of the sun while they admit the 
1 breeze, 

2d2 



318 



MISS lANDON'S WORKS. 



There the Moslem leaneth, dreaming 

O'er the inward world, 
While around the fragrant steaming 

Of the smoke is cmi'd. 

Rising from the coffee berry, 

Dark grape of the South ; 
Or the pipe of polish'd cherry, 

With its amber mouth. 

Cool'd by passing through the water, 

Gurgling as it flows — 
Scented by the Summer's daughter, 

June's impassion'd rose. 

By that Rose's spirit haunted 

Are the dreams that rise, 
Of far lands, and lives enchanted, 

And of deep black eyes. 

Thus, with some sweet dream's assistance, 
Float they down life's stream ; 

Would to Heaven, our whole existence 
Could be such a dream ! 



SIR ROBERT PEEL. 



Mrs. Hemans' last hours were cheered by the kindness 
»f Sir Robert Peel ; and the letter promising an appoint- 
ment to her eldest son, was one of the latest that she re- 
ceived. This fact is my excuse for having deviated from 
my general rule of leaving cotemporary portraits to speak 
for themselves. I frankly confess that I can never write 
^ill interested in my subjects. Now, a female writer cannot 
pretend to even an opinion on the political and public 
characters of the day. The above incident, on the con- 
trary, belongs to the many who look back with admiration 
and gratitude to the gifted and the gone. 



Dim through the curtains came the purple 

twilight slowly, 
Deepening like death's shadow around that silent 

room; 
There lay a head, a radiant head, but lowly, 
And the pale face like a statue shone out amid the 

gloom. 
Never again will those white and wasted 

fingers 
Waken the music they were wont to wake of 

yore, 
A music that in many a beating heart yet lingers, 
The sweeter and the sadder that she will breathe 

no more. 
It is a lovely world that the minstrel leaves 

behind him, 
ft is a lovely world in which the minstrel lives, 



Deep in its inmost life hath the soul of love en 

shrined him, 
And passionate and general the pleasures which 

he gives. 
But dear-bought is the triumph, what dark fates 

are recorded 
Of those who held sweet mastery o'er the pulses 

of the lute, 
Mournfully and bitterly their toil has been ic« 

warded, 
For them the tree of knowledge puts forth its 

harshest fruit. 
Glorious and stately the ever-growing laurel, 
Flinging back the summer sunshine, defying 

winter's snow ; 
Yet its bright history has the darkly pointed 

moral, 
Deadly are the poisons that through its green leaves 

flow. 
And she, around whose couch the gentle day- 
light dying, 
Seems like all nature's loving, last farewell ; 
She with the world's heart to her own soft one 

replying, 
How much of song's fever and sorrow could she 

tell. 
Yet upon her lip a languid smile is shining, 
Tokens of far-off sympathy have sooth'd that hour 

of pain ; 
Its sympathy has warm'd the pallid cheek re- 
clining 
On the weary pillow whence it will not ri?e 

again. 
It is the far-off friend, the unknown she is 

blessing, 
The statesman who has paused upon toils' hurried 

way, 
To learn the deepest charm that power has in pos- 
sessing, 
The power to scatter benefits and blessing round 

its sway. 



THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS 



" Is this the way to the celestial city * 
" You are just in the way. 

" They went up the mountains, to behold the 

gardens and the orchards "—Pilgrim's Progress. 



0, fab. away ye are, ye lovely hills, 

Yet can I feel the air 

Grow sweet while gazing where 
The valley with the distant sunshine fills. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



319 



Fair Morning ! lend thy wings, and let me fly 

To thy eternal home, 

Where never shadows come, 
Where tears are wiped away from every eye. 

I'm weary, weary of this earth of ours ; 

I'm sick with the heart's want ; 

My fever'd spirits pant, 
To cling to things less transient than its flowers. 

I ask of the still night — it answers me, 

This earth is not my home : 

Great Father ! let me come, 
A wanderer and a penitent, to Thee ! 

Ye far, fair mountains, echo with my cry, 

Unto your realm of bliss 

The grave the threshold is ; 
Let its dark portals open — let me die ! 



CEMETERY OF THE SMOLENSKO 
CHURCH.* 

They gather, with the summer in their hands, 
The summer from their distant valleys bringing ; 
They gather round the church iu pious bands, 
With funeral array, and solemn singing. 

The dead are their companions ; many days 
Have past since they were laid to their last 

slumber ; 
And in the hurry of life's crowded ways, 
Small space has been for memory to cumber. 

But now the past comes back again, and death 
Asketh its mournful tribute of the living : 
And memories that were garner'd at the heart, 
The treasures kept from busier hours are giving. 

The mother kneeleth at a little tomb, 
And sees one sweet face shining from beneath it ; 
She has brought all the early flowers that bloom, 
In the small garden round their home, to wreath it. 

Friend thinks on friend ; and youth comes back 

again 
To that one moment of awaken'd feeling ; 
And prayers, such prayers as never rise in vain, 
Call down the heaven to which they are appealing. 



* The Cemetery of the Smolensko Church is situated 
about two versts from Petersburgh, on one of the islands 
on the mouth of the Neva, and less than quarter of a mile 
from the gulf of Finland. The curious ceremony alluded 
to, takes place yearly, when the Russians gather from 
all parts, to scatter flowers on the graves, and to mourn 
above the dead, and afterwards proceed to regale them- 
selves with soup, fruit of all kinds, and wine ; in many 
instances spreading their cloths on the very graves over 
which they had been bitterlv mourning. 



It is a superstitious rite and old, 
Yet having with all higher things connexion ; 
Prayers, tears, redeem a world so harsh and cold, 
The future has its hope, the past its deep affection. 



LINCOLN CATHEDRAL.* 

'Twas the deep forest bodied forth that fane, 
So rose the arches of the old oak trees, 
So wreath'd the close set branches at their side, 
So through the open spaces gleam'd the sun ; 
While like an anthem sang the morning birds. 

All nature teacheth worship unto man, 
And the first instinct of the heart is faith. 
Those carved aisles, so noble in their state, 
So graceful in each exquisite device, 
Are of the past ; a rude and barbarous past, 
And yet they rose to heaven. Though the red 

sword 
Flash'd in the sun, and with unholy flash 
Disturb' d the silver moonlight's quiet hour ; 
Yet even then men craved for peace and heaven. 
Hence rose these glorious temples, where the 

Cross 
Still sanctifies its merciful domain. 



THE SACRED SHRINES OF DWARKA 

Such was the faith of old — obscure and vast, 
And offering human triumphs unto heaven. 
Then rose the stately temple, rich with spoils 
Won from the vanquish'd nations. There the god 
Stood visible in golden pageantry ; 
And pride, pomp, power were holy attributes. 
A humbler creed has wander'd o'er the earth, 
Known, as a quiet scarce-seen stream is known, 
Cut by the greener growth upon its banks. 
It is our Christian worship, which doth lead 
The heart of man to Heaven by love alone. 
Plant ye the Cross then by these ancient shrines ^ 
Far let it spread its genial influence — 
Peace for its shadow — Hope for its sunshine. 



* It is curious to observe how much the aspect of nature 
has in every country given its aspect to architecture. The 
colossal proportions of Indian scenery have not more given 
their likeness to the vast temples of the Hindoos, than our 
own northern forests have given their own character to the 
Gothic cathedral. 

t The introduction of Christian missionaries was always 
advocated by Sir Alexander Johnston, while President of 
His Majesty's Council in Ceylon. A leading Brahmin 
mentioned, while in conversation with him, the following 
striking fact. "For our toleration," said he, "I refer tc 



320 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



SONG OF THE SIRENS.* 

Hither, famed Ulysses, steer, 
Pass not, pride of Greece, along 
To our haven come and hear, 
Come and hear the Sirens' song. 

Never did a sable bark 
Coasting by our island stray — 
That it did not stop to mark, 
With raptured ear our honey'd lay. 

Here the seamen, loath to part, 
Ever found a welcome kind ; 
We with pleasure cheer'd his heart 
We with wisdom fill'd his mind. 

Well we know each gallant deed 
Done in Ilion's spreading land, — 
When, as gods of heaven decreed, 
Greece and Troy fought hand to hand. 



Ihe little Roman Catholic chapel of St. Francis, which had 
for the last three hundred years stood under a banyan tree, 
close by the great Hindoo temple. Not one of the innu- 
merable devotees who resort thither on pilgrimages had 
ever molested the shrine of another faith." 

* The original verses, eight in number, from which the 
above song is rather imitated than translated, are perfect 
models of harmony. They are generally supposed to give 
Homer's own idea of what an epic poem should be— bland 
and conciliatory in its opening, but at the same time ex- 
pressing a thorough consciousness that the poet had the 
power of doing that which would make all ears listen. 
Ulysses wandering by, in his " winged pines," as Browne 
phrases it, is accosted in words of gentle accent, but the 
Sirens take care to tell him that, much praised and de- 
servedly honoured as he is, he must listen to their song, for 
never yet had man heard them sing, without being sub- 
dued. The poet proceeds to promise, that sweetness of 
melody is to mark the flowing numbers of his lay, and that 
in the honied Bong are to be conveyed lessons of wisdom. 
The sailor, they say, dwells here delighted and filled with 
ampler knowledge. Such are the general promises, but 
as, after all, we must come to the particular incidents of 
human life— the soaring poem is to relate whatever is most 
spirit-stirring, most heart-moving, most thought-awakening 
in the doings of men. We must not hear of mere abstrac- 
tions—we must have names and deeds interesting to every 
bosom ; and we must be shown, too, that these deeds are 
regulated by powers above human control. The Sirens, 
therefore, announce that they shall sing of the most re- 
nowned event of their time, those wars and battles which 
took place before the "wind swept towers of Ilion,"— 
events to which he to whom they were sung had so mainly 
contributed, and which were done by the impulse of the 
gcds. Such is the lay, continues the poet, I am about to 
pour into your ear ; and that it may be done with every 
certainty of affecting all whose intellect or whose feeling 
can be approached in tone not to be resisted, I, the min- 
strel, {we, say the Sirens, but it is Homer, the one Homer, 
who speaks,) come to my task prepared with long-stored 
knowledge of all that can concern mankind. " We know 
all that is done upon the fertile bosom of earth." 

Such is uue ancient interpretation of the song of the 
Sirens. It may, perhaps, be fanciful,— but those who con- 
sider the song with care will find that there is much in the 
comment, and will, at all events, agree that the poet who 
wrote the verses has fulfilled the conditions. 



Whatsoe'er beside is done 
In earth's confines know we wel' 
These to thee, Laertes' son, 
Shall our witching numbers tell, 

Hither, famed Ulysses, steer, 
Pass not, pride of Greece, along 
To our haven come and hear, 
Come and hear the Sirens' song. 



EXPECTATION. 

She Iook'd from out the window 

With long and asking gaze, 
From the gold clear light of morning 

To the twilight's purple haze. 
Cold and pale the planets shone, 
Still the girl kept gazing on. 
From her white and weary forehead 

Droopeth the dark hair, 
Heavy with the dews of evening, 

Heavier with her care ; 
Falling as the shadows fall, 
Till flung round her like a pall. 

When from the carved lattice 

First she leant to look, 
Her bright face was written 

Like some pleasant book ; 
Her warm cheek the red air quaff 'd, 
And her eyes Iook'd out and laugh'c! 
She is leaning back now languid 

And her cheek is white, 
Only on the drooping eyelash 

Glistens tearful light. 
Colour, sunshine hours are gone. 
Yet the lady watches on. 

Human heart this history 

Is thy fated lot, 
Even such thy watching, 

For what ccmeth not. 
Till with anxious waiting dull, 
Round thee fades the beautiful, 
Still thou seekest on, though weary 

Seeking still in vain ; 
Daylight deepens into twilight, 

What has been thy gain 1 
Death and night are closing round, 
All that thou hast sought unfound, 



THE LAKE OF COMO 

Agai^ I am beside the lake, 
The lonely lake which used to be 
The wide world of the beating heart 
When I was, love, with thee. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



321 



I see the quiet evening lights 
Amid the distant mountains shine ; 
I hear the music of a lute, 
T t used to come from thine. 

How can another sing the song, 

The sweet sad song that was thine own 1 

It is alike, yet not the same, 

It has not caught thy tone. 

Ah, never other lip may catch 

The sweetness round thine own that clung ; 

To me there is a tone unheard, 

There is a chord unstrung. 

Thou loveliest lake, I sought thy shores, 
That dreams from other days might cast, 
The presence elsewhere sought in vain, 
The presence of the past. 

I find the folly of the search, 
Thou bringest but half the past again ; 
My pleasure calling faintly back 
Too vividly my pain. 

Too real the memories that haunt 
The purple shadows round thy brink — 
I only ask'd of thee to dream, 
I did not ask to think. 

False beauty haunting still my heart, 
Though long since from that heart removed 
These waves but tell me how thou wert 
Too well and vainly loved. 

Fair lake, it is all vain to seek 
The influence of thy lovely shore — 
I ask of thee for hope and love — 
They come to me no more. 



THE PRINCESS VICTORIA. 

A fair young face o'er which is only cast 
The delicate hues of spring, 
Though round her is the presence of the past, 
And the stern future gathers darkly fast ; 
As yet no heavy shadow loads their wing. 

A little while hast thou to be 'a child, 

Thy lot is all too high ; 

Thy face is very fair, thine eyes are mild, 

But duties on thine arduous path are piled — 

A nation's hopes and fears blend with thy destiny. 

Change is upon the world, it may be thine 

To soothe its troubled way, 

To make thy throne a beacon and a shrine 

Whence knowledge, power, and liberty ma} shine, 

As yet they have not shone on mortal day. 

fin 



There is much misery on this worn earth, 
But much that may be spared : 
Of great and generous thought there is no dearth, 
And highest hopes of late have nad their birth, 
Hopes for the many, what the few have shared. 

The wind that bears our flag from soil to soil, 

Teaches us as it flies ; 

It carries in its breath a summer spoil, 

And seeds spring up to stimulate man's toil, 

So should our mind spread round its rich supplies 

Thou, royal child, the future is thine own, 

May it be bless'd in thee ! 

May peace that smiles on all be round thy throne, 

And universal truth, whose light alone 

Gives golden records unto history. 



A DUTCH INTERIOR. 

They were poor, and by their cabin, 
Pale want sat at the door ; 

And the summer to their harvest 
Brought insufficient store. 

On one side, the fierce ocean 

Proclaim'd perpetual war ; 
On the other, mighty nations 

Were threatening from afar. 

Foes and seas denied a footing, 
On the very ground they trod ; 

But they had their native courage, 
And they had their trust in God. 

They made the «ea defender 
Of the lately threaten'd shore, 

A^d their tall and stately vessels 
JaiFd the conquer'd waters o'er. 

To the poor and scanty cabin, 

Pour'd wealth from East and West 

And freedom came with commerce, 
From all old times her guest. 

Dyke by dyke they beat their enemies, 

As they had beat the sea ; 
Till Faith stood by her altar, 

Secure — triumphant — free.* 



* The brilliant tneory of a republic has never been re 
duced to more rational practice than in the history of Hol- 
land. Commerce, religious toleration, security of lifa ana 
property, and universal instruction— these have been the 
principles of the states from the very first. Liberty can 
have no securer foundations. We know of nothing finer 
in all history, than their unequal but triumphant struggle 
with le Grand Monarque. The spirit-which animated the 



3-22 



MISS LAN DON'S WORKS. 



RUCLES ANNOUNCING THE VICTORY 
OF MARATHON. 

He cometh from the purple hills, 
Where the fight has been to-day ; 
He bears the standard in his hand — 
Shout round the victor's way. 
The sunset of a battle won, 
Is round his steps from Marathon. 

Gather the myrtles near, 
And fling them on his path ; 
Take from her braided hair 
The flowers the maiden hath, 
A welcome to the welcome one, 
Who hastens now from Marathon. 

They crowd around his steps, 

Rejoicing young and old ; 

The laurel branch he bears, 

His glorious tale hath told, 

The Persian's hour of pride is done, 

Victory is on Marathon. 

She cometh with brighten'd cheek, 
She who all day hath wept ; 
The wife and mother's tears, 
Where her youngest infant slept, 
The heart is in her eyes alone, 
What careth she for Marathon 1 

But down on his threshold, down ! 

Sinks the warrior's failing breath, 

The tale of that mighty field 

Is left to be told by death. — 

5 Tis a common tale — the victor's sun 



SetJ, in tears and blood, 



Marathon. 



THE UNKNOWN GRAVE, 

f keke is a little lonely grave 

Which no one comes to see, 
The foxglove and red orchis wave 

Their welcome to the bee. 
There never falls the morning sun, 

It lies beneath the wall, 
But there when weary day is done 

The lights of sunset fall, 
Flushing the warm and crimson air 
As life and hope were present there. 



young and gallant Prince of Orange, was that of the whole 
nation. " You will see the ruin of your country," was the 
prophecy of those who looked to the inferior means, not to 
the superior spirit. "Never," was the heroic reply, " for I 
will die n her last ditch. ' j 



There sleepeth one who left his heart 

Behind hiir. in his dong ; 
Breathing of thut diviner part 

Which mi^t to heaven belong. 
The language of those spirit chords, 

But to the poet known, 
Youth, I jve, and hope yet use his worda, 

The} seem to be his own. 
And yet he has not left a name, 
The poec died without his fame. 

How many are the lovely lays 

That haunt our English tongue, 
Defrauded of their poet's praise 

Forgotten he who sung. 
Tradition only vaguely keeps 

Sweet fancies round this tomb ; 
Its tears are what the wild flower weep* 

Its record is that bloom ; 
Ah, surely nature keeps with her 
The memory of her worshipper. 

One of her loveliest mysteries 

Such spirit blends at last, 
With all the fairy fantasies 

Which o'er some scenes are cast. 
A softer beauty fills the grove, 

A light is in the grass, 
A deeper sense of truth and love 

Comes o'er us as we pass ; 
While lingers in the heart one line, 
The nameless poet hath a shrine. 



THE WOODLAND BROOK 

Thou art flowing, thou art flowing, 
O, small and silvery brook ; 

The rushes by thee growing, 
And with a patient look 

The pale narcissus o'er thee bends 

Like one who asks in vain for friends. 

I bring not back my childhood, 
Sweet comrade of its hours ; 

The music of the wild wood, 
The colour of the flowers ; 

They do not bring again the dream 

That haunted me beside thy stream. 

When black-letter'd old romances 
Made a world for me alone : 

O, days of lovely fancies, 
Are ye forever flown i 

Ye are fled, sweet, vague, and vain, 

So I cannot dream again. 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



:21 



1 have left a feverish pillow 
For thy soothing song ; 

Alas, each fairy billow 
An image bears along, 

Look where I will, I only see 

One face too much beloved by me. 

In vain my heart remembers 
What pleasure used to be, 

My past thoughts are but embers 
Consumed by love for thee. 

I wish to love thee less — and feel 

A deeper fondness o'er me steal. 



CARTHAGE. 



"Early on the morning following, I walked to the site 
of the great Carthage,— of that town, at the sound of whose 
name mighty Rome herself had so often trembled,— of 
Carthage, the mistress of powerful and brave armies, of nu- 
merous fleets, and of the world's commerce, and to whom 
Africa, Spain, Sardinia, Corsica, Sicily, and Italy herself 
bowed in submission as to their sovereign— in short, — " Car- 
thago, dives opum,studiisque asperrima belli :" I was pre- 
pared to see but few vestiges of its former grandeur, it had 
so often suffered from the devastating effects of war, that I 
knew many could not exist ; but my heart sunk within me 
when ascending one of its hills, (from whose summit the 
eye embraces a view of the whole surrounding country to 
the edge of the sea.) I beheld nothing more than a lew 
scattered and shapeless masses of masonry. The scene 
that once was animated by the presence of nearly a mil- 
lion of warlike inhabitants is now buried in the silence of 
ihe grave ; no living soul appearing, if we occasionally ex- 
cept a soldier going or returning from the fort, or the solitary 
and motionless figure of an Arab, watching his flocks from 
.he summit of the fragment of some former palace or 
lemple."— Sib G. Temple's Excursions in the Mediter- 
ranean. 



Low it lieth — earth to earth — 
All to which that earth gave birth — 
Palace, market-street, and fane ; 
Dust that never asks in vain, 
Hath reclaim'd its own again. 

Dust, the wide world's king. 
Where are now the glorious hours 
Of a nation's gather'd powers 1 
Like the setting of a star, 
In the fathomless afar ; 

» Time's eternal wing 

Hath around those ruins cast 
The dark presence of the past. 

Mind, what art thou 1 dost thou not 
Hold the vast earth for thy lot 1 
In thy toil, how glorious . 
What dost thou achieve for us, 
Over all victorious ! 

Godlike thou dost seem. 



But the perishing still lurks 
In thy most immortal works ; 
Thou dost build thy home on sand, 
And the palace-girdled strand 

Fadeth like a dream. 
Thy great victories only show 
All is nothingness below. 



LORD MELBOURNE. 

It is a glorious task to guide 
The vessel through the dashing tide 
When dark is the tumultuous sea 
And thunder clouds are on the lea, 
While war notes mount upon the wind 
From the fierce storm that rides behind. 

And such a task it is to steer 
A people in their high career, 
When old opinions war, and change 
Is sudden, violent, and strange ; 
And men recall the past, to say, 
So shall not be the coming day. 

Such time is passing o'er our land, 
New thoughts arise — new hopes expand, 
And man knows in his own strong will 
It is his purpose to fulfil : 
In the fierce contest of such hour, 
How mighty is the leader's power. 

More glorious than the conqueror's brand, 

The rule intrusted to such hand. 

From it the past and present claim 

The rights they teach, the hopes they frama 

Do what the island of the free ; 

What England should expect of thee ! 



THE PIRATE'S SONG. 

To the mast nail our flag, it is dark as the grave, 
Or the death which it bears while it sweeps o'ei 

the wave. 
Let our deck clear for action, our guns be pre- 
pared ; 
Be the boarding-axe sharpen'd, the cimetar bared , 
Set the canisters ready, and then bring to me, 
For the last of my duties, the powder-room key. 
It shall never be lower'd, the black flag we bear ; 
If the sea be denied us, we sweep through the air 

Unshared have we left our last victory's prey , 
It is mine to divide it, and yours to obev 



324 



MISS'LANDON'S WORKS. 



There are shawls that might suit a sultana's white 

neck, 
And pearls that are fair as the arms they will deck ; 
There are flasks which, unseal them, the air will 

disclose 
Diametta's fair summers, the home of the rose. 
I claim not a portion : I ask but as mine, 
'Tis to drink to our victory — one cup of red wine. 

Some fight, 'tis for riches ; some fight, 'tis for 

fame : 
The first I despise, and the last is a name. 
I fight, 'tis for vengeance. I love to see flow, 
At the stroke of my sabre, the life of my foe. 
I strike for the memory of long vanish'd years ; 
I only shed blood, where another sheds tears. 
I come, as the lightning comes red from above, 
O'er the race that I loathe, to the battle I love. 



THE CHURCH AT POLIGNAC. 

Kneel down in yon chapel, but only one prayer 
Should awaken the echoes its tall arches bear ; 
Pale mother, pray not for the child on the bed, 
For the sake of the prisoner let matins be said ; 
Old man, though the shade of thy gravestone be 

nigh, 
Vet not for thyself raise thy voice to the sky ; 
Young maiden there kneeling, with blush and with 

tear, 
Name not the one name to thy spirit most dear. 
The prayer for another, to Heaven addrest, 
Comes back to the breather thrice blessing and 

blest. 

Beside the damp marsh, rising sickly and cold, 
S/,and the bleak and stern walls of the dark prison 

hold; 
There fallen and friendless, forlorn and opprest, 
Are they — once the flatter'd, obey'd, and carest. 
From the blessings that God gives the poorest 

exiled, 
His wife is a widow, an orphan his child ; 
For years there the prisoner has wearily pined, 
Apart from his country, apart from his land ; 
Amid millions of freemen, one last lonely slave, 
He knoweth the gloom, not the peace of the grave. 

I plead not their errors, my heart's in the cause, 
Which bows down the sword with the strength of 

the laws ; 
But France, while within her such memories live, 
With her triumphs around, can afford to forgive. 
Let freedom, while raising her glorious brow, 
Shake the tears from her laurels that darken there 

now. 



Be the chain and the bar from yon prison removed 
Give the children their parent, the wife her beloved 
By the heart of the many is pardon assign'd, 
For, Mercy, thy cause is the cause of mankind. 



THE KNIGHT OP MALTA. 

The vessel swept in with the light of the morn, 
High on the red air its gonfalon borne ; 
The roofs of the dwellings, the sails of the mast 
Mix'd in the crimson the daybreak had cast. 

On came the vessel : — the sword in his hand, 
At once from the deck leapt a stranger to land. 
A moment he stood, with the wind in his hair, 
The sunshine less golden— the silk was less fair. 

He look'd o'er the waters — what look'd he to 

see ! 
What alone in the depths of his own heart could 

be. 
He saw an old castle arise from the main, 
The oak on its hills, and the deer on its plain. 

He saw it no longer ; the vision is fled ; 
Paler the prest lip, and firmer the tread. 
He takes from his neck a light scarf that he 

wore; 
'Tis flung on the waters, that bare it from shore. 

'Twas the gift of a false one ; — and with it he 

flung 
All the hopes and the fancies that round it had 

clung. 
The shrine has his vow — the Cross has his 

brand ; — 
He weareth no gift of a woman's white hand. 

A seal on his lip, and an oath at his heart, 
His future a warfare — he knoweth his part. 
The visions that haunted his boyhood are o'er, 
The young knight of Malta can dream them no 
more. 



DERWENT WATER. 

I knew her — though she used to make 
Her dwelling by that lonely lake. 
A little while she came to show 
How lovely distant flowers can go. 
The influence of that fairy scene 
Made beautiful her face and mien. 
I have seen faces far more fair, 
But none that had such meaning there. 



H or to her downcast eyes were given 
The azure of an April heaven ; 
The softening of those sunny hours, 
By passing shadows, and by showers 



O'er her cheek the wandering red, 
By the first wild rose was shed. 
Evanescent, pure, and clear, 
Just the warm heart's atmosphere. 
Like the sweet and inner world, 
In that early rosebud furled. 
All whose rich revealings glow 
Eound the lovelier world below. 
Light her step was, and her voice 
Said unto the air, rejoice ; 
And her light laugh's silvery breaking 
Sounded like the lark's first waking. 

Return to that fair lake, return, 

On whose green heathlands grows the fern ; 

And mountain heights of dark gray stone, 

Are bright with lichens overgrown. 

Thou art too fay-like and too fair 

For our more common clouded air. 

Beauty such as thine belongs 

To a world of dreams and songs ; 

Let thy image with us dwell, 

Lending music to farewell. 



THE SPANISH PAGE. 

OR, THE CITY'S RANSOM. 

She was a chieftain's daughter, and he a captive 

boy, 
Yet playmates and companions they shared each 

childish joy; 
Their dark hair often mingled, they wander'd hand 

in hand, 
3ut at last the golden ransom restored him to his 

land. 
A lovely town is Seville amid the summer air, 
But, though it be a little town Xenilla is as fair ; 
Fair are the glittering minarets where the purple 

daylight falls, 
And rosy the pomegranates of the gardens in its 

walls 

But i;s pleasant days are over, for an army girds it 
round, 

With the banner of the red cross, and the Chris- 
tian trumpet's sound ; 

They have sworn to raze the city that in the sun- 
shine stood, 

And its silvery singing fountains shall flow with 
Moslem blood. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 325 

Fierce, is the Christian xeader, a young and orphan 

lord, 
For all the nobles of his house fell by the Moorish 

sword ; 
Himself was once a captive, till redeem'd by Spa 

nish gold, 
Now to be paid by Moorish wealth and life an 

hundred-fold. 



The sound of war and weeping reach'd where a 

maiden lay, 
Fading as fades the loveliest, too soon from earth 

away, 
Dark fell the silken curtains, and still the court 

below, 
But the maiden's dream of childhood was disturb'd 

by wail and wo. 
She question'd of the tumult ; her pale slaves told 

the cause ; 
The colour mounted to her cheek, a hasty breath 

she draws ; 
She calPd her friends around her, she whisper'd 

soft and low, 
Like music from a wind-touch'd lute her languid 

accents flow. 

Again upon her crimson couch she laid her weary 

head ; 
They look'd upon the dark-eyed maid — they look'd 

upon the dead. 
That evening, ere the sunset grew red above the 

town, 
A funeral train upon the hills came winding slowly 

down ; 
They come with mournful chanting, they bear the 

dead along, 
The sentinels stood still to hear that melancholy 

song: 
To Don Henrique they bore the corpse — they laid 

it at his feet, 
Pale grew the youthful warrior that pale face to 

meet. 

As if in quiet slumber the Moorish maid was 

laid, 
And her white hands were folded, as if in death 

she pray'd ; 
Her long black hair on either side was parted on 

her brow, 
And her cold cheek was colder than marble or 

than snow. 
Yet lovelier than a living thing she met the war- 
rior's gaze, 
Around her was the memory cf many happy 

days. 
He knew his young companion, though long dark 

years had flown, 
Well had she kept her childish faith — she was in 

death his own. 



326 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" Bring ye this here, a ransom for those devoted 
walls !" 

None answer' d — but around the tent a deeper si- 
lence falls ; 

None knew the maiden's meaning, save he who 
bent above, 

Ah ! only love can read within the hidden heart 
of love. 

There came from these white silent lips more elo- 
quence than breath, 

The tenderness of childhood — the sanctity of 
death. 

He felt their old familiar love had ties he could not 
break, 

f he warrior spared the Moorish town, for that dead 
maiden's sake. 



DIRGE. 

Lay her in the gentle earth, 
Where the summer maketh mirth ; 
Where young violets have birth ; 

Where the lily bendeth. 
Lay her there, the lovely one ! 
With the rose, her funeral stone ; 
And for tears, such showers alone 

As the rain of April lendeth. 

From the midnight's quiet hour 
Will come dews of holy power, 
O'er the sweetest human flower 

That was ever loved. 
But she was too fair and dear 
For our troubled pathway here ; 
Heaven, that was her natural sphere, 

Has its own removed. 



STRADA RE ALE— CORFU 

I am weary of the greenwood 
Where haunteth the wild bee, 
And the olive's silvery foliage 
Droops o'er the myrtle tree. 

The fountain singeth silvery, 
As with a sleepy song, 
It wandereth the bright mosses, 
And drooping flowers among. 

I will seek the cheerful city, 
And in the crowded street, 
See if I can find the traces 
Of pleasure's winged feet. 



The bells are ringing gayly, 
And their music gladdens all, 
From the towers in the sunshine, 
To the date and orange stall. 

Gay voices are around me, 

I seem to gladden too ; 

And a thousand changing objects 

Win my wandering eyes anew. 

It is pleasant through the city 
In a sunny day to roam ; 
And yet my full heart turns to thee 
My own, my greenwood home. 



ANTIOCH. 

Whejt the vulture on the wind 
Mounted as in days of old, 

Leaving hope and fear behind, 
What did his dark flight behold ! 

Conquest, in its crimson car, 

Reddening sword and broken speaij 

Nations gathering to the war, 
These were in his wide career. 

When the thunder and his wing 
Swept the startled earth below, 

Did the flight prophetic bring 
Omen of the world we know. 

Vainly did the augur seek 

In its path the will of heaven ; 

Not to that fierce eye and beak, 
Was the fated future given. 

No, the future's depths were stirr'd 
By the white wings of the dove ; 

When the troubled earth first heard 
Words of peace and words of love. 

Now, far other hopes arise 

Over life's enlarging day, 
Science, commerce, enterprise, 

Point to man his glorious way. 

Where those distant deserts wind, 
Even now an English band 

Urge the triumphs of the mind 
Through a wild and savage land. 

Mind, and only mind, could gain 
Such a conquest as they ask; 

Stormy wind, and sandy plain, 
Doubt and death attend the task. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



327 



They will make their gaUocnt way, 
Must achieve their glorious goal ; 

It is night subdued by day, 
'Tis the mastery of the soul. 

Let the dark Euphrates bear 
English keel and English sail ; 

Not alone o'er wind and air 
Will the enterprise prevail : 

But our flag will bear around, 

Faith and knowledge, light and hope, 
Empire with no other bound 

Than the wide horizon's scope. 

Honour to the generous band, 

Bearing round our name and laws, 

For the honour of our land, 
For humanity's great cause.* 



LANCASTER CASTLE. 

Dark with age these towers look down 
Over their once vassal town ; 
Warlike — yet long years have past 
Since they look'd on slaughter last. 

Never more will that dark wall 
Echo with the trumpet's call, 
When the Red Rose and the White 
Call'd their warriors to the fight. 

Never more the sounding yew, 
Which the English archer drew, 
Will decide a battle-day 
Past like its own shafts away. 

Never more those halls will ring 
With the ancient harper's string, 
When the red wine pass'd along 
With a shout and with a song. 



* I allude to the voyage down the Euphrates. Conquest 
and commerce have been the two great principles of 
civilization. It is only of late years that we have seen the 
superiority of the sail over the sword. The expedition, 
whose advantages I have ventured above to prophesy, is 
in the noblest spirit of enlightened enterprise. We must 
take with us our knowledge ; and so disturb, and eventual- 
ly destroy the darkness, mental and moral, too long 
gathered on the East. The generous earnestness of 
science, and the enthusiasm bf enterprise, were never more 
nobly marked than in the concluding passage of Colonel 
Chesney's letter to the Admiralty, announcing the loss of 
the Tigris steamer: — 

" We are, therefore, continuing our descent and survey 
to Bussorah, hoping not only to bring up the mail from 
India within the specified time, but also, if it pleases God 
to spare us, to demonstrate the speed, economy, and 
commercial advantages of the river Euphrates, provided 
the decision of ministers shall be, in the true spirit of 
Englishmen, to give it a fair trial, rather than abandon the 
original purpose in consequence of an unforeseen, and, as 
it is proved, an unavoidable calamity." 



Trumpet, harp, and good yew bow 
Are so many memories now, 
While the loom, the press, the gun, 
Have another age begun. 

Yet that old chivalric hour 
Hath upon the present power 
Changed — and soften'd and refined 
It has left its best behind. 

What may its bequeathings be ! 
Honour, song, and courtesy. 
Like the spirit of its clay, 
Yesterday redeems to-day. 



SIR WILLIAM STANLEY. 



The man was old, his hair was gray— 
And I have heard the old man say, 
" Keep thou from royal courts away ;" 
In proof thereof, he wont to tell 
The Stanley's fatal chronicle. 



King Henry sat amid his court, and of the nobles 

there 
Not one with William Stanley for favour could 

compare ; 
He was the royal chamberlain, and on his bended 

knee 
Within King Henry's silver cup the red wine 

poured he. 

There came a knight in presence there, he named 

my master's name, 
As he stood betting golden coin upon the royal 

game. 
And on Sir Robert Clifford's word, they took his 

sword away, 
And William Stanley to the Tower was prisoner 

sent that day. 

God only knows the hearts of men, but 'twas a 

wondrous thing 
My noble master should conspire against the 

crowned king ; 
For well I know on Bos worth Field it wa3 his 

red right hand 
That placed upon Earl Richmond's brow King 

Richard's royal band. 

But ancient service is forgot ; and he, the Wise- 
man, said, 

Think thou no evil of the king upon thy lonely 
bed; 



328 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



And therefore little will I name of what I then 

heard told, 
That my good lord's worst treasons were his broad 

lands and his gold. 

I saw him on the scaffold stand, the axe was 

gleaming bright, 
But I will say he faced its shine as best became 

a knight ; 
He pray'd a prayer — he knelt him down — there 

smote a sullen sound, 
I saw my master's sever'd head upon the dark red 

ground. 

No nobles bore the noble's pall, there was no 

funeral bell, 
But I stood weeping by the grave of him I loved 

so well. 
I know not of the right or wrong, but this much 

let me say, 
Would God my master had been kept from kings 

and courts away ! 



OLAVERHOUSE AT THE BATTLE OF 
BOTHWELL BRIG. 

He leads them on, the chief, the knight ; 
Dark is his eye with fierce delight, 
A calm and unrelenting joy, 
Whose element is to destroy. 

Down falls his soft and shining hair, 
His face is as woman's fair ; 
And that slight frame seems rather meant 
For lady's bower than soldier's tent. 

But on that kindled brow is wrought 
The energy that is of thought, 
The sternness and the strength that grow 
In the high heart that beats below. 

The golden spur is on his heel, 
The spur his war-horse does not feel ; 
The sun alone has gilt the brand, 
Now bared in his unsparing hand. 

But ere the sun go down again 
That sword will wear a deeper stain 
Sun and sword alike will go 
Down o'er the dying and the foe. 

Never yet hath fail'd that brand, 
Never yet hath spared that hand ; 
Where their mingled light is shed, 
Are the fugitive or dead. 



Though the grave were on his way, 
Forward, would that soldier say ; 
And upon his latest breath 
Would be, " Victory or Death " 



THE HALL OF GLENNAQUOICH. 

N ) more the voice of feasting is heard amid those 

halls, 
The grass grows o'er the hearthstone, the fern 

o'ertops the walls ; 
And yet those scenes are present, as they were 

of our age — 
Such is the mighty mastery of one enchanted 

page. 

The name of Scott awakens a world within the 

heart ; 
The scenes are not more real wherein ourselves 

have part. 
Beneath the tree in sunshine — beside the hearth 

in snow, 
What hours of deep enjoyment to him and his we 

owe ! 

And yet recall the giver — recall him as those saw 
Before his glorious being obey'd our nature's law ; 
His strength has soon departed — his cheek is sunk 

and wan — 
He is, before his season, a worn and weary man. 

The fine creative spirit that lit his path of yore, 
Its light remains for others— it warms himself no 

more. 
The long and toilsome midnight, the fever and the 

haste, 
The trouble and the trial, have done their work of 

waste. 

And such is still the recompense appointed for the 

mind, 
That seeketh, with its eyes afar, the glory of its 

kind. 
The poet yields the beautiful that in his being 

lives : 
Unthankful, cold, and careless, are they to whom 

he gives. • 

They dwell amid his visions — for new delights 

they cry ; 
But he who form'd the lovely may lay him down 

and die. 
Then comes the carved marble — then late remorse 

is shown, 
And the poet's search for sympathy ends in a 

funeral stone. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



329 



STRADA ST. URSOLA — MALTA. 

Young knight, that broider'd cloak undo, 
And break that golden chain in two ; 
Take from your hand its jewels fair, 
Shear those bright curls of sunny hair, 
And offer up at yonder shrine 
All vanities that once were thine. 

No more the victor of the ring, 
Thy triumphs will the minstrel sing ; 
No more upon thy helm the glove 
Will ask of fame to sanction love. 
The saraband untrod must be, 
The lists, the dance are closed for thee. 

Look to the past — if present there 
Be visible one great despair : 
Look to the future — if it give 
Nothing which charmeth thee to live. 
Then come — the present knows its doom , 
Thy heart already is a tomb. 

Thy cheek is pale — thy brow is worn — 
Thy lip is bitter in its scorn. 
I read in them the signs that tell 
The heart's impassion'd chronicle. 
'Tis past ! — and Malta's iron vow 
To thee is less than nothing now. 



THE EARL OF SANDWICH. 

They, call'd the Islands by his name,* 
Those isles, the far away and fair ; 

A graceful fancy link'd with fame, 
A flattery — such as poets' are ; 

Who link with lovely things their praise, 
And ask the earth, and ask the sky, 

To colour with themselves their lays 
And some associate grace supply. 

But here it was a sailor's thought, 

That named the island from the Earl — 

That dreams of England might be brought 
To those soft shores, and seas of pearl. 

How very fair they must have seem'd 
When first they darkcn'd on the deep ! 

Like all the w r andering seamen dream'd 
When land rose lovely on his sleep. 

How many dreams they turn'd to truth 
When first they met the sailor's eyes ; 

Gresn with the sweet earth's southern youth, 
And azure with her southern skies. 

* The Sandwich Islands were so called in honour of the 
Earl of Sandwich, then first lord of the Admiralty. 
(42) 



And yet our English thought beguiles 
The mariner where'er he roam. 

He looks upon the new-found isles, 

And calls them by some name of home. 



TOWN AND HARBOUR OF ITHACA. 

By another light surrounded 

Than our actual sky ; 
With the purple ocean bounded 
Does the island lie, 

Like a dream of the old world. 
Bare the rugged heights ascending, 

Bring to mind the past, 
When the weary vo} T age ending, 
Was the anchor cast, 

And the stranger sails were furl'd 
Beside the glorious island 
Where Ulysses was the king. 

Still does fancy see the palace, 

With its carved gates ; 
Where the suitors drain'd the chalice, 
Mocking at the Fates. 

Stern, and dark, and veil'd are they. 
Still their silent thread entwining 

Of our wretched life ; 
With their cold pale hands combining 
Hate, and fear, and strife. 

Hovers the avenging day 
O'er the glorious island 
Where Ulysses was the king. 

Grant my fancy pardon, 
v If amid these trees 
Still it sees the garden 
Of old Laertes, 

Where he met his glorious son. 
The apple boughs were drooping 

Beneath their rosy fruit, 
And the rich brown pears were stooping 
To the old man at their foot, 

While his daily task was done 
In the glorious island, 
Where Ulysses was the long ; 

'Tis a vain and cold invention, 

'Tis the spirit's wrong, 
Which to some small mind's pretension 
Would subdue that song, 

Shrined in manhood's general heart 
One almighty mind — one only, 

Could such strain have sung ; 
Ever be the laurel lonely, 
Where such lyre is hung. 

Be the world a thing apart, 
Of the glorious island, 
Where Ulysses was the king 
2 t 2 



330 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



BELVOIR CASTLE : 

SEAT OF THE DUKE OF RUTLAND. 

INSCRIBED TO LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. 

'Tis an old and stately castle, 

In an old and stately wood ; 
Thoughts and shadows gather'd round it, 

Of the ages it had stood. 

But not of the ancient warriors, 

Whose red banners swept its towers, 

Nor of any lovely lady, 

Blooming in its former bowers — 

Think I now ; — but one as lovely, 
And more gifted, haunts my line. 

In the visions round yon castle 
Is no fairer one than thine ! 

I can fancy thee in childhood 

Wandering through each haunted scene, 
Peopling the green glades around thee 

With the thoughts of what had been ; 

Asking of each leaf its lesson, 

Of each midnight star its tale, 
Till thy fancy caught revealings 

From the music of the gale. 

Yet, whence did thy lute inherit 
All it knows of human grief] — 

What dost thou know of the knowledge 
On life's dark and daily leaf 1 

In thy woman-hearted pages, 

How much sympathy appears 
With the sorrowful and real, 

All that only speaks in tears ! 

Have those large bright eyes been darken'd 

By the shadows from below 1 
Ilather would I deem thee dreaming 

Over grief thou canst not know. 

But thou hast the poet's birthright, 

In a heart too warm and true. 
Wreath thy dark hair with the laurel — 

On it rests the midnight dew ! 



REGATTA,— WINDERMERE LAKE, 

With sunshine on their canvass, 
And sunshine at their side — 

Like court beauties at a pageant, 
The stately vessels glide. 



The sound of shout and music 
Comes from the boats behind , 

And the peal of youthful laughter 
Makes glad the summer wind. 

But we will not go with, them, 
My loved one and my own ; 

We never are so happy 
As when we are alone. 

Yet when the purple shadows 
Of the quiet eve come on, 

And the ripple of those vessels 
From each still wave is gone: — 

When stars with silver footsteps 
Pass like angels o'er the sky ; 

When the breath of leaf and blossom 
To the lulling winds reply : — 

Then let our boat, my sweet one ! 

To yonder shore depart, 
When not a sound is louder 

Than our own beating heart. 

Like a dream beneath the moonlight, 

Our fairy float will be ; 
Let the weary crave the many — 

I ask only for thee ! 



GIBRALTAR. 

SCENE DURING THE PLAGUE. 

At first, I only buried one, 

And she was borne along 
By kindred mourners to her grave, 

With sacred rite and song. 
At first they sent for me to pray 

Beside the bed of death : 
They bless'd their household, and they breath'd 

Prayer in their latest breath. 
But then men died more rapidly — 

They had not time to pray ; 
And from the pillow love had smooth'd 

Fear fled in haste away. 
And then there came the fasten'd door — 

Then came the guarded street — 
Friends in the distance watch'd for friends ; 

Watch'd, — that they might not meet. 
And Terror by the hearth stood cold, 

And rent all natural ties, 
And men, upon the bed of death, 

Met only stranger eyes : 
The nurse — and guard, stern, harsh, and wan 

Remain'd, unpitying, by ; 
They had known so much wretchedness, 

They did not fear to die. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



331 



Heavily rung the old church bells, 

But no one came to prayer: 
The weeds were growing in the street, 

Silence and Fate were there. 
O'er the first grave by which I stood, 

Tears fell, and flowers were thrown, 
The last grave held six hundred lives,* 

And there I stood alone. 



SCALE FORCE, CUMBERLAND. 



This cascade, distant about a mile and a half from the 
village of Buttermere, exceeds in extent of fall the re- 
nowned Niagara, yet, owing to a difficulty of access, it is 
frequently neglected by the tourist. 



It sweeps, as sweeps an army 
Adown the mountain side, 
With the voice of many thunders, 
Like the battle's sounding tide. 

Yet the sky is blue above it, 
And the dashing of the spray 
Wears the colour of the rainbow 
Upon an April day. 

It rejoices in the sunshine 
When after heavy rain 
It gathers the far waters 
To dash upon the plain. 

It is terrible, yet lovely, 

Beneath the morning rays : 

Like a dream of strength and beauty, 

It haunted those who gaze. 

We feel that it is glorious, 
Its power is on the soul ; 
And lofty thoughts within us 
Acknowledge its control. 

A generous inspiration 
Is on the outward world ; 
It waketh thoughts and feelings 
In careless coldness furl'd. 

To love and to admire 
Seems natural to the heart ; 
Life's small and selfish interests 
From such a scene depart. 



* A fact, mentioned to me by a clergyman, Mr. Howe, 
whose duty enforced residence during the ravages of the 
yellow fever. 



BLACK LINN OF LINKLATER 



" Toujours lui— lui partout."— Victor Hugo. 



B cjt of Himself, Him only speak these hills ' 
I do not see the sunshine on the vale, 
I do not hear the low song of the wind 
Singing as sings a child. Like fancies flung 
Around the midnight pillow of a dream, 
Dim pageantries shut out the real scene, 
And call up one associate with Him. 

I see the ancient master pale and worn, 
Though on him shines the lovely southern heaven 
And Naples greets him with festivity. 

The Dying by the Dead : — for his great sake, 
They have laid bare the city of the lost. 
His own creations fill the silent streets ; 
The Roman pavement rings with golden spurs, 
The Highland plaid shades dark Italian eyes, 
And the young" king himself is Ivanhoe. 

But there the old man sits — majestic — wan, 
Himself a mighty vision of the past ; 
The glorious mind has bow'd beneath its toil ; 
He does not hear his name on foreign lips 
That thank him for a thousand happy hours. 
He does not see the glittering groups that press 
In wonder and in homage to his side ; 
Death is beside his triumph.* 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Ah, loveliest ! that through my casement gleaming, 
Bringeth thy native heaven along with thee, 

Touching with far-off light that lovelier dreaming. 
Which but for that, all earthly else would be. 

The smoke is round the housetops slowly wreath- 
ing, 

Until upgather'd in one gloomy cloud, 
It rises like the city's heavy breathing, 

Material, dense, the sunshine's spreading shroud. 



* When Sir Walter Scott arrived at Naples, the pictur 
esque imagination of the south was all alive to dj him 
honour. Contrary to established etiquette, the king called 
upon him. 

"Nice customs courtesy to great names." 
A fete was then given in his honour, and Pompeii was 
chosen for its site. All the guests took seme cnaracter 
from the Waverley novels. The deserted city echoed with 
music; lamps flung their light over walls so long uncoil 
scious of festivity. The city of the dead suited well the 
festival of the dying. Sir Walter was present, but uncon 
scious; he sat wan, exhausted, and motionless,— " the 
centre of the glittering ring" formed by his own genius. 
The triumph had its usual moral— it came too iate. 



332 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Mignt knows not silence, for that living ocean 
Pants night and day with its perpetual flow, 

Stirring the unquiet air with restless motion, 
From that vast human tide which rolls below. 

1 rouble and discontent, and hours whose dial 
Is in the feverish heart which knows not rest ; 

These give the midnight's sinking sleep denial, 
These leave the midnight's dreaming couch 
unprest. 

But thou, sweet Star, amid the harsh and real, 
The cares that harass night with thoughts of 
day, 

Post bring the beautiful and the ideal, 
Till the freed spirit wanders far away. 

Then come the lofty hope — the fond remembrance, 
All dreams that in the heart its youth renew, 

Till it doth take, fair planet, thy resemblance, 
And fills with tender light, and melts with dew. 

What though it be but a delicious error, 

The influence that in thy beauty seems, 
Still let love — song — and hope — make thee their 
mirror, 
O life and earth, what were ye without 
dreams ! 



THE DEVOTEE. 

Prater on her lips — yet, while the maiden 
prayeth, 

A human sorrow deepens in her eyes ; 
For e'en the very words of prayer she sayeth, 

A sad and lingering memory supplies. 

She leans beside the vault where sleeps her mother, 
The tablet has her name upon the wall — 

Her only parent, for she knew no other ; 
In losing whom, the orphan lost her all. 

Young, very young, she is, but wholly vanish'd 
Youth's morning colours from her cheek are 
gone; 

All gayer and all careless thoughts are banish'd 
By the perpetual presence of but one. 

And yet that sweet face is not all of sorrow, 
It wears a softer and a higher mood ; 

And seemeth from the world within to borrow 
A holy and a constant fortitude. 

Early with every sabbath-morn returning, 
You hear her light step up the chancel come, 

She looketh all the week with tender yearning 
To that old church which is to her a home. 



For her own home is desolate and lonely, 
Hers is the only seat beside the hearth, 

Sad in its summer garden, as she only 

Were the last wanderer on this weary earth. 

But in that ancient church her heart grow 
stronger 

With prayers that raise their earnest eyes above 
And in the presence of her God, no longer 

Feels like an outcast from all hope and love, 

Glorious the mightv anthem round her swelling, 
Fills the rapt spirit, sacred and sublime ; 

Soon will for her unfold th' immortal dwelling — 
She waiteth patient, God's appointed time. 



JESUITS IN PROCESSION : 

YALETTA, MALTA. 

Whence rose the sect that 'neath yon azure dome ; 

Hath had such wide domain o'er courts amd 
kings, 

And the wild forest where the condor springs, 
Darkening the lonely vale which has his home — 
Whence did that sect with all its power come ? 
From the dim shadows of the sick man's room ! 

The founder, St. Ignatius, knew of life 
Whatever of that life might seem the best : 

The glorious fever of the battle strife, 
The pleasure that in court or bower is guest ; 

But in all things were care and sorrow rife, 
And the soul's instinct craved diviner rest. 

Then to his hopes a holier aim was given — 

He made of earth the stepping-stone to heaven 



RUNJEET-SINGH, AND HIS SUWAR- 
REE OF SEIKS. 

The hunters were up in the light of the morn, 
High on the clear air their banners were borne ; 
And the steeds that they mounted were bright tc 

behold, 
With housings that glitter'd in silver and gold. 

Proud at their head rode the chief of Lahore, 
A dagger that shone with the ruby he wore ; 
And Inde, and Bokhara, and Iran supplied 
The dogs, staunch and gallant, that coursed at his 
side. 

He wears the green robe of the Prophet's high 

line, 
He is sprung from the chieftain of Mecca's fai 

shrine ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



333 



His horse, on whose bridle the white pearls are 

sown, 
Has a lineage as distant and pure as his own. 

His falconers are round him, a bird on each 

hand — 
No Norman from Norway ere brought such a 

band, 
So strong is each wing, so dark is each eye 
That flings back the light it has learnt in the sky. 

In vain from the chase of that gallant array 
The wild boar will hide in the forest to-day ; 
In vain will the tiger spring forth from its gloom, 
He springs on the sabre that beareth his doom. 

On, on through the greenwoods that girdle the 

pass, 
The sun and the dew are alike on the grass ; 
On, on till by moonlight the gathering be 
Of the hunters that rest by the banyan tree.* 



THE VILLAGE OF KURSALEE. 

High in the azure heavens, ye ancient mountainSj 
Do ye uplift your old ancestral snows, 

Gathering amid the clouds those icy fountains, 
Whence many a sunny stream through India 



Flows with a lovely and unceasing motion, 
That only rocks the lotus on its wave ; 

Unknown the various storms that rend the ocean — 
Ocean, each river's mighty home and grave. 

Lost in a world of undistinguish'd waters, 
Where are the lovely memories of the past, 

The leaves — the flowers — the Brahmin's dark-eyed 
daughters, 
Whose images were on its mirror cast 1 

All fair humanities behind it leaving : 

For little knows the sea of human things, 

Save a few ships their lonely progress cleaving, 
And the white shadows of the sea-bird's wings. 



* Mr. Barnes gives a most splendid description of the 
hunting cavalcades in Lahore. Part, however, of the sport 
was cruel. The captured hogs were fastened to a stake, 
and baited with dogs, and their spirit renewed, when it 
failed, oy cold water dashed over them. At length Runjeet 
gave orders that they should be liberated, in order, as he 
said, that " they might praise his humanity." This latter 
consideration seems to have arrived somewhat late.— The 
horses sent from England attracted great admiration ; but 
that was nothing compared to the praise bestowed on their 
shoes. The letter of thanks from Runjeet to our king 
says, " On beholding the shoes, the new moon turned pale, 
and nearly disappeared from the sky.-"' 



'Tis strange how much of this wide world i« 
lonely, 

Earth hath its trackless forests dark and green, 
And its wild deserts of the sand, where only 

The wind, a weary wanderer, hath been. 

The desert and the forest, lone and solemn, 
May know in time the work of mortal hand ; 

There may arise the temple, tower and column, 
Where only waved the tree, or swept the sand 

But on the ocean never track remaining 
Attests the progress of the human race ; 

The ship will pass without a wave retaining 
The lovely likeness mirror'd on its face. 

And thus, Time, that hast our world L: 
keeping, 

So dost thou roll the current of thy years ; 
Away, away, in thy dark waters sweeping, 

All mortal cares and sorrows, hopes and fears 



THE TOURNAMENT. 

His spur on his heel, his spear in its rest, 

The wild wind just waving the plumes on his 

crest ; 
The young knight rides forward — his armour is 

bright 
As that which it mirrors, the morning's clear light. 

His steed it is black as the raven that flies 

'Mid the tempest that darkens its way through the 

skies ; 
From his nostril the white foam is scatter' i 

around ; 
He knoweth the battle and spurneth the ground. 

His master is young — but familiar his hand 

Has been from its childhood with axe and with 

brand. 
His gold locks have darken'd with blood and with 

toil, 
Where the battle of Ascalon darken'd the soil. 

He is calm, though a youth, save when his blue eyo 
Sees afar the red banners that sweep through the 

sky; 
It kindles — there waiteth the triumph again — 
He poises his lance and he tightens his rein. 

The belt of a knight was in Palestine won ; 

By the hand of King Richard the belt was boun^ 

on. 
On his shoulder the cross, by his helmet a glove, 
Tell he serveth his God, and his King, and bis 

Love. 



334 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



On his lip is a song whose last murmur was heard 
When the castle's old ivy the summer wind 

stirr'd ; 
Low and love-touch'd the words, that are never so 

dear 
As when battle and danger and triumph are near. 

He flings the bright marks from his scarf's silken 

fold— 
What careth the warrior for silver or gold 1 
And he bends till his plumes touch his horse's 

dark mane, 
To the minstrel who mingles one name with his 

strain. 

So loyal of heart, and so liberal of hand, 

Wero the gallant — the high-born — of England's 

fair land. 
But their glory is gather'd — their honours are 

told— 
Let the race of to-day match the good knights of 

old. 



FELICIA HEMANS. 

No more, no more — O, never more returning, 

Will thy beloved presence gladden earth ; 
No more wilt thou with sad, yet anxious, yearning 

Cling to those hopes which have no mortal 
birth. 
Thou art gone from us, and with thee departed, 

How many lovely things have vanish'd too : 
Deep thoughts that at thy will to being started, 

And feelings, teaching us our own were true. 
Thou hast been round us, like a viewless spirit, 

Known only by the music on the air ; 
The leaf or flowers which thou hast named inherit 

A beauty known but from thy breathing there : 
For thou didst on them fling thy strong emotion, 

The likeness from itself the fond heart gave ; 
As planets from afar look down on ocean, 

And give their own sweet image to the wave. 

And thou didst bring from foreign lands their 
treasures, 

As floats thy various melody along ; 
We know the softness of Italian measures, 

And the grave cadence of Castilian song. 
A general bond of union is the poet, 

By its immortal verse is language known, 
And for the sake of song do others know it — 

One glorious poet makes the world his own. 
4nd thou — how far thy gentle sway extended ! 

The heart's sweet empire over land and sea ; 
Many a stranger and far flower was blended 

In the soft wreath that glory bound for thee. 



The echoes of the Susquehanna's waters 

Paused in the pine woods words of thine to 
hear; 

And to the wide Atlantic's younger daughters 
Thy name was lovely, and thy song was dear. 

Was not this purchased all too dearly ? — never 

Can fame atone for all that fame hath cost. 
We see the goal, but know not the endeavour, 

Nor what fond hopes have on the way beer ; 
Iostt, 
What do we know of the unquiet pillow, 

By the worn cheek and tearful eyelid prest, 
When thoughts chase thoughts, like the tumultuous 
billow, 

Whose very light and foam reveals unrest 1 
We say, the song is sorrowful, but know not 

What may have left that sorrow on the song ; 
However mournful words may be, they show not 

The whole extent of wretchedness and wrong. 
They cannot paint the long sad hours, pass'd only 

In vain regrets o'er what we feel we are. 
Alas ! the kingdom of the lute is lonely — 

Cold is the worship coming from afar. 

Yet what is mind in woman but revealing 

In sweet clear light the hidden world below, 
By quicker fancies and a keener feeling 

Than those around, the cold and careless, knew \ 
What is to feed such feeling, but to culture 

A soil whence pain will never more depart 1 
The fable of Prometheus and the vulture, 

Reveals the poet's and the woman's heart. 
Unkindly are they judged — unkindly treated — 

By careless tongues and by ungenerous words ; 
While cruel sneer, and hard reproach, repeated, 

Jar the fine music of the spirit's chords. 
Wert thou not weary — thou whose soothing 
numbers 

Gave other lips the joy thine own had not 1 
Didst thou not welcome thankfully the slumbers 

Which closed around thy mourning human lot T 

What on this earth could answer thy requiring, 

For earnest faith — for love, the deep and true, 
The beautiful, which was thy soul's desiring, 

But only from thyself its being drew. 
How is the warm and loving heart requited 

In this harsh world, where it awhile must dwell ! 
Its best affections wrong'd, betray'd, and slighted — 

Such is the doom of those who love too well. 
Better the weary dove should close its pinion. 

Fold up its golden wings and be at peace, 
Enter, ladye, that serene dominion, 

Where earthly cares and earthly sorrows cease 
Fame's troubled hour has clear'd, and now replying 

A thousand hearts their music ask of thine. 
Sleep with a light the lovely and undying 

Around thy grave — a grave which is a shrine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



33A 



THE TOMBS OF THE KINGS OF 
GOLCONDA.' 

Mousing is round the shining palace, 

Mirror' d on the tide, 
Where the lily lifts her chalice, 
With its gold inside, 

Like an offering from the waves. 
Early waken'd from their slumbers, 

Stand the glittering ranks ; 
Who is there shall count the numbers 
On the river's banks ? 

Forth the household pours the slaves 
Of the kings of fair Golconda, 
Of Golconda's ancient kings. 

Wherefore to the crimson morning 

Are the banners spread, 
Daybreak's early colours scorning 
With a livelier red 1 

Pearls are wrought on each silk fold. 
Summer flowers are flung to wither 

On the common way. 
Is some royal bride brought hither 
With this festival array, 

To the city's mountain-hold 
Of the kings of old Golconda, 
Of Golconda's ancient kings. 

From the gates the slow procession, 

Troops and nobles come. 
This hour takes the king possession 
Of an ancient home — 

One he never leaves again. 
Mask and sandal wood and amber 

Fling around their breath : 
They will fill the murky chamber 
Where the bride is Death. 

Where the worm hath sole domain 
O'er the kings of old Golconda, 
O'er Golconda's ancient kings. 

Now the monarch must surrender 

All his golden state, 
Yet the mockeries of splendour 
On the pageant wait 

That attends him to the tomb. 
Music on the air is swelling, 

'Tis the funeral song, 
As to his ancestral dwelling, 
Is he borne along. 

They must share life's common doom, 
The kings of fair Golconda, 
Golconda's ancient Icings. 

What are now the chiefs that gather 1 
What their diamond mines 1 



What the heron's snowy feather 
On their crest that shines 1 

What their valleys of the rose ! 
For another is their glory, 

And their state, and gold 1 
They are a forgotten story, 
Faint and feebly told — 

Breaking not the still repose 
Of .the kings of fair Golconda, 
Of Golconda's ancient kings. 

Glorious is their place of sleeping, 

Gold with azure wrought, 
And embroider'd silk is. sweeping, 
Silk from Persia brought, 

Round the carved marble walls.* 
Not the less the night owl's pinion 

Stirs the dusky air, 
Not the less is the dominion 
Of the earth worm there. 

Not less deep the shadow falls 
O'er the kings of fair Golconda, 
O'er Golconda's ancient kings. 

Not on such vain aids relying, 

Can the human heart 
Triumph o'er the dead and dying, 
It must know its part 

In the glorious hopes that wait 
The bright openings of the portal, 

Far beyond the sky — 
Faith whose promise is immortal, 
Life, that cannot die. 

These, and stronger than the stat« 
Of the kings of fair Golconda, 
Of Golconda's ancient kings. 



TUNIS. 

No more that city's pirate barks 

Molest the distant waves ; 
No more the Moslem idler marks 

The sale of Christian slaves. 
And yet how much is left undone 

These city walls within ! 
What though the victory may be won, 

Its fruit is yet to win. 

What should the fruit of victory be ? 

What spoil should it command ? — 
Commerce upon the sweeping sea, 

And peace upon the land. 



* Thevenot gives a splendid description of these tern's*. 
In addition to their architectural decoration, they wer* 
hung with embroidered satin. 



336 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



As when the crimson sunset ends, 

Tn twilight's quiet hours, 
The fertilizing dew ascends, 

That feeds the fruits and flowers. 

A. quiet time hath Europe now, 

And she should use that time, 
The seed of general good to sow, 

Eternal and sublime! 
Mighty is now the general scope 

To mortal views assign'd ; 
Direct from heaven is the hope 

That worketh for mankind. 

Too many objects worth its care 

The mind has left unwon ; 
But who is there that shall despair 

Knowing what has been done ? 
The Press, that on the moral world 

Has risen, like a star, 
The leaves of light in darkness furl'd 

Spread with its aid afar. 

Far may it spread ! — its influence 

Is giant in its might : 
The moral world's intelligence 

Lives on its guiding light. 
To teach, to liberate, to save, 

Is empire's noblest worth, 
Such be our hope across the wave, 

Our triumph o'er the earth ! 



DJOUNI: 

THE ItESIDEKTCE OF XADY HESTER STANHOPE.* 

ladye, wherefore to the desert flying, 

Didst thou forsake old England's sea-beat 
strand, 

To dwell where never voice to thine replying, 
Repeats the accents of thy native land ? 

Around thee the white pelican is sweeping, 
Watching the slumbers of her callow brood ; 

And at the fountains of her fond heart keeping 
The last supply of their precarious food. 

Far spreads the wilderness of sand, as lonely 
As is the silence of the eternal grave ; 

And for thy home companions, thou hast only 
The dog, the Arab steed, the flower, the slave. 



* " How could I," said Lady Hester, " live with the com- 
mon people of usual life, after having lived with my uncle 
—England's prime minister— Pitt V 



And rightly hast thou judged. On the strong 
pinion 

Of an unfetter.'d will thy flight was made ; 
At once escaping from the false dominion 

Of our cold life, whose hopes are still bctray'd. 

What is the social world thou hast forsaken? — 
A scene of wrong and sorrow, guilt and guile ; 

Whence Love a long and last farewell has takrn,. 
Where friends can smile, and " murder wMJ* 
they smile." 

Small truth is there among us — little kindness- 
And falsehood still at work to make that less 

We hurry onward in our selfish blindness, 
Not knowing that the truth were happiness. 

Ah ! wisely hast thou chosen thus to leave us,. 

For thou hast left society behind. 
What are to thee the petty cares that grieve us, 

The cold — the false — the thankless — the un- 
kind? 
Thy home is in the desert ; fit disdaining 

Thou showest to the present and to us. 
Calm with the future and the past remaining 

Hopeful the one — the other glorious. 



GIBRALTAR— FROM THE SEA. 

Down 'mid the waves, accursed bark, 
Down, down before the wind ; 

Thou canst not sink to doom more dark 
Than that thou leavest behind. 

Down, down for his accursed sake 

Whose hand is on thy helm, 
Above the heaving billows break — 

Will they not overwhelm 1 

The blood is red upon the deck, 

Of murder, not of strife ; 
Now, Ocean, let the hour of wreck 

Atone for that of life ! 

Many a brave heart has grown cold, 
Though battle has been done : 

And shrieks have risen from the hold, 
When human help was none. 

We've sail'd amid the Spanish lines, 

The black flag at the mast, 
And burning towns and rifled shrines 

Proclaim'd where we had past. 

The captive's low and latest cry 

Has risen on the night, 
While night carousals mock'd the sky 

With their unholy light. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



337 



The captain he is young and fair — 
How can he look so young ? 

His locks of youth, his golden hair, 
Are o'er his shoulders flung. 

Of all the deeds that he has done, 

Not one has left a trace : 
The midnight cup, the noontide sun. 

Have darken'd not his face. 

His voice is low — his smile is sweet — 

He has a girl's blue eyes ; 
And yet I would far rather meet 

The storm in yonder skies 

The fiercest of our -pirate band 
Holds at his name the breath ; 

For there is blood on his right hand, 
And in his heart is death 

He knows he rides above his grave, 

Yet careless is his eye ; 
He looks with scorn upon the wave, 

With scorn upon the sky. 

Great God ! the sights that I have seen 

When far upon the main ! 
I'd rather that my death had been 

Than see those sights again. 

Pale faces glimmer, and are gone — 
Wild voices rise from shore ; 

I see one giant wave sweep on — 
It breaks ! — we rise no more. 



MILLER'S DALE, DERBYSHIRE. 

Do you remember, Love, the lake 

We used to meet beside 1 
The only sound upon the air, 

The ripples on the tide. 

Do you remember, Love, the hour 
When first the moonbeam shone, 

Rising above the distant hills, 
We used to meet alone. 

You knew not then my rank and state, 

You only knew my love, 
Whose gentle witness was the moon, 

That watch'd us from above. 

The valley, silver'dwith her light. 

Was lovely as a shrine ; 
The truth within that young fresh heart 

Felt there was truth in mine 



You are a Countess now, sweet Love, 
And dwell in stately halls ; 

The red gold shines upon the board, 
The silk upon the walls. 

A thousand watch my Lady's eye, 
The minstrel sings her name ; 

None were so fair at Henry's court, 
Where all the fairest came. 

For the soft moonshine's rising light, 
The pearls are on your brow : 

Now, were you, lovely Ladye mme, 
The happiest then, or now 1 

"Nor lake, nor castle," soft she said, 
" Have any choice of mine ; 

I know in life one only lot, 
So long as I am thineT' 



CAPTAIN COOK. 

Do you recall the fancies of many years ago, 
When the pulse danced those light measures that 

again it cannot know ] 
Ah ! we both of us are alter'd, and now we talk 

no more 
Of all the old creations that haunted us of yore. 

Then any favourite volume was a mine of long 

delight, 
From whence we took our future, to fashion as 

we might. 
We lived again its pages, we were its chiefs and 

kings, 
As actual, but more pleasant, than what the day 

now brings. 

It was an August evening, with sunset in the 

trees, 
When home you brought his Voyages who found 

the fair South Seas. 
We read it till the sunset amid the boughs grew 

dim ; 
All other favourite heroes were nothing beside 

him. 

For weeks he was our idol, we sail'd with him at 

sea, 
And the pond amid the willows the ocean seem'd 

to be. 
The water-lilies growing beneath the morning 

smile, 
We call'd the South Sea islands, each flower a 

different isle. 

2/ 



•338 MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 

No golden let that fortune could draw for human 

life, 
To us seem'd like a sailor's, 'mid the storm and 

strife. 
Our talk was of fair vessels that swept before the 

breeze, 
And new discover'd countries amid the Southern 

Seas. 



Within that lonely garden what happy hours 

went by, 
While we fancied that around us spread foreign 

sea and sky. 
Ah ! the dreamir.g and the distant no longer 

haunt the m_Dcl ; 
We leave, in leaving childhood, life's fairy land 

behind. 

There is not of that garden a single tree or flower ; 
They have plough'd its long green grasses, and cut 

down the lime tree bower. 
Where are the Guelder roses, whose silver used to 

bring, 
With the gold of the laburnums, their tribute to 

the Spring 1 

They have vanish'd with the childhood that with 
their treasures play'd ; 

The life that cometh after dwells in a darker 
shade. 

Vet the name of that sea captain, it cannot but re- 
call 

How much we loved his dangers, and how we 
mourn'd his fall. 



THE ABBEY, NEAR MUSSOOREE. 



THE SEAT OF J. C. GUJf, ESQ.. 



" On the brow of a rugged mountain, it is quite isolated 
from any other dwelling; and during the rainy season, 
when dense clouds are floating about, it has the appear- 
ance of an island in a sea of vapour." 



Alone, alone, on the mountain brow, 

The sky above, the earth below ; 

Your comrades the clouds, with the driving rain 

Bathing your roof ere it reach the plain. 

Loud on its way, as a forest *blast, 

The eagle that dwells at your side sweeps past ; 

Dark are its wings, and fierce its eye, 

And its shadow falls o'er you in passing by. 

White with the snow of a thousand years, 
Tall in the distance the Chor appears ; 
Hot though the sunshine kindle the air, 
Still hath the winter a palace there 



Away to the south the Jumna takes 
Its way through the melons' golden brakes, 
Through gardens, cities, and crowded plains- 
Little, methinks, on its course it gains. 



Round are the woods of the ancient oak, 
And pines that scorn at the woodman's stroke 
And yet the axe is on its way, 
Those stately trees in the dust to lay. 



They have open'd the quarries of lime and stone 
There is nothing that man will leave alone • 
He buildeth the house — he tilleth the soil ; 
No place is free from care and toil. 

Ye old anJ ye stately solitudes, 
Where the white snow lies, and the eagle broods, 
Where every sound but the wind was still ; 
Or the voice of the torrent adown the hiM. 

Wo on our wretched and busy race, 
That will not leave Nature a resting-place. 
We roam over earth, we sail o'er the wave, 
Till there is not a quiet spot but the grave. 



THE CHURCH OF ST. JOHN, AND THE 
RUINS OF LAHNECK CASTLE. 

FORMERLY BELONGING TO THE TEMFLARS. 

On the dark heights that overlook the Rhine, 
Flinging long shadows on the watery plains, 

Crown'd with gray towers, and girdled by the vine 
How little of the warlike past remains ! 

The castle walls are shatter'd, and wild flowers 
Usurp the crimson banner's former sign. 

Where are the haughty Templars and tneir 
powers 1 
Their 'forts are perish'd — but not so their shrine 

Like Memory veii'd, Tradition sits and tells 
Her twilight histories of the olden time. 

How few the records of those craggy dells 
But what recall some sorrow or some crime. 

Of Europe's childhood was the feudal age, 

When the world's sceptre was the sword ; and 
power, 

Unfit for human weakness, wrong, and rage, 
Knew not that curb which waits a wiser hour. 

Ill suited empire with a human hand ; 

Authority needs rule, restraint, and awe ; 
Order and peace spread gradual through the Jand, 

And force submits to a diviner law 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



339 



A few great minds appear, and by their light 
The many find their way ; truth after truth 

Rise staiiike on the depths of moral night, 
Though even now is knowledge in its youth. 

Still as those ancient heights, which only bore 
The iron harvest of the sword and spear, 

Are now with purple vineyards cover'd o'er, 
While corn-fields fill the fertile valleys near 

Our moral progress has a glorious scope, 

Much has the past by thought and labour done 

Knowledge and Peace pursue the steps of Hope, 
Whose noblest victories are yet unwon. 



DEATH OF THE LION AMONG THE 
RUINS OF SBEITLAH. 

Hukiuebly, disturbing night 
With a red and sudden light, 
Came the morning, as it knew 
What there was for day to do, 
And that ere it sank again, 
It must show the lion's den. 

All night long, a sullen roar, 
Like the billows on the shore, 
Sounded on the desert air, 
Telling who was lurking there. 
And the sleepless child was prest 
Closer to the mother's breast. 

Girdled by the watch-fire's ray 
Did we w r ait the coming day ; 
And beneath the morning sun 
Flash'd the spear and gleam'd the gun. 
Forth we went to seek the shade 
Where the lion-king was laid. 

Dark the towering palm was spread, 
Like a giant, overhead ; 
But the dewy grass below 
Served the lion's path to show. 
Long green bough and flowery spray 
He had rent upon his way. 

By the aqueduct of old, 
Where the silver river roll'd, 
Long since laid in ruins low — 
But there still the waters flow. 
Soon decayeth man's endeavour, 
Nature's works endure for ever. 

There we found the lion's cave — 
There we made the lion's grave. 
Three shots echo'd — three — no more, 
And the grass is red with gore. 
For the claws and skin we come — 
Let us bear our trophy home. 



THE IONIAN CAPTIVE. 

Sadly the captive o'er her flowers is bending, 
While her soft eye with sudden sorrow fills . 

They are not those that grew beneath her tending 
In the green valley of her native hills. 

There is the violet — not from the meadow 
Where wander'd carelessly her childish feet ; 

There is the rose — it grew not in the shadow 
Of her old home — it cannot be so sweet. 

And yet she loves them — for those flowers are 
bringing 

Dreams of the home that she will see no more ; 
The languid perfumes are around her, flinging 

What almost for the moment they restore. 

She hears her mother's wheel, that, slowly turning, 
Murmur'd unceasingly the summer day ; 

And the same murmur, when the pine boughs 
burning 
Told that the summer hours had passed away. 

She hears her young companions sadly singing 
A song they loved — an old complaining tune , . 

Then comes a gayer sound — the laugh is ringing 
Of the young children — hurrying in at noon. 

By the dim myrtles, wandering with her sister, 
They tell old stories, broken by the mirth 

Of her young brother: alas ! have they miss'd he.',, 
She who was borne a captive from their hearth ! 

She starts — too present grows the actual sorrow, 
By her own heart she knows what they have 
borne ; 

Young as she is, she shudders at to-morrow, 
It can but find her prisoner and forlorn. 

What are the glittering trifles that surround her — 
What the rich shawl — and what the golden 
chain '! 
Would she could break the fetters that have bound 
her, 
And see her household and her hills again ! 



THE CEDAES OF LEBANON. 

Ye ancients of the earth, beneath whose shade 
Swept the fierce banners of earth's mightiest kings, 

When millions for a battle were array'd, 

And the sky darken'd with the vulture's wings. 

Long silence follow'd on the battle-cries ; 

First the bones whiten'd, then were seen no more , 
The summer glasses sprang for summer skies ; 

And dim tradition told no tales of yore 



340 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



The works of peace succeeded those first wars, 
Men left the desert tents for marble walls ; 

Then rose the towers from whence they watch' d 
the stars, 
And the vast wonders of their kingly halls. 

And they are perish'd — those imperial towers 
Read not amid the midnight stars their doom ; 

The pomp and art of all their glorious hours 
Lie hidden in the sands that are their tomb. 

And ye, ancestral trees ! are somewhat shorn 
Of the first strength that mark'd earth's earlier 
clime ; 

But still ye stand, stately and tempest- worn, 
To show how nature triumphs over time. 

Much have ye witness'd — but yet more remains ; 

The mind's great empire is but just begun ; 
The desert beauty of your distant plains 

Proclaim how much has yet been left undone. 

Will not your giant columns yet behold 

The world's old age, enlighten'd, calm, and free ; 

More glorious than the glories known of old — 
The spirit's placid rule o'er land and sea. 

All that the past has taught is not in vain — 
Wisdom is garner'd up from centuries gone ; 

I ove, Hope, and Mind prepare a nobler reign 
Than ye have known — Cedars of Lebanon ! 



RYDAL WATER AND GRASMERE LAKE, 

THE RESIDENCE OF WORDSWORTH. 

Not for the glory on their heads 

Those stately hill-tops wear, 
Although the summer sunset sheds 

Its constant crimson there. 
Not for the gleaming lights that break 
The purple of the twilight lake, 

Half dusky and half fair, 
Does that sweet valley seem to be 
A sacred place on earth to me. 

The influence of a moral spell 

Is found around the scene, 
Giving new shadows to the dell, 

New verdure to the green. 
With every mountain-top is wrought 
The presence of associate thought, 

A music that has been ; 
Calling that loveliness to life 
With which the inward world is rife. 

His home — our English poet's home — 

Amid these hills is made ; 
Here, with the morning, hath he come, 

There, with the night delay'd. 



On all things is his memory cast, 
For every place wherein he past 

Is with his mind array'd, 
That, wandering in a summer hour, 
Ask'd wisdom of the leaf and flower. 

Great poet, if I dare to throw 

My homage at thy feet, 
'Tis thankfulness for hours which thou 

Hast made serene and sweet ; 
As wayfarers have incense thrown 
Upon some mighty altar-stone, 

Unworthy, and yet meet, 
The human spirit longs to prove 
The truth of its uplooking love. 

Until thy hand unlock'd its store, 
What glorious music slept ! 

Music that can be hush'd no more 
Was from our knowledge kept. 

But the great Mother gave to thee 

The poet's universal key, 

And forth the fountains swept — 

A gushing melody forever, 

The witness of thy high endeavour. 

Rough is the road which we are sent, 

Rough with long toil and pain ; 
And when upon the steep ascent, 

A little way We gain, 
Vex'd with our own perpetual care, 
Little we heed what sweet things are 

Around our pathway blent ; 
With anxious steps we hurry on, 
The very sense of pleasure gone. 

But thou dost in this feverish dream 

Awake a better mood, 
With voices from the mountain stream, 

With voices from the wood. 
And with their music dost impart 
Their freshness to the workbworn heart, 

Whose fever is subdued 
By memories sweet with other years, 
By gentle hopes, and soothing tears. 

A solemn creed is thine, and high, 

Yet simple as a child, 
Who looketh hopeful to yon sky 

With eyes yet undefiled. 
By all the glitter and the glare. 
This life's deceits and follies wear, 

Exalted, and yet mild, 
Conscious of those diviner powers 
Brought from a better world than ours 

Thou hast not chosen to rehearse 

The old heroic themes ; 
Thou hast not given to thy verse 

The heart's impassion'd dreamy 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



341 



Forth flows thy song as waters flow 
So bright above — so calm below, 

Wherein the heaven seems 
Eternal as the golden shade 
Its sunshine on the stream hath laid. 

The glory which thy spirit hath, 
Is round life's common things, 

And flingeth round our common path, 
As from an angel's wings, 

A light that is not of our sphere, 

Yet lovelier for being here, 

Beneath whose presence springs 

A beauty never mark'd before, 

Yet once known, vanishing no more. 

How often with the present sad, 

And weary with the past, 
A sunny respite have we had, 

By but a chance look cast 
Upon some word of thine that made 
The sullen ness forsake the shade, 

Till shade itself was past : 
For Hope divine, serene, and strong, 
Perpetual lives within thy song. 

Eternal as the hills thy name, 

Eternal as thy strain ; 
So long as ministers of Fame 

Shall Love and Hope remain. 
The crowded city in its streets, 
The valley, in its green retreats, 

Alike thy words retain. 
What need hast thou of sculptured stone T- 
Thy temple, is thy name alone. 



WARKWORTH CASTLE, 

NORTHUMBERLAND. 

Coxe, up with the banner, and on with the 

sword, 
My father's first-born of his castle is lord ; 
No knight, I will say, that e'er belted a brand, 
Was ever more worthy of lady or land. 

Ring the horns through the forest that girdles our 

hall, 
Let the glades of the green oaks re-echo the 

call ; 
And many a morning with dew on the plain, 
And the red sun, just rising, shall hear them 

again. 

Fill up the clear wine cup that dances in light, 
One name, and one only, shall crown it to-night : 



'Tis the health of the young knight just come o'er 

the main : 
He will cross it an earl, if he cross it again. 

Farewell ! my brother ; farewell ! mine abode— 
The hawk that I flew — the horse that I rode — 
They are safe — I commend them, my brother, to 

thee; 
But my white greyhound goes with mo over the 

sea. 

For a thousand white crowns I have mortgaged 

my land, 
And fifty bold seamen await my command ; 
My letters of marque are now sign'd by the queen, 
I hasten where Drake and where Raleigh have 

been. 

Away to the south is the course that I hold, 

If the sea has its storm — why, the Spaniard has 

gold. 
Afar in the distance I see its light shine, 
And all is fair warfare that crosses the Line. 

One last charge, my brother, you only may hear, 
'Tis the hope to my soul the most deep, the most 

dear: 
Be my Blanche to thy heart like a sister, in love ; 
I leave in thy shadow the nest of my dove. 

No doubt of her truth, and no fear of her change, 
Can darken my pathway where'er it may range ; 
My heart is my omen — I know, o'er the main, 
I return to her side, and to England, again. 



CAN YOU FORGET ME ? 

Cxy you forget me 1 — I who have so cherish'd 

The veriest trifle that was memory's link; 
The roses that you gave me, although perish'd, 

Were precious in my sight ; they made me 
think. 
You took them in their scentless beauty stooping 

From the warm shelter of the garden wall ; 
Autumn, while into languid winter drooping, 

Gave its last blossoms, opening but to fall. 

Can you forget them ? 

Can you forget me 1 I am not relying 

On plighted vows — alas ! I know their worth 
Man's faith to woman is a trifle, dying 

Upon the very breath that gave it birth 
But I remember hours of quiet gladness, 

When, if the heart had truth, it spoke it then, 
When thoughts would sometimes take a tone of 
sadness, 
And then unconsciously grow glad again. 

Can you forget them 1 
2/2 



342 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Can you forget me 1 My whole soul was blended ; 

At least it sought to blend itself with thine ; 
My life's whole purpose, winning thee, seem'd 
ended ; ' 
Thou wert my heart's sweet home — my spirit's 
shrine. 
Can you forget me 1 — when the firelight burning, 

Flung sudden gleams around the quiet room, 
How would thy words, to long past moments 
turning, 
Trust me with thoughts soft as the shadowy 
gloom ! 

Can you forget them 1 

There is no truth in love, whate'er its seeming, 
And heaven itself could scarcely seem more 
true — 
Sadly have I awaken'd from the dreaming, 

Whose charm'd slumber — false one ! — was of 
you. 
I gave mine inmost being to thy keeping — 
I had no thought I did not seek to share ; 
Feelings that hush'd within my soul were sleeping, 
Waked into voice, to trust them to thy care. 

Can you forget them ? 

Can you forget me ] This is vainly tasking 

The faithless heart where I, alas ! am not. 
Too well I know the idleness of asking — 

The misery — of why am I forgot 1 
The happy hours that I have pass'd while 
kneeling 

Half slave, half child, to gaze upon thy face. 
—But what to thee this passionate appealing — 

Let my heart break — it is a common case. 

You have forsrotten me. 



DR. MORRISON AND HIS CHINESE 
ATTENDANTS. 

They bend above the page with anxious eyes, 
Devoutly listening to the sacred words 
Which have awaken'd all the spirit-chords 

Whose music dwells in the eternal skies. 

And still their teacher hope and aid supplies. 

For those dark priests are God's own messengers, 
To bring their land glad tidings from above, 

And to the creed that in its darkness errs, 
To teach the words of truth and Christian 
love. 

Blessings be on their pathway, and increase ! 
These are the moral conquerors, and belong 
To them the palm-branch and triumphal 
song — 

Conquerors, and yet the harbingers of peace. 



THE GANGES. 

Os" sweeps the mighty river — calmly flowing, 

Through the eternal flowers 

That light the summer hours, 
Year after year, perpetual in their blowing. 

Over the myriad plains that current ranges. 

Itself as clear and bright 

As in its earliest light, 
And yet the mirror of perpetual changes. 

Here must have ceased the echo of those slaughters 

When stopp'd the onward jar 

Of Macedonian war, 
Whose murmur only reach'd thy ancient waters. 

Yet have they redden'd with the fierce outpouring 

Of human blood and life, 

When over kingly strife 
The vulture on his fated wing was soaring. 

How oft its watch, impatient of the morrow, 

Hath mortal misery kept, 

Beside thy banks, and wept, 
Kissing thy quiet night winds with their sorrow ! 

Yet thou art on thy course majestic keeping, 

Unruffled by the breath 

Of man's vain life or death, 
Calm as the heaven upon thy bosom sleeping 

Still dost thou keep thy calm and onward motion, 
Amid the ancient ranks 
' Of forests on thy banks, 
Till thou hast gain'd thy home — the mighty ocean. 

And thou dost scatter benefits around thee : 

Thy silver current yields 

Life to the green rice-fields, 
That have like an enchanted girdle bound thee. 

By thee are royal gardens, each possessing 

A summer in its hues, 

Which still thy wave renews, 
Where'er thou flovvest dost thou bear a blessing. 

Such, O my country ! should be thy advancing— 

A glorious progress known 

As is that river's, shown 
By the glad sunshine on its waters glancing. 

So should thy moral light be onwards flowing— 

So should its course be bound 

By benefits around, 
The blessings which itself hath known bestowmg. 

Faith — commerce — knowledge — laws — those 
should be springing, 

Where'er thy standard flies 

Amid the azure skies, 
Whose highest gifts that red-cross flag is bringing 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



13 



Already much for man has been effected ; 

The weak and poor man's cause 

Is strengthen'd by the laws, 
The equal right, born with us, all respected. 

But much awaits, O England ! thy redressing ; 

Thou hast no nobler guide 

Than yon bright river's tide : 
Bear as that bears — where'er thou goest, blessing V 



KALENDRIA ; 

A PORT IN CILICIA. 

Do you see yon vessel riding, 

Anchor'd in our island bay, 
Like a sleeping sea-bird biding 

For the morrow's onward way ? 
See her white wings folded round her 

As she rocks upon the deep; 
Slumber with a spell hath bound her, 

With a spell of peace and sleep. 

Seems she not as if enchanted 

To that lone and lovely place, 
Henceforth ever to be haunted 

By that sweet ship's shadowy grace. 
Yet, come here again to-morrow, 

Not a vestige will remain, 
Though those sweet eyes strain in sorrow, 

They will search the sea in vain. 

'Twas for this I bade thee meet me, 

For a parting word and tear ; 
Other lands and lips may greet me ; 

None will ever seem so dear. 
Other lands — I may say, other — 

Mine again I shall not see ; 
I have left mine aged mother, 

She has other sons than me. 

Where my father's bones are lying, 

There mine own will never lie ; 
Where the myrtle groves are sighing, 

Soft beneath our summer sky. 
Mine will be a wilder ending, 

Mine will be a wilder grave, 
Where the shriek and shout are blending, 

Or the tempest sweeps the wave. 



* Will General Fagan permit me to quote an expression 

of his which struck me most forcibly ? "We have," 

said he, " been the conquerors of India: we have now to 
be its benefactors, its legislators, its instructors, and its 
liberators." 



Mine may be a fate more lonely, 

In some sick and foreign ward, 
Where my weary eyes meet only 

Hired nurse or sullen guard. 
Dearest maiden, thou art weeping ; 

Must I from those eyes remove 1 
Hath thy heart no soft pulse sleeping 

Which might ripen into love 1 

No ! I see thy brow is frozen, 

And thy look is cold and strange ; 
Ah ! when once the heart has chosen, 

Well I know it cannot change. 
And I know that heart has spoken 

That another's it must be. 
Scarce I wish that pure faith broken, 

Though the falsehood were for me. 

No : be still the guileless creature 

That upon my boyhood shone ; 
Couldst thou change thy angel nature, 

Half my faith in heaven were gone. 
Still thy memory shall be cherish'd, 

Dear as it is now to me ; 
When all gentler thoughts have perish'd, 

One shall linger yet for thee. 

Farewell ! — With those words I sever 

Every tie of youth and home; 
Thou, fair isle ! adieu for ever ! 

See, a boat cuts through the foam. 
Wind, time, tide, alike are pressing, 

I must hasten from the shore. 
One first kiss, and one last blessing — 

Farewell, love ! we meet no more. 



INFANTICIDE IN MADAGASCAR 

A ruxuRx of summer green 

Is on the southe 1 ^ plain, 
And water-flags, with dewy screen, 

Protect the ripening grain. 
Upon the sky is not a cloud 

To mar the golden glow, 
Only the palm-tree is allow'd 

To fling its shade below. 

And silvery, 'mid its fertile brakes, 

The winding river glides, 
And every ray in heaven makes 

Its mirror of its tides. 
And yet it is a place of death- — 

A place of sacrifice ; 
Heavy with childhood's parting breafli 

Weary with childhood's cries. 

The mother takes her little child- 
Its face is like her own ; 

The cradle of her choice is wild- 
Why is it left alone 1 



344 



MISS LAN DON S WORKS. 



The trampling of the buffalo 

Is heard among the reeds, 
And sweeps around the carrion crow 

That amid carnage feeds. 

! outrage upon mother Earth 
To yonder azure sky ; 

A destined victim from its birth, 

The child is left to die. 
We shudder that such crimes disgrace 

E'en yonder savage strand ; 
Alas ! and hath such crime no trace 

Within our English land 1 

Pause, ere we blame the savage code 

That such strange horror keeps ; 
Perhaps within her sad abode 

The mother sits and weeps, 
And thinks how oft those eyelids smiled, 

Whose close she may not see, 
And says, " O, would to God, my child, 

I might have died for thee !" 

Such law of bloodshed to annul 

Should be the Christian's toil ; 
May not such law be merciful, 

To that upon our soil ] 
Better the infant eyes should close 

Upon the first sweet breath, 
Than weary for their last repose, 

A living life in death ! 

Look on the children of our poor 

On many an English child : 
Better that it had died secure 

By yonder river wild. 
Flung careless on the waves of life, 

From childhood's earliest time, 
They struggle, one perpetual strife, 

With hunger and with crime. 

Look on the crowded prison-gate — 

Instructive love and care 
In early life had saved the fate 

That waits on many there. 
Cold, selfish, shunning care and cost, 

The poor are left unknown ; 

1 say, for every soul thus lost, 

We answer with our own. 



HURDWAR— THE GATE OF VISHNOO. 

Fj.ing wide the sacred city gates, 

Wide on the open air ; 
A highei Conqueror awaits 

Than he whose name they bear 



He comes not in the strength of war 

He comes not in its pride ; 
No banners are around his car, 

No trumpets at his side. 

Not in the midst of armed bands 
The Christian Chief appears, 

No swords are in his followers' hands . 
They strive with prayers and tears. 

For faint and weak those followers seem, 

Yet mighty is their voice : 
The Ganges' old and holy stream 

Will in its depths rejoice. 

Low is the voice with which they plead- 

A voice of peace and love ; 
Peaceful and loving is the creed 

Whose emblem is the dove 

Far in the east a star arose, 

And with its rising brought 
God's own appointed hour to those 

By whom it had been sought. 

And still that guiding star hath shone 

O'er all its light hath won ; 
And it will still keep shining on 

Until its work be done. 

A glorious ending at its birth 

Was to that planet given : 
For never will it set on earth 

Till earth is lost in heaven. 

Fling wide the ancient city's gates, 

The hours of night are past, 
And Christ, the Conqueror, awaits 

Earth's holiest and her last. 



THE PROPHETESS. 

Ix the deep silence of the midnight hours, 
I call upon ye, ye viewless powers, 
Before whose presence mortal daring cowers. 

I have subdued ye to my own stern will, 
I fear ye not ; but I must shudder still, 
Faint with the awful purpose ye fulfil. 

Not for myself I call the ether-born, 
They have no boon my being doth not scorn- 
Wholly and bitterly am I forlorn. 

Dearly is bought the empire of the mind 
It sitteth on a sullen throne, designed 
To elevate and part it from its kind. 



Long years my stricken soul has tum'd away 
From the sweet dreams that round my childhood 

lay : 
Would it still own'd their false but lovely sway ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 3 15 

Low are the marble columns on the sand, 

The palm trees that have grown among them stand 

As if they mock'd the fallen of the land. 



In the dark grave of unbelief they rest, 
Worthless they were, and hollow, while possest. 
I am alone — unblessing, and unblest ! 

Knowledge is with me — guest that once received, 
Love, hope, ambition, are no more believed ; 
And we disdain what formerly had grieved. 

A few fair flowers around their colours fling, 
But what does questioning their sources bring '? 
That from corruption and from death they spring. 

'Tis thus with those sweet dreams which life begin, 
We weary of them, and we look within : 
What do we findl Guile, suffering, and sin. 

I know my kind too well not to despise 
The gilded sophistry that round it lies : 
Hate, sorrow, falsehood — mocking their disguise. 

O, thou old world ! so full of guilt and cares, 
So mean, so small — I marvel heaven bears 
Thy struggle, which the seeing almost shares. 

Yet, mine ancestral city, for thy sake 
A lingering interest on this earth I take ; 
In the dim midnight 'tis for thee I wake. 

Softly the starlight falleth over fanes 
That rise above thy myrtle-wooded plains, 
Where summer hath her loveliest domains. 

Beneath, the gardens spread their pleasant shade, 
The lutes are hush'd that twilight music made, 
Sleep on the world her honey-spell hath laid. 

Sweet come the winds that o'er these flower beds 

rove, 
I only breathe the perfumes that ye love. 
Spirits ! my incense summons ye above. 

What of yon stately city, where are shrined 
The warrior's and the poet's wreath combined — 
Ml the high honours of the human mind ! 

Her walls are bright with colours, whose fine dyes 
Imbody shapes that seem from yonder skies, 
And in her scrolls the world's deep wisdom lies. 



-Through the silvery 



What of her future !■ 

smoke 
I see the distant vision I invoke. 
These glorious walls have bow'd to Time's dark 

yoke. 

I see a plain of desert sand extend, 
Scatter'd with ruins where the wild flowers bend, 
And the green ivy, like a last sad friend. 
(44) 



Hence, ye dark Spirits ! bear the dream awt*y ; 
To-morrow but repeateth yesterday : 
First, toil — then, desolation and decay. 

Life has one vast stern likeness in its gloom, 
We toil with hopes that must themselves ton 

sume — 
The wide world round us is one mighty tomb. 



GIBRALTAR. 

FROM THE Q.UEEX OF SPAIx's CHAIR. 

High on the rock that fronts the sea 
Stands alone our fortress key 
Ladye of the southern main, 
Ladye, too, of stately Spain. 

Look which way her eye she bends, 
Where'er she will her sway extends. 
Free on air her banner thrown, 
Half the world it calls its own. 

Let her look upon the strand — 
Never was more lovely laud : 
Had her rule dominion there, 
It were free as it is fair. 

Let her look across the waves, 
They are but her noblest slaves ; 
Sweeping north or south, they still 
Bear around her vvealth and will. 

Siege and strife these walls have borne, 
By the red artillery torn ; 
Human life has pour'd its tide 
In the galleries at her side. 

But the flag that o'er her blows 
Rival nor successor knows. 
Lonely on the land and sea, 
Where it has been, it will be. 

Safe upon her sea-beat rock, 
She might brave an army's shock : 
For the British banner keeps 
Safe the fortress where it sweeps. 



THE RIVER WEAR 

Come back, come back, my childhood, 

To the old familiar spot, 
Whose wild flowers, and whose wild wood 

Have never been forgot. 



34fi 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



It is the shining river, 

With the bulrush by its tide, 
Where I fill'd my green rush quiver 

With arrows at its side ; 

And deem'd that knightly glories 

Were honour'd as of old. 
My head was fill'd with stories 

My aged nurse had told. 
The Douglas and the Percy 

Alike were forced to yield ; 
f had but little mercy 

Upon the battle field. 

Ah ! folly of the fancies, 

That haunl our childhood's hour. 
And yet those old romances 

On after life have power, 
When the weight appears too weary 

With which we daily strive, 
'Mid the actual and the dreary, 

How much they keep alive ! 

How often, amid hours 

By life severely tried, 
Have I thought on those wild flowers 

On the sweet Wear's silver tide, 
Each ancient recollection 

Brought something to subdue ; 
I lived in old affection, 

And felt the heart was true. 

I am come again with summer, 

It is lovely to behold. 
Will it welcome the new comer, 

As it seem'd to do of old 1 
Within those dark green covers, 

Whose shade is downward cast, 
How many a memory hovers 

Whose light is from the past ! 

I see the bright trout springing, 

Where the wave is dark yet clear, 
And a myriad flies are winging, 

As if to tempt him near. 
With the lucid waters blending, 

The willow shade yet floats, 
From beneath whose quiet bending 

I used to launch my boats. 

Over the sunny meadows, 

I watch them as of old, 
Flit soft and sudden shadows 

That leave a greener gold, 
And a faint south wind is blowing 

Amid the cowslip beds, 
A deeper glow bestowing 

To the light around their heads. 



Farewell, sweet river ! ever 

Wilt thou be dear to me , 
I can repay thee never 

One half I owe to thee. 
Around thy banks are lying 

Nature's diviner part, 
And thou dost keep undying 

My childhood at my heart 



CORFU. 

0, lovely isle ! that, like a child, 

Art sleeping on the sea, 
Amid whose hair the wind is wild, 
And on whose cheek the sun has smiled 

As there it loved to be. 
How fair thou art, how very fair, 

A lone and lovely dream, 
That sprung on the enchanted air, 
A fairy likeness seems to wear, 

A fairy world to seem, 

Thou bringest to me a pleasant mood 

Of fanciful delight : 
To me thou art a solitude 
Known only to the sea bird's brood. 

And to the stars at night. 

I should so like to have thee mine, 

Mine own — my very own, 
The shadows of thy sweeping vine, 
Wherein the scarlet creepers twine, 

Broken by me alone. 

I would not have a footstep trace 

Thy solitary shore: 
No human voice — no human face 
Should trouble my sweet resting place 

With memories of yore. 

I would forget the wretched years 
Pass'd in this world of curs, 

Where weary cares and feverish fears, 

Ending alike in bitter tears, 
Darken the heavy hours. 

But I would dwell beside the sea, 

And of the scatter'd shells 
Ask, when they murmur mournfully, 
What sorrow in the past may be, 

Of which their music tells. 

Winds, waves, and breathing shells 

Methinks I should repine, 
If their low tones were only glad, 
'Twould seem toe much as if tb-o 

No sympathy for mine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



347 



Not long such fancies can beguile 

Dreams of what cannot be ; 
Gone is thy visionary smile, 
And thou art but a distant isle 
Upon a distant sea. 



THE CASTLE OF CHILLON. 

Fair, lake, thy los'ely and thy haunted shore 

Hath only echoes for the poet's lute ; 

None may tread there save with unsandall'd foot, 
Submissive to the great who went before, 
Fill'd with the mighty memories of yore. 

And yet how mournful are the records there — 

Captivit} 7 , and exile, and despair, 
Did they endure who now endure no more. 

The patriot, the woman, and the bard, 
Whose names thy winds and waters bear along ; 

What did the world bestow for their reward 
But suffering, sorrow, bitterness, and wrong 1 — 

Genius ! — a hard and weary lot is thine — 

The heart thy fuel — and the grave thy shrine. 



DEATH OF LOUIS OF BOURBON, 

BISHOP OF LIEGE. 

How actual, through the lapse of years, 
That scene of death and dread appears. 
The maiden shrouded in her veil, 
The burghers half resolved, half pale ; 
And the young archer leant prepared, 
With dagger hidden, but still bared — 
Are real, as if that stormy scene 
In our own troubled life had been. 
Such is the magic of the page 
That brings again another age. 
Such, Scott, the charms thy pages cast, 
O, mighty master of the past ! 



ADMIRAL BENBOW. 

The Admiral stood upon the deck, 
Before a shot was thrown ; 

Before him rode a Frenchman's fleet, 
Behind him lay his own. 

Six gallant ships upon the sea 
Their stately shadows cast : 

In all of them St. George's flag 
Was waging at the mast. 



Dark was the shadow on the sea, 

And dark upon tho sky , 
In stillness like the coming storm, 

The English fleet sail'd by. 

Our Admiral he gave the word — 

Up rose the gallant crew ; 
And far across the sounding seas 

Their iron welcome threw 

The earthly thunder of the deep 
Pour'd from the Breda's side ; 

With welcome fiery as their own, 
The Fleur-de-lis replied. 

" Signal to form our battle-line !" 

The English admiral said ; 
At once above the rising smoke 

The signal-flags are spread. 

The wind sprung up — a hotter fire 

Is carried o'er the flood ; 
The deck whereon the seamen stand 

Is slippery with blood. 

The smoke that rises from the guns 

Rolls on the heavy air, 
So thick above 'twere vain to ask 

If heaven itself be there. 

The thunder growls along the deei 

The echoing waves reply ; 
Yet, over all is heard the groan, 

Deep, faint, of those who die. 

The wind goes down — down droj t i sail* 

A while the conflict stops ; 
A last chain-shot sweeps o'er the \ £— 

Our admiral, he drops ! 

What careth he for life or wound 1 
The flowing blood they check « 

Again, though helpless as a child. 
They bear him to the deck. 

With heavy eyes he looks around 

An angry man was he ; 
He sees three English frigates lie 

All idle on the sea. 

" Out on the cowards !" mutter'd he, 

Then turn'd to Avhere beside, 
The Ruby, his true consort, lay 

A wreck upon the tide. 

There is no time for thought or word, 

The French are coming fast ; 
Again the signal flag is hung 

Unnoticed at his mast. 



349 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



A raking fire sweeps through her deck, 

The Breda has resign'd ; 
For the first time her sails are spread, 

And with the foe behind. 

They take the dying admiral, 

They carry him ashore ; 
They lay him on the bed of death 

From whence he rose no more. 

But not unhonour'd is his name — 
Kecall'd and honour'd long ; 

His name on many a song that speeds 
The midnight watch along. 

But for the cowards who could leave 
The brave man to his doom, 

Theirs was the scorned memory, 
And theirs' the nameless tomb. 

They died — their long dishonour flung 

Forever on the wave ; 
Time brings no silence to the shame 

Cast on the coward's grave. 



DISENCHANTMENT. 

Do not ask me why I loved him, 

Love's cause is to love unknown ; 
Faithless as the past has proved him, 

Once his heart appear'd mine own. 
Do not say he did not merit 

All my fondness, all my truth ; 
Those in whom love dwells inherit 

Every dream that haunted youth. 

He might not be all I dream'd him, 

Noble, generous, gifted, true, 
Not the less I fondly deem'd him, 

All those flattering visions drew. 
All the hues of old romances 

By his actual self grew dim ; 
Bitterly I mock the fancies 

That once found their life in him. 

From the hour by him enchanted, 
Fiom the moment when we met, 

Henceforth with one image haunted, 
Life may never more forget. 



All my nature changed — his being 
Seem'd the only source of mine. 

Fond heart, hadst thou no foreseeing 
Thy sad future to divine 1 

Once, upon myself relying, 

All I ask'd were words and thought ; 
Many hearts to mine replying, 

Own'd the music that I brought. 
Eager, spiritual, and lonely, 

Visions fill'd the fairy hour, 
Deep with love — though love was only 

Not a presence, but a power. 

But from that first hour I met thee, 

All caught actual life from you. 
Alas ! how can I forget thee, 

Thou who mad'st the fancied true 1 
Once my wide world was ideal, 

Fair it was — ah ! very fair : 
Wherefore hast thou made it real 1 

Wherefore is thy image there 1 

Ah ! no more to me is given 

Fancy's far and fairy birth ; 
Chords upon my lute are riven, 

Never more to sound on earth. 
Once, sweet music could it borrow 

From a look, a word, a tone ; 
I could paint another's sorrow — 

Now I think but of mine own. 

Life's dark waves have lost the glitter 

Which at morning-tide they wore, 
And the well within is bitter ; 

Naught its sweetness may restore : 
For I know how vainly given 

Life's most precious things may be, 
Love that might have look'd on heaven. 

Even as it look'd on thee. 

Ah, farewell ! — with that word dying, 

Hope and love must perish too : 
For thy sake themselves denying, 

What is truth with thee untrue 1 
Farewell ! — 'tis a dreary sentence, 

Like the death-doom of the grave, 
May it wake in thee repentance, 

Stinging when too late to save ! 



THE END 






THE WORKS 



OP 



L. E. LANDON. 



IN TWO VOLUMES 



VOL. II. 



CONTAINING 



ETHEL CHURCHILL, 
THE BOOK OF BEAUTY, 
IMPROVISATRICE, 
THE TROUBADOUR, 



VENETIAN BRACELET, 
GOLDEN VIOLET, 
VOW OF THE PEACOCK, 
EASTER GIFT, &c. &fi 



BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY. 

NEW YORK : J. C. DERBY. 
1856. 



ETHEL CHURCHILL; 



OR, 



THE TWO BRIDES. 



PREFACE 



here is one portion of a work which, 
more than all others, marks the difference be- 
tween the reader and the writer. It is the 
first read, and the last written ; the one which 
the reader dismisses the most hastily, and the 
writer lingers upon longest. The preface is 
the seal of separation between yourself and a 
work that must have been the chief object of 
many days. The excitement of composition 
is over, and you begin to doubt and to despond. 
I cannot understand a writer growing indiffe- 
rent from custom or success. Every new 
work must be the record of much change in 
the mind which produces it, and there is al- 
ways the anxiety to know how such change 
will be received. It is impossible, also, for 
the feeling of your own moral responsibility not 
to increase. At first you write eagerly, com- 
position is rather a passion than a power ; but, 
as you go on, you cannot but find that, to 
write a book, is a far more serious charge than 
it at first appeared. Faults have been pointed 
out, and you are' desirous of avoiding their 
recurrence; praise has been bestowed, and 



you cannot but wish to show tnat it has not 
been given in vain. 

Encouragement is the deepest and dearest 
debt that a writer can incur. Moreover, you 
have learnt that opinions are not to be lightly 
put forth, when there is even a chance of such 
opinions being material wherewith others will 
form their own. I never saw any one reading 
a volume of mine without almost a sensation 
of fear. I write every day more earnestly and 
more seriously. To show the necessity of a 
strong and guiding principle ; to put in the 
strongest light, that no vanity, no pleasure, 
can ever supply the place of affection; to 
soften and to elevate, — has been the object of 
the following pages. I know too well that 
I cannot work out my own ideal, but I 
deeply feel that it is the beautiful and the 
true. 

The greater part of these volumes has been 
written when in very wretched health ; — may 
I urge it as a plea for the continuance of that 
kindly indulgence which has so often excited 
both my hope and my gratitude ? 

a2 5 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



CHAPTER I 

AGE AND YOUTH. 

: I tell thee, said the old man, " what is life. 
A gulf of troubled waters— where the soul, 
Like a vex'd bark, is toss'd upon the waves, 
Of pain and pleasure, by the wavering breath 
Of passions. They are winds that drive it on, 
But only to destruction and despair. 
Methinks that we have known some former state 
More glorious than our present; and the heart 
Is haunted by dim memories— shadows left 
By past felicity. Hence do we pine 
For vain aspirings— hopes that fill the eyes 
With bitter tears for their own vanity. 
Are we then fallen from some lovely star, 
Whose consciousness is as an unknown curse V 

" And yet, you chose to marry him !" 

"I did, and should marry him again; but 
oear with me for this night, dearest uncle, as 
you have often borne." 

The old man's answer was to pass his hand 
caressingly over the beautiful head that rested 
on the arm of his chair ; and his niece con- 
tinued. 

"My spirits are overcast with a sadness 
which I have not hitherto known, and inexpli- 
cable too. Did I believe in omens, I should 
say that my depression was ominous." 

" It is the idea of departure — but you al- 
ways wished to visit London." 

" And wish it still ; but I knew not, up to 
the hour of parting, how much it would cost 
me to sever myself from my kind, my only 
friend." 

"You have your husband, Henrietta;" but 
the expression which accompanied the sen- 
tence was half sarcastic, half distrustful. 

A still deeper shade of doubt passed across 
the high and finely cast features of the youth- 
ful female. 

"You have, from my cradle, impressed 
upon me the folly of love ; and so far as my 
knowledge goes, it goes with you. All the 
affairs of the heart that I have witnessed, have 
excited but my wonder or contempt ; nor could 
I ever understand what people see so charm- 
ing in each other. I could no more pass hours 
away 5 like dear Ethel, in imagining perfection 
in a nameless boy, than I could yield up all 
my faculties to the arrangement of colours in 
an endless Penelope-pleasing piece of embroi- 
dery ; perhaps I am too quicksighted for the 
delusions of love. 

" Be your eyes never dimmed then," said 
the listener bitterly. 

" Yet, if I put love out of the question, I 
could wish for something like affection ; for, 
much as it accords with Hamlet, and with 



usage, to be 'a little more than kin, and less 
than kind,' still, Lord Marchmont's coldness 
oftentimes comes over me with the effect of 
suddenly rounding a headland in one of our 
valleys, and finding the north wind fall in my 
face. He takes not the slightest interest in 
aught I say, and I have continually thoughts 
and feelings which I am restless to communi- 
cate. Here I do feel not this" — and she 
turned towards him her glistening eyes — " for 
my own dear uncle will always hearken to 
me, explain, encourage, and show me how to 
comprehend others and myself. But, far 
away from him, surrounded by new scenes, 
filled with fresh impressions, longing to clothe 
in utterance all the bursting thoughts they 
will excite, must I be lastingly condemned to 
a silent life, and a closed heart." 

"Better keep them so forever. Where- 
fore unlock to others treasures priceless to 
yourself, and valueless to them, unless the 
disclosure serve to render you their dupe and 
victim." 

" How differently, my uncle, do we view 
the world !" 

" The difference lies but in knowledge. I 
know that world — you know it not." 

" Nay, I have learned it from yourself, and 
experience teaches well." 

" Ay ; but before we profit, the experience 
must be our own. A few short years, Hen- 
rietta! for, to a temper such as yours, life 
gives its lessons quickly ; and we shall think 
but too much alike. I may not live to see it, 
but the time must come — and, ah ! how soon — 
when you will commune with yourself in the 
solitude, perhaps, of this very chamber, and 
admit, 'gloomy as were my uncle's views of 
existence, the reality is yet more dark.' " 

" O, no ! Fate cannot but have made an 
exception in my favour. Is there a single ad- 
vantage that fortune has not blest me with — 
young, high-born, married to one of England's 
richest and proudest peers, handsome, clever — 
is it not so ? At morn I shall go hence, and, 
what sort of triumph and pleasure can I antici- 
pate at the metropolis ?" 

" And you will find both ; but, alas ! human 
enjoyment is all too dearly atoned. The 
ancients gave the balance of life to a dark 
goddess, who, following in the track of for- 
tune, as the shadow follows the sunshine, 
enforces bitter payment for our few and transi- 
tory delights. Nothing is good but evil 
comes thereof. I took you, Henrietta, when 
an infant, from your dying mother's arms 

7 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Your cradle was placed in my laboratory; 
and often have I closed the midnight volume, 
to watch the fitful slumbers of your childhood. 
I have since given you all I had to give, my 
time, my knowledge ; and for your sake loved 
on — hoped on. And now, that you are my 
sweet and intelligent companion, and my 
whole heart is bound up in you — your smile 
my all of sunshine, your step my only music — 
you must leave me; and to a solitude sad- 
dened by the remembrance of a beloved one, 
who never more can be what she has been to 
its lonely and weary occupant." 

The young countess sprang from her seat, 
and threw herself at the old man's knees 
which she fondly clasped. 

" No, no, my more, my more dear than fa- 
ther, I will not leave you. How vain, how 
selfish have I been ! Why did you suffer me 
to marry — nay, what is Lord Marchmont to 
me ? I will stay here happy, ah, too happy, 
in devoting all life to the debt of gratitude — 
nay, not gratitude, of love — that I owe to 
you.'" 

Sir Jasper struggled for a moment, — 'twas 
only for a moment — and the strong emotion 
was subdued. 

" Not thus, my sweet child ; the laws of 
nature are immutable ; and they have decreed 
that the young bird shall leave the nest. Do 
not weep, my beloved girl : of what avail 
were it to keep you here until your loveliness 
and youth had departed. Even with your 
gladdening presence, I cannot now number 
many years ; and to feel that I was leaving 
you lonely and defenceless — unpractised, too, 
in that world which requires all youth's ener- 
gies to encounter — would imbitter even the 
pang of death ! No — my best beloved Hen- 
rietta — I would have you form new ties, and 
other friends. The rare advantages of youth 
pass rapidly away, and my darling must en- 
joy them while she may. Her old uncle will 
not be forgotten. You will write to me often ; 
and I shall still feel and think with you :" 
and, bending down, he kissed the sweet eyes 
that were looking up at him with such sad 
tenderness. 

For a long time they sat in unbroken si- 
lence, and neither looked upon the other. 
Each gazed at the surrounding objects, and 
alike beheld them not. They saw but with 
the neart's eyes, and these turn on an inward 
world. 

There are in existence two periods when 
we shrink from any great vicissitude — early 
youth and old age. In the middle of life, we 
are indifferent to change ; for we have dis- 
covered that nothing is, in the end, so good or 
so bad as it at first appeared. We know, 
moreover, how to accommodate ourselves to 
circumstances ; and enough of exertion is still 
eft in us to cope with the event. 

But age is heart-wearied and tempest-torn : 
it is the crumbling cenotaph of fear and hope ! 
"Wherefore should there be turmoil for the 
few, and evening hours, when all they covet 
is repose ? They see their shadow fall upon 
.he grave ; and need but to be at rest beneath ! 



Youth is not less averse from change ; but 
that is from exaggeration of its consequences, 
for all seems to the young so important, and so 
fatal. They are timid, because they know 
not what they fear; hopeful, because they 
know not what they expect. Despite their 
gayety of confidence, they yet dread the first 
plunge into life's unfathomed deep. 

Thus it was with Henrietta, She knew 
more of the world than most women of her 
years ; for her converse had been chiefly with 
her uncle, a man of remarkable endowments ; 
and she had read an infinite variety of book — 
read them, too, with that quick perception 
which seizes motive and meaning with intui- 
tive accuracy. 

Such, however, inevitably is half know- 
ledge ; and theory that lacks the correction of 
practice, is as the soul without the body. 

In common with all of her impassioned 
temper, and sensitive feelings, she had much 
imagination. She had created a world which 
she was resolved to realize — a world where 
beauty was power, whose luxuries were poe- 
try, and to whose triumphs she gave all the 
brilliant colouring of hope. Who, in after 
life, can help smiling at the fancies in which 
early anticipation revelled ; how absurd, how 
impossible, do they not now appear! Yet, 
in such mockery larks much of bitterness : the 
laugh rings hollow from many a disappoint- 
ment, and many a mortification. 

Henrietta had all this to acquire, and was 
taking on that very evening one of her first 
lessons in experience. Contrary to their wont, 
her wishes were at variance with themselves 
— the past and the future contended in her. 
Impatient to enter the " new more magnificent 
world," on whose threshold she now stood, 
she was yet withheld by all the tenderest re- 
collections of her childhood. She could not 
brook the thought of abandoning her uncle, as 
his long and gloomy evenings arose sadly 
before her, she saw him wandering all solitary 
through their favourite walks — sitting down 
to his lonely meals — watching by himself the 
dim hearth, and thinking continually of her. 
She raised not her eyes, but every object was 
distinctly visible to them, and woke a train of 
association which gave her the keenest pain. 
Never had the place seemed to her so gloomy ; 
and all therein was so characteristic of its 
master. 

It was a large vaulted apartment, and had 
been once a chapel ; but it was now half li- 
brary, half laboratory. The arches were 
formed of black oak, hewn into all the fantas- 
tic shapes of Gothic imaginings ; in which it 
was singular to note that all the natural imi- 
tations were graceful, while those of humanity 
were hideous. The oak leaf and the garland 
mingled grotesquely with the distorted faces, 
that ever and anon peeped from among their 
wreaths. 

The walls were entirely hidden by book- 
shelves, or by cases containing rare specimens 
of fossil bones and reptile skeletons. Here 
was a grizzly crocodile, its teeth white and 
sharp as when they glistened in the waters of 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



i) 



the Nile; there, a massy serpent, knotted 
into huge and hideous contortions ; while 
myriads of small snakes, lizaids, and disgust- 
ing insects, were stored around, with a care 
which had obtained for Sir Jasper Meredith, 
among his neighbours, the reputation of a ma- 
gician, though they were but the sickly fancies 
of a heart ill at ease, that mocked itself in its 
nursuits. 

The ceiling had been painted with the mar- 
tyrdom of some saint. Who shall place a 
bound to human folly, when both the inflicter 
and the endurer of torture have deemed that 
pain is acceptable in the sight of God ? The 
tints had long since faded from the ceiling, 
and in the twilight nothing was discernible 
save two or three wild and ghastly faces, far 
less like "spirits of health," than "goblins 
damned !" 

On the carpet, at the hearth, basked, in a 
wood-fire's heat, three enormous and black 
cats, the predilection for which, instead of for 
dogs, the usual chosen companions of country 
gentlemen, further increased the belief in Sir 
Jasper's unholy studies. 

The reason given for this preference, was 
tinctured with the same morbid perversity 
that had its source in early disappointment. 

"I like a cat," he would say, "because it 
does not disguise its selfishness with any flat- 
tering hypocrisies. Its attachment is not to 
yourself, but to your house. Let it but have 
food, and a warm lair among the embers, and 
it heeds not at whose expense. Then it has 
the spirit to resent aggression. You shall 
beat your dog, and he will fawn upon ycu ; 
but a cat never forgives : it has no tender 
mercies, and it torments before it destroys its 
prey." 

The landscape from the oriel window, in 
which they were now seated, was quite in 
accordance with Sir Jasper's professed tastes. 

It fronted the bleakest part of the coast, a 
desolate heath, which was relieved only by a 
few stunted trees, and became gradually 
merged in the sands. An undulating purple 
line, which was "earth's great antagonist," 
the sea, closed the distance. 

On the horizon rested heavy masses of cloud, 
broken by red gleams of dying sunset, which, 
as its vivid colours parted the darkening va- 
pours but to disappear, showed like some gal- 
lant spirit struggling vainly with the pressure 
of adversity, and yielding one energy after 
another, as it sank beneath some last misfor- 
tune, heavier than all before. 

As yet, the crimson hues flitted around, 
rendering distinct first one object and then 
another. They settled now upon the two 
that watched them from that oriel window. 

The aged man was leaning back in a quaintly 
embossed oaken chair, on whose carvino- the 

Vol. II.— 2 



arms of his family were gorgeously painted 
and inlaid. In youth he must have been sin- 
gularly handsome, but years and care had left 
their vestiges on his noble features, which 
were thin even to emaciation. You might 
almost see the veins flow under the sunken 
temples. Scarcely a hue of life hovered on 
that wan cheek and lip, and his extreme pale- 
ness was heightened by a profusion of black 
hair, from whence time had not taken a shade 
or curl. Contrary to the fashion of his time, 
it drooped upon his shoulders, like a pall fall- 
ing round the white face of a corpse. 

On a low cushion beside sat his niece, at 
once a likeness and a contrast. Their resem- 
blance was striking, — there was the identical 
outline, — though age had lost the glowing 
tints of youth. Both had the same mass of 
black hair, the high intellectual forehead, the 
strongly marked brow, the slightly aquiline 
nose ; but, above all, there was the same ex- 
pression, an inward and melancholy look, 
whenever their features were in repose. It 
was a similitude that every year would in- 
crease, for it was the similitude of character. 

Henrietta's was a style of beauty uncom- 
mon in England, a bright and sunny brunette, 
the soft brown of whose skin was warmed by 
the richest crimson that ever flushed a cheek 
with a whole summer of roses, while her lip 
was of scarlet — the dewy coral has its fresh- 
ness, but conveys not its brightness. Her 
hair floated unbound in long soft tresses, and 
her tall figure w r as almost concealed by a 
white damask robe, fastened loosely at the 
waist, but leaving that graceful joutline which 
reveals the most exquisite proportion ! 

No wonder that the old man's eye dwelt 
upon her with mingled pride and tenderness ; 
yet was it a face that might cause affection 
many an anxious hour, for there was mind in 
the lofty and clear forehead, heart in the warm 
and flushed cheek, — and what are mind and 
heart to woman, but fairy gifts, for whose 
possession a grievous price will be exacted. 

Suddenly her uncle rose from his seat, ex- 
claiming, " We are over sad and silent. I 
will go seek the gift, reserved b}]- me for our 
parting. No duchesse in the court of St. 
James shall rival the Lady Marchmont in dia- 
monds, at least, — and you, Henrietta, will 
have to make no sacrifice for their enjoy- 
ment." 

The youthful countess was gratified by dis- 
play, for, to the imaginative, it bears a charm, 
of which a more staid temperament dreams 
not. Yet, at that moment, she felt as if the 
acquisition of these gems were a calamity. 
Their possession involved separation from hex 
uncle, from every ~elic of home affections, and 
from all that yet lingered with her of hei 
childhood. 



IS 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



CHAPTER II. 

THE MORALITY OF DIAMONDS. 

There was an evil in Pandora's box 

Beyond all other ones, yet it came forth 

In guise so lovely, that men crowded round 

And sought it as the dearest of all treasure. 

Then were they stung with madness and despair: 

High minds werebow'd in abject misery. 

The hern trampled on his laurell'd crown, 

While genius broke the lute it waked no more. 

Young maidens, with pale cheeks, and faded eyes, 

Wept till they died. Then there were broken hearts — 

Insanity and Jealousy, that feeds 

Unto satiety, yet loathes its food ; 

Suicide discing its own grave; and Hate, 

Unquenchable and deadly ; and Remorse— 

The vulture feeding on its own life-blood. 

The evil's name was Love — these curses seem 

His followers forever. 

Sir Jasper re-entered, bearing a crimson 
velvet casket, and broidered with armorial 
bearings. 

" It is getting- dark and cold," said he ; 
"let us draw to the fire." 

Henrietta rang for the attendants to draw 
in the ponderous curtains ; and in the mean- 
while, curious to behold the stores of the em- 
blazoned depository, lighted the tapers for her- 
self. The case was speedily unclasped, and 
the countess stood dazzled with the brilliancy 
of .the precious contents. She hastily took 
thence the bracelets, and fastened them upon 
an arm round and polished as of marble, then 
gathered up her night-black hair into the lus- 
trous coronet, and ran to a mirror, which, 
though dim with time and use, grew radiant 
with these shining gems. 

"My dear, good uncle," she cried, "you 
re too kind, too generous." 

" Giving you your own, is no generosity," 
returned Sir Jasper : " these are the jewels of 
your house — the portion of its heiress." 

"I am glad," said Henrietta, a flush of 
pride deepening the bloom upon her cheek, 
" that they have been ours ; I am glad to 
associate their brightness with the past. 
Fresh from the merchant, they convey no sen- 
timent but that of wealth ; while these heredi- 
tary diamonds recall whole generations of 
stately beauty. I rejoice that they have de- 
scended with our line." 

" So do not I," said her uncle, in a low and 
altered tone. " I see in those glittering trin- 
kets the departure of youth and of love, the 
wreck of the heart's best hopes and sweetest 
affections. To me they are mocking records 
of the past. As they fling back the taper's 
rays, they seem to boast, — ' The heart was a 
game between us ; you risked upon it passion, 
truth, belief, but we won the stake.' " 

He sank back in his arm-chair, and riveted 
his gaze upon one of the portraits which hung 
on the gloomy walls. Almost unwittingly, 
Henrietta pursued the motion of his eyes, 
which rested intensely upon a picture that 
displayed herself, as a child of three years, 
her father, and her mother. 

In Sir Henry Meredith's appearance there 
was nothing that won upon the sight, though 
the limner had done his best for him. The 
countenance had no character. But his con- 
sort was indeed lovely, like, and yet not like, 



the daughter who now watched her. There 
was the same rich complexion, although the 
features were of less perfect contour, the fore- 
head more narrow, and the face devoid of the 
meaning which mind, and mind only, can 
impart. But this the passing observer might 
scarcely have detected, for few would seek 
beyond that exceeding loveliness. 

" She is very beautiful," sighed Sir Jasper; 
" to me was that face once the fairest of the 
Almighty's works. I loved, as they love who 
love but once. At parting from her, I have 
flung me on the ground along which her light 
feet had skimmed, to gather the common wild 
flowers that they could not crush. The casual 
mention of her name was to my ear heaven's 
sweetest melody ; and, if only for her sake, I 
believed in truth, and constancy, and good- 
ness ! I have felt sick with happiness when 
she has entered the room suddenly, and have 
trembled like an infant, when I but fancied I 
read anger in her averted eyes. 

" Lady Agnes was my cousin ; and in birth, 
youth, and affection, we were a fitting match : 
but we were poor. The world was, however, 
before us, and of what was I not capable for 
her love ! I was strengthened even to parting 
from her, and we parted ! — parted, with the 
fixed stars above, whose light was less lovely 
than her tears. Of the two, she was appa- 
rently the more sorrowful ; for I subdued my 
sadness, that it might not enhance her suffer- 
ing. She called me back to her, to give me 
one of those long black jocks which, if but 
blown against my cheek, as we rambled to- 
gether, made my whole frame shiver with de- 
licious transpoit! I have now a raven curl, 
severed from her graceful brow, but it is not 
the same. 

" Well, I forthwith went abroad, and joined 
my brother, who had for some years past 
resided at Vienna. My heart was too full, 
too young for silence, and I told him all. He 
heard me calmly ; and as calmly promised to 
further our attachment. The implicitness of 
my reliance stayed not to ask his sympathy. 
To talk of her was happiness, and my brother 
seemed a part of that home whither he was 
then returning. 

"What desolation was in his departure! 
for the first time I had to struggle against the 
world alone. Fortunately, from the absence 
of some, and illness of others, who were at- 
tached with me to the embassy, there was 
much to distract me from my dejection, for my 
official duties had become of unusual severity. 
I was even happy then, for I was employed, 
and had motive for employment. I lived in 
the future, — that future which I fashioned to 
my will. I have since tried occupation as a 
resource, and how different was it when 
sweetened by the projects of hope! A year 
passed rapidly away, and I could look san- 
guinely forward to a successful career. In- 
trusted, at length, with a mission to England, 
whose completion would give me a few days 
at Meredith place, I planned to come upon 
them by surprise. 

" How well I remember the evening tha 






ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



11 



saw my return on that old d omain ! The same 
soft twilight pervaded nature as when I left 
it — not a shadow of change had passed over 
the old house and its grounds. The oaks, 
though scarcely yet in leaf, flung down their 
giant' shadows, and the dew rested beneath 
their shelter. The hawthorn's breath came 
upon the gale as sweetly as of yore ; and the 
wind, as it scattered the green blossoms 
which our young peasantry call "locks and 
keys," made the same rustling in the ashen 
boughs. 

" I walked on alone, for my grooms had 
gone round with the horses. After a moment's 
pause to breathe — for the sense of present 
happiness was too much — I stood beside the 
little stream whereon her shadow was im- 
printed when we bade farewell ; and fancied 
that, like my heart, it too should have re- 
tained that dark outline as faithfully as it 
mirrored the stars, which were flickering in 
the flood even as I saw them then. 

" When nearer the house, however, there 
came upon me signs of change ; — I heard the 
roll of carriages and the sound of music. 
Suddenly a stream of light burst from the 
windows. I must have arrived at the moment 
of some festive celebration; — fortunate, for 
Agnes would assuredly be there. 

" To place this beyond doubt, ere I with- 
drew to change my dress, I entered the vesti- 
bule unperceived, and made my way to the 
musician's gallery, from which I could look 
down upon the scene below. All was gayety 
and animation ; brilliant groups were flitting 
past in rapid succession; but my attention 
was at once attracted to the head of the room, 
where was stationed a lady in white satin, to 
whom my brother was presenting every guest 
successively. 

" I could hear the musicians applaud among 
themselves the beauty of the bride, who at 
that moment turned her head towards the gal- 
lery ; I felt upon whom I must look — it was 
the face of Agnes ! 

" Henrietta, I watched her more unmovedly 
than I now tell you of that watching ! The 
beauteous head, from whose dark ringlets 
came the one yet next my heart, was bound 
with these very diamonds ; and the eyes that 
I had last seen so sad atvi tearful, were now 
full of light. 

"The sound of her silvery laughter came 
where I stood, as, resting on my brother's 
arm, she paced along the room. At once I 
darted from the gallery and forsook my fa- 
ther's house, and neither saw it nor England 
for many long years. It matters not how 
those years went by ; suffice it, that my heart 
at length yearned within me to behold my 
native land again. Experience had taught 
me, that woman's falsehood was no unparal- 
leled marvel; but it had coupled with this 
conviction, that nothing in after life can atone 
for the bitterness of our first rude awakening. 

" I returned, hardly knowing wherefore, to 
Meredith Place — as if the scenes of youth 
could recall our youth again ! they only make 
us feel the more acutely how far it is removed. 



" On my arrival, 1 met, winding darkly 
along the great avenue, my brother's funeral 
train. I saw the soft blossoms of the haw- 
thorn mingle with the black plumes of the 
hearse. 

" Confusion was upon all things. Credi- 
tors were clamouring aloud in the house of 
the widow and the fatherless ; and in the very 
hall through which a coffin had lately passed, 
were heard the jingling of glasses and the 
rattle of the dice-box. 

" To my inquiries concerning Lady Mere- 
dith, the domestics abruptly replied, that ' she 
was very ill, in her own chamber.' ' Ay take 
my word, she will never leave it without 
being carried,' muttered an old woman, un- 
feelingly, as she hobbled slowly onward, with 
strength and temper alike exhausted by atten- 
dance on the invalid. 

" I bade this person go, and demand if Lady 
Meredith could receive her brother-in-law ; for, 
painful as our interview might be, it was in- 
dispensable. Meantime I stood apart in a 
recess, loathing the scene on which I was 
compelled to look : it was another leaf in the 
dark history of man's selfishness and ingrati- 
tude. 

" Sir Henry had consumed his substance in 
ostentation and riotous hospitality — had fed 
many at his board, made many merry in his 
halls, but not a friend was in his house of 
mourning ; the very retainers who had grown 
rich upon his ruin, seemed to deem the burial 
of their master but a signal for carousing and 
license. The old woman soon returned, bring- 
ing word that ' her ladyship would be glad to 
see me.' What mockery in such a message ! 
Though my way was through many well 
known chambers, I recognised not one. My 
sight was deadened to external things : I was 
absorbed by a troubled and vague picture — 
the coming interview. 

" ' This is my lady's room,' said my de- 
crepit guide. Even in that hour, what first 
occurred to me was surprise that the lady of 
our noble mansion should have chosen for her 
abode one of its smallest and worst apartments. 
All bore an air of discomfort. Though the 
evenings were still chilly, no fire was upon 
the hearth, which was strewed only with yes- 
terday's gray and mouldering ashes: night 
was fast closing in, and the curtains fre: e as 
yet undrawn, while the half dajdight made the 
single still glimmering candle yet more faint. 

"I approached the bed, and all else was 
forgotten. There was stretched, pale, worn, 
and changed, beyond what I had even dreamed 
of change, she whose image was still treasured 
in my heart so fair and so bright. Years, 
long years of care, had borne heavily on those 
sunken temples, and on those pallid features. 

"She perceived me instantly, and feebly 
extended her hand, but her words died in the 
utterance. I kissed her cold and wasted 
fingers, and bent in silence over her. 

"A little creature was already kneeling 
there, but I yet saw nothing beyond the strange 
and hollow eyes which gazed upon me, as if 
in entreaty. Though altered and dim I could 



12 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



still read their wishes. She then pointed to 
a restorative medicine which stood near ; and, 
young as you were, Henrietta, you marked 
the sign, and, pouring a few drops into a cup, 
brought it towards the couch. Not tall enough 
to reach her mouth, you gave the cup gently 
into my hands — and your parent's weary head 
was upheld by my arm to take it from me, 
but she had no longer the power to swallow. 
By the help of a chair, you had now clam- 
bered up among the pillows, and were trying 
if she would drink it at your offer. Some- 
thing in the face suddenly struck you as un- 
accustomed, for you were terrified, and looked 
imploringly towards me for aid. 

" I turned to the aged nurse, but she was 
lying back in a deep-cushioned easy, over- 
powered with weariness and heavy sleep. 

" Again Lady Meredith raised her head from 
the pillow, and a sudden and unnatural light 
flashed from her drooping eyelids. 

" ' I know you, Jasper,' said she, in a faint 
and sepulchral voice. ' It had been hard for 
«ie to die without your forgiveness. You 
are looking kindly and sadly on me : look 
ever thus, I pray you, on my poor and orphan 
child, who can claim no friend upon the earth, 
except yourself.' I raised you, pale, pretty 
creature that you were, from the bed, and you 
clung about my neck. ' Yes, she will love 
you !' murmured the sufferer, yet more feebly ; 
and, at the next effort to ejaculate, her accents 
died away with a frightful gurgling in the 
throat. 

" She stretched her hands convulsively — a 
rapid change passed over her features — I 
looked upon the face of the dead !" 

The silence which ensued at the close of 
this narrative, was broken by Sir Jasper's re- 
mark : " Well, my poor Henrietta, the mother 
more than atoned for all, when she bequeathed 
to me the daughter. But human nature is, at 
the best, but selfish : I looked forward to 
your alliance with Lord Marchmont as the 
realization of my dearest wishes. You are 
married: and I shrink from your alienation 
from me. I dread to ' commit my treasure to 
a callous, cruel world. But, good night, love, 
for we must arise with the dawn, and I am 
wea'-y — -most weary; to-morrow, I shall be 
in better spirits." 

He kissed her, and they parted for the 
night. 



CHAPTER III. 

ANTICIPATION. 

We do not know how much we love, 

Until we come to leave ; 
An aged tree, a common flower, 

Are things o'er which we grieve. 
There is a" pleasure in the pain 
That brings us back the past again. 
We linger while we turn away, 

We cling while we depart; 
And memories, unmark'd till then, 

Come crowding on the heart. 
Let what will lure our onward way, 
Farewell's a bitter word to say. 



The moon was shining full into Lady March- 
ittont's window, and a soft western breeze was 



stirring the branches at the yet open case 
ment. The aspect on this side the dwelling 
was as wooded and fertile, as on the other it 
was bare and barren. To the left, towered an 
ancient avenue of oaks ; to the right, a plea- 
sure ground was carried aslope towards the 
park. 

"Still and so beautiful was that fair night, 
It might have calm'd the gay amid their mirth, 
And given the wretched a delight in tears " 

But Lady Marchmont's feelings was not in 
unison with the scene ; she was excited and 
restless, needed to talk, and not to think — in 
a word, to be taken out of herself. 

The objects around were wearisomely fa- 
miliar ; they recalled too much for one, who 
wished rather to hope than to repine ! Hen- 
rietta's temper was too sudden and quick for 
melancholy; she was impatient of her own 
regret, and strove to dissipate rather than 
indulge the mood. 

At that moment it struck eight o'clock. 
The church-spire, touched by the moonbeams, 
shone above the aged yews that stood in a 
heavy group below. The chime struck Lady 
Marchmont's musing into another vein. 

" How early," thought she, " and Algernon 
will not be at home for many hours. I might 
go and visit Ethel : to-morrow I shall have 
little leisure." She threw a mantle hastily 
around her, and drawing its hood above her 
head, descended to the garden. As she ever 
and anon passed by some shrub herself had 
planted, or neared some covert bower where 
she had whiled away the listless hours, she 
would half pause, and again w T ould urge her 
pace hurriedly onward. 

She had now reached the churchyard, which 
few of her age and time would have traversed 
with her indifference. She ran across it, as 
the shortest route to Mrs. Churchill's grounds ; 
and Mrs. Churchill was the grandmother with 
whom Ethel dwelt. 

A little wicket opened into a half-wilder- 
ness, half-shrubbery, whose narrow pathway 
was chequered by the soft light that found 
its way through the densely-grown planta- 
tion. As she turned to secure the lachet, the 
voice of music came upon her ear. "Ah!" 
said she, and a conscious blush lit up her 
cheek ; " W T alter Maynard is then with them." 
The sound of her own half whisper seemed 
to startle herself, and she passed on with a 
haughty smile, but hesitating step. "And 
Norbourne Courtenaye, doubtless;" but this 
name was spoken without embarrassment, and 
aloud. 

Another instant, and the music ended ; the 
leafy screen was divided, and she was the 
centre of the little company, every one of 
w T hom rejoiced to welcome her. She seated 
herself by Ethel ; and declaring that her walk 
had left her no breath as yet to talk, urged 
them to resume the harmony that she had 
interrupted. Ail were too young, and too 
intimate, for the embarrassment of ceremony, 
and again music broke on the stillness of the 
night. 

It was an old English air, to which the vo 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



13 



caiists had set the words of a sonnet, written 
by Walter Maynard. The words of the song 
were sad : but what is the young poet's me- 
'ancholy but prophecy ? 

Dream no more of that sweet time 
When the heart and cheek were young ; 

Dream no more of that sweet time 
Ere the veil from life was flung. 

Yet the cheek retains the rose 
Which its beauty had of yore, 

But the bloom upon the htart 

Is no more. 

We have mingled with the false, 

Till belief has lost the charm 
Which it had when hope was new ! 

And the pulse of feeling warm. 
We have had the bosom wrung 

By the mask which friendship wore; 
Affection's trusting happiness 

Is no more. 

We have seen the young and gay 

Dying as the aged die; 
Miss we not the laughing voice, 

Miss we not the laughing eye? 
Wishes take the place of hope, 

We have dream'd till faith is o'er; 
Its freshness made life fair, and that 
Is no more. 

Take away yon sparkling bowl — 

What is left to greet it now ? 
Loathing lip that turns away; 

Downcast eye and weary brow. 
Hopes and joys that wont to smile, 

Mirth that lit its purple store ; 
Friends that wont to join the pledge, 
Are no more. 

The scene was rather grouped by some 
Italian painter, whose fancy had grown luxu- 
riant amid the golden summers of his clime, 
than one actually passing under England's 
colder sky, and on England's colder soil. In 
front there was a sloping lawn, shaded from 
all but the south wind, a favoured nook of ver- 
dure begirt with trees and flower-beds. 

On one side, fancifully decorated with shells 
and spars, mosses and creeping plants, was 
discovered a building, between hermitage and 
summer pavilion ; on the other waved a corpse 
of larches, exhaling that spicy and peculiar 
fragrance which the autumnal wind brings 
from out the fir. Two little passages, cut into 
stairs of turf, wound uniformly to the level 
sward which made the foreground of the 
landscape. At the end of this was a sundial, 
whereon the moon fell with sufficient bright- 
ness to reveal the hour: beside was a foun- 
tain whose waters trickled with a low per- 
petual song, from the rough lips of its carved 
basin, into a large reservoir, moulded from 
fragments of stone, sea-shells, and gnarled 
roots of trees bound with a growth of weeds 
and wild creepers. Southward, the lawn lay 
open to a pleasure garden, but the flowers 
were now but few, and those of the faintest 
hue and perfume. The gorgeous reds and 
yellows which herald decay were beginning 
to touch the forest foliage ; and the limes, in 
which autumn's first symptoms are so lovely, 
looked in the pale light as if covered with 
primrose blossoms. 

Throughout the garden there was, indeed, 
much arrangement, and much art; from the 
water jet, trained to fling its silvery cascade, 
to the yew trees shaped into peacocks ; still 
it was arrangement prompted by taste, and art 
that loved the nature which it guided. And 

Vol. II. 



if the horticultural skill, cm which Mrs 
Churchill piqued herself, might have escaped 
the stranger's observation, the little knot now 
gathered before her terrace would inevitably 
have caught his attention. 

The party was of five : Ethel and her half 
companion, half-attendant, Lavinia Fenton, 
our countess, and two young gallants. Three 
of these wene singing ; but the attitude and 
bearing of the entire group, careless as it was, 
told of their individual peculiarities more effec- 
tively, perhaps, than would have been be- 
trayed in more constrained hours. 

Norbourne Courtenaye was a stripling of 
some three or four and twenty, whose fair 
complexion made him look even younger. 
He had that air which so marks our aristo- 
cracy—that air which, if not imbodied in the 
word " high-bfred," is beyond the reach of 
words. He had those fine and prominently 
cut features which grow handsomer with 
years ; but, at the present time, they conveyed 
only one expression. The heart was in the 
eyes ; and these, fixed on Ethel Churchill, 
were blind to all but the beloved face which, 
alone they cared to see. To Norbourne the 
whole world had one division, the place 
where she was, from that where she was not. 

Ethel returned not his gaze ; but she was 
not on that account insensible of it. Natural 
as it may seem to look straight forward, her 
eyes tried every direction save that in which 
they might fall on those of Courtenaye. Her 
part in the trio was nearly nominal, and yet 
no bird singing in the sunshine, seemed ever 
to sing more from the fulness of a joyous 
heart. Her voice, when you caught it, was, 
indeed, " the very echo of happy thoughts ;" 
and smile after smile parted her small and 
childish mouth. Her beauty was of that kind 
which is our ideal of a cherub's — rounded, in- 
nocent, and happy. The long golden hair — 
for she was too young yet to have it dressed 
after the prevailing mode — absolutely sparkled 
in the light ; while her skin realized the old 
poet's exquisite delineation : 

"Fair as the trembling snow whose fleeces clothe 
Our Alpine hills; sweet as the rose's spirit 
Or violet's cheek, on which the morning leaves 
A tear at parting." 

The least cause sent the blush to the cheek, 
and the laughter to the lip ; for Ethel was 
guileless as she was gay. 

The darling, like Henrietta, of an aged rela- 
tive, their training had been widely different. 
Half Ethel's life had been spent in the flower 
garden ; and it was as if the sweetness and 
joyousness of the summer's sunny children 
had infused themselves into the being of their 
youthful companion. The open air had given 
strength to an originally delicate frame, and 
cheerfulness to her mind. She had read little 
beyond her grandmother's cherished volumes, 
of which a herbal was the study, and the Cas- 
sandra of Madame Scudori the recreation. 
Out of th^se stately impossibilities, she had 
constructed an existence of her own, full of 
love, courage, and fidelity : all highly oictu 
B 



14 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS, 



esque and highly false. No matter — the 
truth comes only too soon. 

And so, when Norbourne Courtenaye, a dis- 
tant connexion of the family, arrived in a 
course of careless wandering at their house, it 
seemed the most natural and fitting thing that 
he should fall in love with Ethel. It seemed, 
too, not less natural nor less fitting, that she 
should fall in love with Norbourne ; though 
not a little disheartened, at starting, by the 
absolute want of difficulties and adventures, 
with which she afterwards discovered that it 
was actually possible to dispense. 

Mrs. Churchill saw nothing of what was 
going on— she had her own views for Ethel, 
whom she considered too much a child to 
have any of her own ; and she was only 
pleased to have her house so cheerful. Fa- 
mily and fortune were on bo#i sides equal; 
and they might enjoy, so it seemed, as long 
as. they could contrive it, a courtship's charm- 
ing uncertainty, without a solitary obstacle to 
render it uncertain. 

Lavinia, her companion, was likewise hand- 
some ; or, perhaps, rather what is called a 
fine looking girl ; and had in her figure and 
demeanour, as well as in the arrangement of 
her simple toilet, that which bespoke the co- 
quette of nature's own making; and nature 
does as much in that way as society. Ne- 
glectful of her fine voice, she was obviously 
attending more to her companions than to her 
own singing; and it was manifest that she 
was not unwilling to attract Walter Maynard's 
heed, for she would omit from time to time 
her own, and listen to his part ; and, when 
she suffered her rich notes to swell to their 
extent, it was in Maynard's eyes that she 
sought to read approval ! 

But, what attention he allowed to escape 
from the music, was given all to Ethel Church- 
ill. If his eye but turned towards her, the 
heart's utter prostration was in the gaze ! 

And she — the young and brilliant countess, 
who sat at queenlike distance from the throng 
—must watch those glances with a galling 
pang of envy ; not the less bitter, too, because 
unacknowledged even to herself ! 

Walter Maynard was standing with his 
arms folded, and his slight figure leaning 
against the trunk of an old ash. He was nei- 
ther so handsome, nor had so fine a figure, as 
Norbourne Courtenaye; and lost something 
of his height by a stoop, the result either of a 
naturally delicate chest, or of sedentary pur- 
suits : but none, knowing how to read the 
human face, could have passed by his without 
having their attention riveted. It had a touch 
of Henrietta's own rich and changeful hues, 
but it was more feverish. The eyes were 
large and black, and had the moonlight's me- 
lancholy, with that tearful lustre which is 
the certain sign of keen susceptibility. After- 
years will drive the tears, which gathered 
trembling on the eyelash, back upon the 



heart; but the tears will be more bi'ter, be- 
cause unshed ! 

The mouth was almost feminine in its 
sweetness, and yet the smile was sad. Ten- 
der it was, but not cheerful, and lacked the 
energy that sat enthroned upon the magnifi- 
cent brow. Young as he was, his hair was 
thin upon his temples, where the large veins 
shone transparent and blue ; and the whole 
countenance was one which would have won 
attention in a crowd — which could not be 
identified with a common person. He was of 
those whose sensitive organization, and inborn 
talent, constitute that genius which holds 
ordinary maxims at defiance. No education 
can confer — no circumstances check it; ana 
even to account for it, we need, with the 
ancients, to believe in inspiration. 

Sir Jasper Meredith had noted the extraor 
dinary abilities shown by Walter, even in his 
childhood ; and, having confirmed the correct 
ness of that first impression, had sent him to 
the university. There, however, he had dis- 
appointed expectation. In sooth, his genius 
was of too creative an order for the apprentice- 
ship of learning ; he needed life in its hopes, 
its fears, its endurance ; all that the poet learns 
to reproduce. Education is for the many, and 
Walter Maynard was of the few. He had 
been much in Meredith Place, and Henrietta 
had been used to listen by the hour to his elo- 
quent enthusiasm, so alive with poetry and 
with passion. Proud and ambitious, she yet 
loved him — the poor and the dependent ; for 
there was in his highly-toned imagination that 
which responded to her own. She was too 
clever herself not to appreciate a kindred 
cleverness ; and the seclusion of her life lent 
a reality to his dreams of the future — to his 
aspirings after that fame, which every volume 
in the crowded collection proclaimed to be so 
glorious. They read together; and she felt 
that his was, indeed, the master mind. Her 
vanity was gratified by his intellect. It was 
a worthy homage. 

These softer feelings were awakened by 
that interest which belongs to the melancholy 
and romance inseparable from the poetic tem- 
perament. 

In the outset of their intimacy, admiration 
seemed a mere question of taste ; and jealousy 
first taught her that she loved. She saw that 
he loved Ethel Churchill, utterly, worship- 
pingly : that the withered flower which Ethel 
flung from her was to him a treasure. She 
then remembered that her own early bearing 
towards him had been haughty, and indiffe- 
rent ; that she had sneered at the young colle- 
gian's shyness ; and now thought with " the 
late remorse of love," how unlike to this had 
been Ethel's gentle kindness. But all these 
things belonged to by-gone days. She wrapped 
herself up in a brilliant future. Still there 
were moments when she felt that its hopes 
were icicles. 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



15 



CHAPTER IV 

O ! never another dream can be 

Like that early dream of ours, 
"When the fairy, Hope, lay down like a child, 

And slept amid opening flowers. 

Little we reck'd of our coming years, 
We fancied them just what we chose ; 

For, whatever life's after lights may be, 
It colours its first from the rose. 

" So you are going to leave us ?" said Ethel. 

" Why, child," (they were of the same age, 
bit Henrietta's mind had far outgone its 
years,) "you say this in the most dolorous of 
tones. I really see nothing- so very dreadful 
in going to London, where I have made up 
my mind to force the women to die of envy, 
and the men of love, — the one hy my dia- 
monds, the other by my eyes." 

" None may doubt the power of the latter, 
at least," observed Courtenaye. 

" Truce to your fine sayings," replied Hen- 
rietta ; " I would not give thank-you for a 
compliment from a person in your position. 
Now, don't blush, Ethel ; I am only laying 
down general rules. A man in love is a non- 
entity for the time — he is nothing ; and na- 
ture, that is, my nature, abhors a vacuum. 
Now is not that a philosophical deduction, 
Mr. Maynard ?" 

Walter started from his revery — he had 
not been listening. 

" You never know what one is saying," 
exclaimed Lady Marchmont, pettishly. 

" Nay," said he, in one of those deep me- 
lodious voices which almost startle with their 
peculiar sweetness, " I heard you speak, and, 
as one often does with songs, in the music I 
lost the words." 

"How I should like," said Ethel, "to see 
you dressed on the day of your presentation. 
When I imagine things about you, I always 
fancy you ' reine d'amour' at a tournament, 
while 

your eyes 

Rain influence, and adjudge the prize.' " 

" Thank Heaven," cried Henrietta, laugh- 
ing, " you do not, even in fancy, turn me into 
a shepherdess, with sheep on one side, and a 
purling brook on the other." 

" And yet," said Ethel, " there is some- 
thing that takes my fancy mightily in these 
sweet and tranquil pictures. I have always 
felt sorrow when my shepherdess has been 
taken from her green meadows, even to a 
palace." 

" Well, my vocation is not for innocent 
pleasures," returned Lady Marchmont: "I 
own I prefer my own kind to lambs and wild 
fbwers." 

"How entirely I agree with you," cried 
Walter Maynard; "as yet I know little of 
life, excepting from the written page : but ex- 
istence appears to me scarcely existence, 
without its struggles and its success. I should 
like to have some great end before me; the 
striving to attain, amid a crowd of competi- 
tors, would make me feel all the energies of 
life " 



" And yet," interrupted Courtenaye, " what 
hours of seeming delicious revery I have seen 
you pass, flung on the bank of some lonely 
river, where the hours were mirrored in sun 
shine." 

" I was thinking of the future," answered 
Walter, " and a very pleasant thing to think 
about." 

"If we had but one of those charming old 
fairies for godmothers," said Norbourne, " of 
whom my nurse was so fond of telling, in the 
vain hope of putting me to sleep ; as if I did 
not keep myself awake as long as I could, to 
hear ; — if such a one were to appear, I wonder 
what gift we shouit each choose ?" 

" I should so like to know," replied Lady 
Marchmont; "now let us be honest, and 
frankly confess the inmost desire of our hearts. 
I will set the example ; for, as I am going to 
court, I may not need to speak truth for some 
time, and may therefore use up what I have 
now. I frankly confess that my wish would 
be for universal admiration." 

Walter Maynard paused for a moment, 
looking at Ethel ; it was but a glance, and 
a deeper melancholy came over his face. 

" I would wish," said he, " for fame — 
glorious and enduring fame." 

"And I," cried Alice, eagerly, "would 
wish to be a lady — have an embroidered da- 
mask gown, and ride in a coach-and-six." 

" I would wish," whispered Ethel, " to be 
loved." 

"And," added Norbourne, in a whisper 
almost as low, "I would wish to love." 

"I think," exclaimed Lady Marchmont, 
" that Alice's wish is the most rational of all. 
Well, girl, success to your coach-and-six." 

"And I wish," said a venerable old lady, 
who, unperceived, had joined the young circle, 
" that you would all come into the house — for 
the evening is growing damp, and supper is 
ready." 

"My dear Mrs. Churchill," said Lady 
Marchmont, taking her hand, and respectfully 
kissing it, " you must not fancy that this is a 
farewell visit. I came hither to-night, for I 
did not know what to do with myself. The 
way of the world — I have had all I wanted, 
and must go." 

" Just come in," said Mrs. Churchill, " and 
take one glass of my mead." 

"No — not even such a golden promise 
tempts me. I am afraid that Lord March- 
mont will be at home before me — and he is 
not yet accustomed to be kept waiting." 

" I would not, on any account, detain you — 
but come and see us to-morrow," said the old 
lady, kindly. 

Waving her hand, Henrietta ran rapidly 
down the path by which she came, and was 
soon out of sight. 

" She is a sweet creature, and a lovely," 
said Mrs. Churchill ; " I wish she may bring 
back the same light step and heart with which 
she leaves us." 

Mrs. Churchill was not the first person woe 
has been deceived by appearances. The iigh 
step there assuredly was — but the light hear 



16 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



Henrietta herself would have said was a 
heavy one. With spirits exhausted by the 
forced exertion of the last hour, she came 
back to her room even more gloomy than when 
she left it. 

" I have seen him for the last time ;" and 
perhaps that moment was the only one during 
their whole acquaintance, that she had thought 
of Walter Ma)mard with unmixed tenderness. 
Pride, mortification, and disdain of his actual 
position, had usually mingled with all gentler 
thoughts. But there is something in parting 
that softens the heart; — it is as if we had 
never felt how unutterably dear a beloved 
object could be, till we are about to lose it for- 
ever. 

Unconsciously to herself, she had grown 
accustomed to see Walter Maynard, to note 
the changes in his expressive face, to listen to 
his picturesque and impassioned discourse. 
It now struck her suddenly how much she 
should miss them. The knowledge of her 
own heart, and of his, had come together. 
Hope had never been the companion of love. 
Even in her most secret communings with 
herself, she had never admitted even the fancy 
of their union. But to-night she felt deeply 
within her secret soul the utter happiness of 
loving and being beloved. What were her 
future brilliant prospects ? The truth within 
her whispered that she had been happier, even 
in the lonely lot which she that very evening 
had ridiculed, with Walter Maynard, than in 
a palace, and not his. For the first time, she 
regretted her marriage. Lord Marchmont had 
been the cause of her drawing comparisons. 
Her superior mind at once detected the nar- 
rowness of his : and her warm heart shrank 
from his cold one. She saw that he did not 
love her — that he never even thought whether 
she loved him. 

" 'Tis a strange thing," she murmured, 
" how love which should be such a blessing, 
should yet cause so much misery and dis- 
union. Ah ! Ethel does not know her own 
happiness. I only wonder Mr. Courtenaye 
did not fall in love with me. It would have 
completed our game of cross purposes," — 
and she laughed aloud. The sound of her 
own laughter jarred upon her ear. 

" What do I laugh at ?" thought she ; " at 
wasted affection — at the consciousness that, 
young as I am, my heart is withered — that I 
look to amusement as to a resource, and to 
vanity as the business of an existence. Ah ! 
love is more powerful than I deemed ; for at 
this very moment of whom am I thinking ? — 
my kind uncle ? — no ; of a stranger. It is 
the last time I will yield to such a weak- 
ness ;" and, rising from her seat, she began 
to pace the room. With a struggle to escape 
from her own thoughts, she rang for her at- 
tendants, and, complaining of fatigue, went 
hastily to bed. But a crowd of heavy thoughts 
came to her pillow ; and if, when Lord March- 
mont returned, he had gazed on the beautiful 
face then hushed in sleep, he would have 
seen that the cheek was flushed, and that tears 
yet glistened on the long dark eyelashes. 



CHAPTER V. 
a poet's midnight. 

Is not the lark companion of the spring ? 
And should not hope— that sky lark of the heart- 
Bear, with her sunny song, youth company 1 
Still is its sweetest music pour'd for love ; 
And that is not for me: yet will I love, 
And hope, though only for her praise and tears , 
And they will make the laurel's cold bright leaves 
Sweet as the tender myrtle. 

Henrietta's was not the only step that cross- 
ed the churchyard on that night ; it was, also, 
W T alter Maynard's nearest way home. But he 
paused, and stood gazing around. It was a 
night solemn and lovely as ever seemed fitting 
atmosphere for the city of the dead. There was 
not a cloud upon the face of the sky ; the. 
vapours and the cares of day had dispersed in 
the pure clear atmosphere. The dews were 
rising, and the long grass seemed like a sheet 
of bright and waveless water in the moonlight. 
The panes of the Gothic window in the church 
glittered like a succession of small shining 
mirrors ; and the vane on the spire was like a 
light placed there. The scattered tombstones 
lay white around ; and nothing on that side 
the building told of the depth of shadow 
which was behind. The birds had long since 
been asleep ; and not a breath of wind stirred 
the drooping leaves. There was an uncer- 
tain beauty in the distance, which gave an 
additional charm to the scene ; the light, sil- 
very and tremulous, was more indistinct than 
that of day. Familiar objects took new 
shapes, and every outline was softened down 
with a varying and undulating grace. 

But Walter Maynard's eyes were fixed 
upon one spot. A light was in the window 
of a turret just caught among the old oaks that 
surrounded Mrs. Churchill's house. Once or 
twice a shadow flitted past, and the light was 
obscured. In the silence you might have 
heard the youthful watcher's heart beating. 
It was Ethel Churchill's window. At length 
the light was extinguished, and Walter turned 
slowly away. 

"It is all dark now," said he, "and the 
better suited to me. W^hy should I even wish 
for her love ? What have I to offer ? only my 
hopes ; and what are they ?" As he spake, 
his eyes rested on the graves below. " Yes," 
muttered the youth, " they are sufficient an- 
swer ; they are indeed the end of all human 
hope." 

Mechanically he turned from one to another. 
Some were recently banded down with osiers, 
and the grass was varied with primrose roots ; 
on some the foxglove grew luxuriantly, while 
others had a tombstone, carved with a name 
and a brief epitaph. 

"Ay," said Walter, "this rude verse long 
outlasts those for whom it is written. The 
writer, the reader, the sorrow which it em- 
balmed, have long past away, — not so the 
verse itself. Poetry is the immortality of 
earth : where shall we look for our noblest 
thoughts, and our tenderest feelings, but in its 
eternal pages ? The spirit within me asserts 
its divine right. I know how different I am 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



17 



from those who surround me. Can the gifts 
of which I am conscious be given to rne in 
vain ? It were a mockery of the mind's su- 
premacy, did I not believe in my own future ? 

He turned again in the direction of the tur- 
ret window, and the large, round moon shone 
above the old trees. It seemed as if she looked 
down tenderly and lovingly on that dearest 
spot. 

"Ah, sweetest and loveliest!" exclaimed 
the watcher, "would to heaven those days 
were not past when the troubadour took his 
sword and lute, and taught far courts the light 
of his lady's eyes, and the music of her name ! 
But the sympathy to which he appealed yet 
remains. There are still human hearts to be 
stirred by the haunted line, and the gifted 
word. My page may be read by those who 
will feel its deep and true meaning, because, 
like myself, they have loved and suffered. 
Farewell, sweetest Ethel ! we, perhaps, shall 
meet no more, but you will hear of me; and 
the remembered beauty of that face will be my 
angel of inspiration — the one sweet muse 
lighting up my lonely heart." 

Hastity he left the churchyard, his pace 
rapid as his thoughts, which framed, as he 
went along, his future plans ; and to visit 
London as soon as possible was his last re- 
solve. He soon reached the dilapidated house 
which called him master ; but the ivy, silvered 
by the moonlight, hid the desolation which 
was so apparent by day. 

His family had left his father a ruined for- 
tune, which a life of adventures did not tend 
to improve. Mr. Maynard returned home 
with an orphan boy ; and a wound in his side, 
received while defending his superior officer, 
led to his premature death. With many to 
advise, but none to govern, the orphan boy led 
a desultory life, often wasting his time, bgit 
still collecting material for the future produc- 
tions of a creative and poetical mind. 

In one of the most original and thoughtful 
works of our day, it is said, — 

" It is a fatal gift ; for, when possessed in 
its highest quality and strength, what has it 
ever done for its votaries ? What were all 
those great poets of whom we talk so much ! 
what were they in their lifetime ? The most 
miserable of their species : depressed, doubt- 
ful, obscure ; or involved in petty quarrels, 
and petty persecutions ; often unappreciated, 
utterly uninfluential, beggars, flatterers of men, 
unworthy of their recognition. What a train 
of disgustful incidents, what, a record of de- 
grading circumstances, is the life of a great 
poet!"* 

This is too true a picture ; still, what does 
it prove, but that this earth is no home for the 
more spiritual part of our nature — that those 
destined to awaken our highest aspirations, 
and our tenderest sympathies, are victims ra- 
ther than votaries of the divine light within 
them ? They gather from sorrow its sweetest 
emotions ; they repeat of hope but its noblest 
visions; they look on nature with an earnest 



Vol. II.— 3 



* Contarini Fleming. 



love, which wins the power of making hei 
hidden beauty visible; and they reproduce the 
passionate, the true, and the beautiful. Alas ! 
they themselves are not what they paint; the 
low want subdues the lofty will ; the small 
and present vanity interferes with the far and 
glorious aim : but still it is something to have 
looked beyond the common sphere where they 
were fated to struggle. They paid in them- 
selves the bitter penalty of not realizing their 
own ideal ; but mankind have to be thankful 
for the generous legacy of thought and har- 
mony bequeathed by those who were among 
earth's proscribed and miserable. Fame is 
bought by happiness. 



CHAPTER VI. 

MUCH CHANGE IN A LITTLE TIME. 

And she too — that beloved child, was gone — 
Life's last and loveliest link. There was her place 
Vacant beside the hearth— he almost dream'd 
He saw her still ; so present was her thought. 
Then some slight thing reminded him how far 
The distance was that parted her and him. 
Fear dwells around the absent— and our love 
For such grows all too anxious, too much fill'd 
With vain regrets, and fond inquietudes : 
We know not love till those we love depart. 

Not above a month had elapsed since the 
little party were seated on the sloping lawn ; 
and yet that short space had sufficed to change 
the position of all assembled in the pleasant 
quiet of that evening. 

In the gloomy library of Meredith Place is 
seated an old man, surrounded by books, which 
he is too weary to read, and by chemical ap- 
paratus which he has not spirits to use. Till 
she went, Sir Jasper knew not how dearly the 
child of his old age had clung to his very ex- 
istence. He fancied that he had resources in 
his OAvn mind : alas ! the mind ill supplies the 
wants of the heart. There is to age some- 
thing so enlivening in the company of j^outh, 
unconsciously it shares the cheerfulness it 
witnesses, and hopes with the hopes around, 
in that sympathy which is the kindliest part 
of our nature. Even his young neighbour who 
so often shared his studies, had departed — 
Walter Ma} T nard had gone xo London. Nor 
was the house of the Churchills less altered. 
Their young kinsman had received a sudden 
summons from his mother, on the occasion of 
his uncle, Lord Norbourne's visit. Ethel sat 
lonely on the little lawn, where every thing 
had altered almost as much as her own feel- 
ings. The approach of autumn's bleakei 
hour had stripped many of the trees of their 
foliage, and the bare boughs waved disconso- 
late to a low and moaning wind. The last of 
the flowers had fallen from the stem; and 
there was not even moonlight to soften the 
dreariness of the scene. The dark evenings 
closed in rapidly, and eren the cheerful fire- 
side failed to bring back the smile to Ethel's 
lip, or the gladness to her eye. There was, 
however, one time to which she and Sir Jas- 
per alike looked forward. The poet came in 
twice a week ; and the sound of the horn, 
b3 



18 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



though its arrival was always expected, and 
every minute of the hour before it came counted, 
while the breath was held for fear of losing a 
sound, yet not the less did Ethel's colour 
deepen to crimson, and her heart beat even to 
pain. Night after night, too, did she sink 
back with the sickness of disappointed hope. 
No letter came from Norbourne Courtenaye. 

Sir Jasper was more fortunate : he also set 
two days apart in the week, he also counted 
minutes of the evenings when the post came 
in ; but he was never disappointed — it always 
brought him a letter. Whatever might be the 
young countess's engagements, none prevented 
her from writing to her uncle ; and for the 
sake of the beloved writer, the aged recluse 
took an interest in all the news of the day — in 
such light chronicles as the following epistle. 

FIRST LETTER OF LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR 
JASPER MEREDITH. 

Vanity ! guiding power, 'tis thine to rule 
Statesman and vestryman — the knave or fool. 
The Macedonian cross'd Hydaspes' wave, 
Fierce as the storm, and gloomy as the grave. 
Urged by the thought, what would Athenians say 
When next they gather'd on a market-day? 
And the same spirit that induced his toil, 
Leads on the cook, to stew, and roast, and boil : 
Whether the spice be mix'd — the flag unfurl 'd — 
Each deems their task the glory of the world. 

After all, my dearest uncle, nothing has 
impressed me more strongly than our first ap- 
proach to London. It was getting dusk, and 
I had for some time been leaning back fatigued 
in the carriage, when, raising my head, I saw 
afar oif a line of tremulous light on the hori- 
zon : it was the reflection of the myriad lamps 
and fires of the vast city we were about to 
enter. Next came a hollow murmur, some- 
thing like the sound of the sea on our coast ; 
but it soon grew less instinct with the myste- 
rious harmony of the mighty, but most musi- 
cal, world of waters — it was broken and harsh, 
and the noise of wheels w r as easily distin- 
guished. Then we became involved, as it 
were, in a wilderness of houses ; and there 
was something singularly oppressive in the 
feeling of immensity and of loneliness that 
came over me. The heavy vapours which 
hung dark and dense upon the air, were as if 
they rose charged with the crime and suffer- 
ing of the multitudes below ; and the faint 
light was like their feeble endeavours to 
struggle through the weary weight flung upon 
existence. How little and how worthless 
appeared all my own gay schemes and glad 
anticipations ! I shrank from them as if they 
were a criminal selfishness. But, as you have 
sometimes said, I have not suffered enough 
for my fits of despondency to last very long : 
mine passed away on arriving at my new 
house — I cannot say home ; that word is re- 
served for my childhood and you — dear, old 
Meredith Place is still home to me. I was 
full of eagerness and curiosity, and would fain 
have snatched a candle from one of the ser- 
vants, and ran over every room at once. But 
this was quite contrary to Lord Marchmont's 
ideas of the fitness of things ; and he is, as 
you know, a disciplinarian in small matters. 



He has a genius for furniture, and piques 
himself on screens and arm-chairs. 

We arrived three hours later than he in- 
tended, and, as the house could not be seen in 
the precise manner that he wished, he decided 
that it should not be seen at all till the next 
day. My own apartment, however, I was 
allowed to enter ; and very pretty, I must say, 
it is. It is hung with Indian silk, where the 
brightest of birds, and the gayest of flowers, 
disport themselves on a white ground. The 
screens and dressing-table are of black japan, 
while the mirror is set in exquisite silver 
filigree work, of which material are also the 
boxes of my toilette. There are also two 
large Venetian glasses. Lord Marchmont's 
picture used to hang in the place of one : he 
has removed it to the library,—" Taking for 
granted," said he, "that you would prefer 
your own face to mine. Besides, it is too 
much of a good thing to have both substance 
and shadow." The conjugal gallantry was 
delicate — and true. 

I was delighted the next morning when I 
approached the window : it looks on a small 
but pleasant garden, opening into the green 
park. The fine old trees looked like familiar 
friends. In the distance were the towers of 
the abbey, bathed with the golden tinge of 
early morning. I looked towards it, and 
thought of the happy evenings passed over the 
clasped volumes in which its annals are re- 
corded. How glad I now am of all that we 
used to read together ! I have now a thou- 
sand associations with you and the past, 
where otherwise there would be none. , 

My time is divided between visiters and 
dressmakers. Madame Legarde, the " glass 
of fashion and the nurse of form," (alias the 
most fashionable of milliners,) has comfortably 
assured me that my figure has great merit, 
and only requires cultivation:" this is to be 
done by tissues, brocades, and laces, which 
are now scattered round me in charming con- 
fusion. 

What a duty to one's self it is to be young, 
vain, and pretty ! but the middle quality is the 
most important. Vanity is a cloak that wraps 
us up comfortably, and a drapery which sets 
us off to the best advantage ; and its great 
merit is, that it suits itself to every sort of 
circumstance. 

I have just had an amusing incident happen, 
very illustrative of my theory. Lord March- 
mont gives dinners with a due sense of their 
importance, and our chef de cuisine is a master 
of the divine art. His late master fought a 
duel with his most intimate friend, because he 
found that he had been holding forth strong 
inducements for Chloe to become his. " My 
mistress," said the indignant Amphitryon, 
" was at his service ; but to think of his en- 
deavouring to seduce my cook !" Chloe had, 
however, a high sense of honour : " A false 
friend does not deserve me," was his only 

reply. The death, however, of Lord C- 

set him free to an admiring world, and March- 
mont was the successful candidate for his 
favours. Hitherto their harmony has been 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



19 



perfect — each appreciated the other; and it 
had been settled between them, that the first 
dinner after our marriage was to be a triumph. 
This morning Chloe sent to ask an audi- 
ence ; it was granted, and he entered my dress- 
ing-room. 

"Just such a man, so wan, so spiritless, 
Drew Priam's curtains in the dead of night, 
And came to tell him that his Troy was burn'd." 

Chloe is a tall meager-looking individual, 
just imbodying the popular idea of a French- 
man. " Mon Bleu ! madame !" exclaimed he, 
all but throwing himself at my feet in the 
most theatrical of attitudes, (Titus, for ex- 
ample, in a scene of despair with Berenice,) 
" mine honour is in your hands — I appeal to 
your feelings — you see before you de most 
miserable of humanity — ma glorie is the sa- 
crifice of his lordship's prejudice ! He will 
not hear reason, but he will hear you." 

" Thank you," said I, laughing. 

" Ah, madame !" he exclaimed, " I do only 
mean, that you leave no reason for people to 
judge with ; therefore they must let you judge 
for them — will you pity me ?" 

Well, to make short of a long story, told 
with a broken accent that made it doubly 
piquant, and embellished with gestures equal- 
ly earnest and grotesque, — I found that the 
ornaments now used at desserts are on a gi- 
gantic scale ; and Chloe believed that he had 
immortalized himself by a representation of 
the war of the Titans against the gods. Un- 
fortunately, they were higher than even the 
room ; and Lord Marchmont refused to comply 
with the wishes of the artiste, and to take 
down his splendidly painted ceiling to admit 
of the dessert. This threw Chloe into an 
agony : with tears in his eyes, he implored 
my intercession. "Cest mon avenir dat I ask 
you. I have not slept for nights, filled with 
my grand project — mais e'est magnifique ! 
Will madame fancy the entrance of de giants 
—taller than de tallest figures at de duke of — 
Vat is dat berry ? — ah, de queen's, Queens- 
Derry, or goosebeny." 

My dear uncle, I behaved like an angel : I 
did not laugh — I admired the design — I sym- 
pathized with the professor's honourable ambi- 
tion, but suggested a remedy. " A man of your 
genius," I said, " should despise the beaten 
track : all you can do with your giants is to 
have them a little larger than others have had. 
Invent something fresh — a hint is all that is 
needed by a mm like yourself. Why not 
introduce pigmies ? let us have some mytho- 
logical device, executed in an exquisite style." 

" Madame est tin ange de bonte ! je com- 
prends — mais e'est ravissant ! My rivals shall 
die! Yes, we will have the marriage of 
Peleus and Thetis in the temple of Solomon. 
Je vois tout ce qu'ily a de grand dans voire 
idee. De temple shall be of "fine spun sugar, 
and Hymen shall hold a littel torch of scented 
flame : then de apple flung by de goddess Dis- 
Dord shall be gold." 

" Rather ominous," I exclaimed, " for a 
fcridal feast." 

"Ah, no! von fine moral lesson; and it 



shall be gilded. Quel plaisir de faire une 
chose si nouvelle et si sublime ! Madame need 
not fear that she has intrusted her scheme to 
an unworthy hand — je me devoue a V execution. 
Milk graces — madame has saved my life et ma 
gloire. If she wants the least small bouillon, 
I will always see to it myself." 

So saying, he bowed out of the room with 
an air divided between conscious merit and 
tender gratitude. 

Any subject after this important one must 
be insipid ; I, therefore, bid you good night 
God bless you, my dearest uncle ! 

Your affectionate 

Henrietta. 

lady marchmont to sir jasper meredith. 

Which was the true philosopher 1— the sage 
Who to the sorrows and the crimes of life 
Gave tears — or he who laugh'd at all he saw 1 
Such mockery is bitter, and yet just : 
And Heaven well knows the cause there is to weep. 
Methinks that life is what the actor is— 
Outside there is the quaint and gibing mask ; 
Beneath, the pale and careworn countenance. 

My dear, kind Uncle, — I cannot tell you 
the effect which the sight of your handwriting 
had upon me. It was the first letter that I 
ever had from you in my life. How bitterly 
it reminded me that we were separated ! and 
yet I was very glad to hear from you. I am 
ashamed to tell you that I cried like a child 
before I opened it, or rather before I read it : 
still, it has made me much happier. It re- 
minded me, that there was one person to 
whom every thing that concerned me was an 
object of interest ; it broke the sense of lone- 
liness that has pressed upon me ever since my 
arrival. 

I do not agree with Mrs. Churchill's sweep- 
ing condemnation, " That London is only a 
great, wicked, expensive place;" but you 
leave the fairy land of fancy behind you for- 
ever, on entering it. It is the most real place 
in the world ; you will inevitably be brought 
to your level. If I were to quit it now, I 
should quit not liking it all ; no one does 
who, having country habits, comes up for only 
a short time. The sense of your own insig- 
nificance is any thing but pleasant ; then you 
are hurried through a round of amusements 
for which you have not acquired a relish, they 
being, as } r et, unconnected with any little 
personal vanities. You suffer from bodily 
fatigue, because the exertion is of a kind to 
which you are unaccustomed; moreover, you 
feel your own deficiencies, and exaggerate 
both their importance and the difficulty of 
overcoming them. But this is only " begin- 
ning at the beginning ;" and I have a very 
brilliant perspective — I intend to be so courted, 
so flattered, and so "beautiful." You wifi 
laugh at my making up my mind to the last ; 
but I do assure you that a great deal depends 
on yourself. 

The first step towards establishing preten 
sions of any kind, is to believe firmly in thorn 
yourself: faith is very catching, and hall Jne 
beauty-reputations of which I hear have origi 
nated with the possessors. Having deter 



20 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



mined upon being a beauty, it is absolutely 
necessary that I should have my portrait taken 
by Sir Godfrey Kneller : a portrait of his is a 
positive diploma of loveliness. 

Among- my new acquaintance is Lady Mary 
Wortley Montague, who is just returned from 
Constantinople, where her husband was am- 
bassador. She is very handsome, very amus- 
ing-, and a little alarming. She tells me, very 
frankly, that she has taken a great liking to 
me. 

" Not, my dear," said she, " that I profess 
the least friendship for you — friendship is 
just an innocent delusion, to round a period in 
a moral essay. I lay it down as a rule, that 
all men are rascals to women, and all women 
rascals to each other. Perhaps very young 
girls, who do not know what to do with a 
superabundance of affection, run up a kind of 
romantic liking for each other ; but it never 
lasts — one good-looking young man would 
break up all the female friendships that ever 
were formed. In our secret heart we all hate 
each other. What I shall expect from you is 
a little pleasant companionship ; and I offer 
you the same in return." 

My protestations of " so flattered," and " too 
happy," were interrupted by her continuing : — 
" The fact is, we have each the charm of 
novelty. I know everybody, and shall put 
them in the worst possible point of view. I 
shall, therefore, be both useful a.nd agreeable. 
You at present know nobody, and will like to 
hear all about them — especially to know the 
worst : of course, therefore, you will be a 
good listener. Now, a good listener is the 
most fascinating of companions. In time, I 
shall have told all I have to tell, and you will 
have heard all that you care to hear : then our 
bond of union ceases ; and so will our friend- 
ship, unless we can in any way make a con- 
venience of each other." 

Well, I have made a plunge into the cold 
bath of her ladyship's acquaintance, and she 
accompanied me to Sir Godfrey's. It was 
quite a visit of canvassing, for he has almost 
given up his profession ; it is a favour if he 
paints you. Lady Mary told me some amus- 
ing anecdotes. Among others, she repeated 
to me a conversation between him and Pope, 
who called on a visit of condolence during a 
severe fit of illness. The poet, by way of 
comfort, gave him every prospect of going to 
heaven. " Ver good place," replied the in- 
— alid, "but I wish le Ion Bieu would let me 
stay in my new house — it is good enough for 
me." 

One day, Gay was reading to him a most 
outrageous panegyric, in which he ascribed to 
Kneller every virtue under the sun — perhaps 
a few more. Sir Godfrey heard him with 
great complacency, only interrupting him by 
a few approving nods, or a " by Gott, sare, 
you say de truth." At the close, he highly 
applauded the performance, but said, " You 
have done well, Mistere Gay — ver well, as 
far as you have gone ; but you have left me 
out one great quality. It is good for de Duke 
«f Marlborough, that was I not a soldier, and 



his enemy. Once, when I was such a littel boy, 
I was on St. Mark's Place in Venice, and 
dey let off some fireworks. By Gott, I liked 
de smell of de gunpowder ! Ah ! sare, 1 
should have made von great general — I should 
have killed men instead of making dem dis< 
content, vith demselves, as my pictures do." 

Sir Godfrey is a little, shrewd looking old 
man, with manners courteous even to kind- 
ness. He received us with the greatest e/n- 
pressment, and was in excellent humour, hav- 
ing just received a haunch of venison from 
one of the principal auctioneers. " There," 
he exclaimed, in a tumult of soft emotion, 
" is a goot man ! He loves me — see what 
beautiful fat is on his venison !" 

A few judicious remarks, while he was 
showing us his pictures, placed me high m 
his favour ; but my last compliment was the 
climax. 

" I am," said I, in a tone of the most mo- 
dest hesitation, " afraid, Sir Godfrey, to sit to 
you. I shall be discontented with my look- 
ing-glass for the rest of my life." 

" Mine Gott !" exclaimed he, " your lady 
ship has a genius for de fine arts — you taste, 
you feel dem. But do not be afraid — you 
shall only look your best ; your picture vill 
teach you de duty you owe to yourself — you 
must try to look like it." 

I thanked him for the glorious ambition 
which he thus set before me ; and we took 
our leave, saying a profusion of fine things to 
each other. 

You see, my dear uncle, I write to you in 
the most merciless manner : I spare you no- 
thing that happens to me. At least, details 
only kept in mind for your sake will show my 
dearest, kindest uncle, how affectionately he 
is remembered by his 

Grateful and devoted 

Henrietta. 

P. S. Lord Marchmont, whenever he sees 
me writing, sends you a message of equal 
length and civility. Once named, it will do 
for always. You can keep it by you like a 
stock of frozen provision. 



CHAPTER VII. 

Few know of life's besrinnings— men behold 

The goal achieved. The warrior, when his sword 

Flashes red triumph in the noonday sun; 

The poet, when his lyre hangs on the palm ; 

The statesman, when the crowd proclaim his voice 

And mould opinion on his aified tongue : 

They count not life's first steps, and never think 

Upon the many miserable hours 

When hope deferr'd was sickness to the heart. 

They reckon not the battle and the march, 

The long privations of a wasted youth ; 

They never see the banner till unfurl'd, 

What are to them the solitary nishts, 

Past pale and anxious by the sickly lamp, 

Till the young poet wins the world at last, 

To listen to the music long his own ? 

The crowd attend the statesman's fiery mind 

That makes their destiny ; but they do not trace 

Its struggle, or its long expectancy. 

Hard are" life"s early steps ; and, but that youth 

Is buoyant, confident, and strong in hope, 

Men would behold its threshold, and despair 

Under what different aspects may the same 
place appear ! Walter Maynard arrived in 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



21 



London on the same night with Lady March- 
niont. He stopped at an inn suiting his 
finances. It was in a dark, narrow lane in 
the city ; and the young traveller sat down in 
the public room, where he was half stifled by 
the smoke, and half deafened by the noise. 
What a feeling of desolation, and of vastness, 
had struck upon his heart as he passed through 
a few of those crowded streets of which there 
seemed no ending ! It seemed impossible but 
that, amid so many faces, there must be one 
that he knew : but, no ; all alike were stran- 
gers. He felt himself utterly alone ; and, for 
the first time, shrank when he considered how 
slender were his resources. A small sum of 
money, a letter of introduction to Sir Jasper 
Meredith's bookseller, and a card of address 
where to find Norbourne Courtenaye when he 
happened to be in London, — these were his 
all. He pushed aside his frugal meal with 
utter distaste, and looked round on his com- 
panions : at once he felt all conversation with 
them to be hopeless. He listened to the con- 
versation of the two men next him, who were 
quarrelling over, rather than discussing, the 
" Craftsman," which they had just been read- 
ing. Both were so decidedly wrong, that it 
was hardly possible for human natureVt twen- 
ty-two to avoid setting them right. The con- 
sequence was, that the one called him a fool, 
and the other offered to fight him. A mild, 
respectable looking man interfered, and, paci- 
fying the combatants, drew Walter into a 
corner, and began conversing with him plea- 
santly enough. The conversation was only a 
little interrupted by glances from the pretty 
hostess, who seemed anxious to attract the 
attention of the handsome young stranger. 

" Why, it is later than I thought," exclaimed 
the stranger, as the clock struck. " Good 
night, my young friend — I dare say Ave shall 
meet again ; and let me give you a word of 
parting advice — never interfere with what does 
not concern you." 

A few minutes after his departure, Walter 
found that his purse was gone. 

"I thought how it would be," cried the 
landlady ; " but I could not catch your eye. 
Why, the man you were talking to is a first 
rate pickpocket — a very clever man. Let me 
give you a piece of good advice : always be 
on your guard against strangers ; you may be 
sure that everybody wants to take you in.*'* 

It is amazing how well the hostess con- 
trived, during the two or three days that 
Walter remained in the house, to illustrate 
her theory by practice. Weary and dispirited, 
Walter retired to the little, close chamber 
which was his bedroom. One mus-t be un- 
comfortable to be thoroughly out of sorts. A 
great sorrow forgets every thing but itself; 
but little sorrows exaggerate themselves and 
each other. 

As yet our traveller had to contend with 
only the smaller order. He sat down in the 
window-seat, in a most profitless mood of de- 
jection. More than once the sweet face of 
Ethel rose to his mind's eye ; but he glanced 
' ound his chamber and dismissed it. He was 



ashamed of thinking of her in such a position , 
he felt, with morbid sensitiveness, the social 
distinction between them. The wings of his 
fancy seemed to melt, like those of Iccrus, 
now that he approached the sun of his hopes, 
London. The air of the narrow chamber 
grew more and more oppressive, and he flung 
open the window, which looked into a church- 
yard. The moonlight fell over the white 
stones which press so heavily on the dust 
beneath. 

" The last churchyard I looked upon," ex- 
claimed Walter, "how different was it from 
this ! There the sweet influences of nature 
shed their own beautjr over the presence of 
death. The wild flowers sprung up amid the 
grass ; the dew shone on the leaves ; and the 
murmurs of a nameless music stirred the 
sweeping branches of the oak. Here, all is 
harsh and artificial : the palpable weight of 
human care seems upon the thick atmosphere. 
The very dead are crowded together, and 
crushed beneath the weight of those dreary- 
looking stones. "Ah !" exclaimed he, as he 
turned, with a cold shudder, from the window, 
" I hope I shall never be buried in a city." 



CHAPTER VIII. 

ARRIVED AT HOME. 

A pale and stately lady, with a brow- 
That might have welfbeseem'd a Roman dame, 
Cornelia, ere her glorious children died; 
Or that imperial mother, who beheld 
Her son forgive his country at her word. 
Yet there was trouble written on her face; 
The past had left its darkness. 

It was a wretched evening on w T hich Nor- 
bourne Courtenaye reached his home. A cold 
wind, a piercing rain, and a bad road, with a 
worse hack, (for his own horses had been 
knocked up,) rendered more acute the misery 
which he, as a parted lover, was bound to feel. 
He felt himself more unhappy at every suc- 
ceeding mile ; and when he arrived — wet 
through, cold, tired, and hungry — he con- 
ceived, very justly, that he was the most un- 
happy of created beings. Still, it was almost 
worth while to endure all these sufferings for 
the sake of such a welcome as awaited him at 
home. A good fire, and a good dinner, are 
wonderful restoratives ; -and Mrs. Courtenaye 
was so happy at seeing her son again, that he 
could not but feel happy too. She hung round 
him, watching his every look as if she grudged 
the veriest menial offices from the servants ; 
and she almost scolded him for not eating, 
when he had done justice enough to the good 
things set before him to have satisfied even 
the cook herself. Some old writer says^ " we 
like to see those w T e love eating and sleeping ;" 
and there is much truth in the homely remark. 
We like them to be the objects of our active 
care, or of our patient watchfulness. 

Mrs. Courtenaye idolized her son, with that 
intense love which a reserved and proud tem- 
per feels for the one and only object on which 
it lavishes all its hoarded affection. His fa 



22 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



ther had died when his only child was but 
two years old ; and to that child his young-, 
rich, and beautiful widow, had been wholly 
devoted. Many suiters she certainly had ; 
but even the wildest jest had never given one 
of them a hope of success. It was said that 
she spoiled her son — it was not so. Her 
strong sense and excellent judgment preserved 
her authority ; which was strengthened, not 
weakened, by the tenderest care that ever 
mother bestowed on orphan. From her lips, 
a reproof was sufficient punishment ; for the 
boy well knew that he was the least sufferer. 

Mrs. Courtenaye was rather respected than 
popular in the neighbourhood : her habits 
were secluded, though no one dispensed more 
liberally that hospitality which suited their 
position in the country. She was of an old 
Catholic Scotch family, and had been edu- 
cated in a Spanish convent, which she never 
left till her marriage with Mr. Courtenaye. 
Some said that her union with a heretic 
weighed upon her mind; and that her penances 
were of an unusually strict order. There was 
that in her still fine, but careworn features, 
which seemed to bear out the assertion. She 
was subject to fits of deep melancholy; and, 
even in her most social hours, there was a 
sort of subdued sadness in her eyes ; and she 
never had the glad, frank manner of one whose 
heart is at ease. Her very fondness for her 
son had something mournful in it ; she seemed 
to fear the indulgence of all earthly affections. 
Still, nothing could be more perfect than the 
union of herself and her child. It was touch- 
ing to see them together; for, if this cold 
world has one tie more holy, and more re- 
deemed from all selfish feeling than another, 
it is that which binds the widow and the or- 
phan together. 

His dress changed, and his dinner over, 
Norbourne followed Mrs. Courtenaye to the 
drawing-room, where she had left his uncle 
and cousin. Their way lay through the hall, 
where hung the helm of many a bold forefa- 
ther, and arms that had seen service even in 
the crusades. 

" I cannot help, dearest mother," said he, 
half seriously, half smiling, " having a little 
respect for myself when I return home. My 
noble ancestors have bequeathed to me an 
honourable name :- — well, I will at least strive 
not to disgrace it." 'Mrs. Courtenaye fondly 
pressed his hand, and he could see that the 
tears stood in her eyes. " I should rather 
have said," exclaimed he, "I will at least try 
to be worthy of my mother." 

They found Lord Norbourne so engaged 
with a heap of political pamphlets, that he did 
not at first perceive their entrance. When he 
did, he welcomed his nephew with great cor- 
diality, — we should rather say courtesy, for 
Lord Norbourne had never been cordial in his 
life. He hurried together questions and com- 
pliments. 

" On my honour, Mrs. Courtenaye, you will 
make me an advocate for petticoat government, 
after such a specimen of its excellent influ- 
ence. Still, my young friend, I am like the 



rest of the world — cannot leave well alone — . 
must have you up to town. Sir Robert was 
inquiring about the representative of our house, 
only the other day. I, you know, am but a 
younger brother. But I forget that you have 
not seen your cousin for an age. You young 
people must have an immense deal to talk over 
There, Norbourne, I consign you to younger 
and fairer hands." 

So saying, he resumed his seat and his 
pamphlets, in which he appeared completely 
absorbed. Mrs. Courtenaye took up a reli- 
gious work, and she, too, turned her face 
away. Her eyes were resolutely fixed on the 
page, but she saw it not. Her cheek was 
pale and cold as marble, and there was that 
convulsive quiver about the mouth which is 
the most certain sign of mental agitation. 

Norbourne drew kindly towards his cousin 
Constance. He had for her the affection of 
early habit, and the tenderness of pity. De- 
licate and slightly deformed, with only one 
surviving parent, whose affection chiefly 
showed itself in ambitious projects for her 
aggrandizement, there was much in Con- 
stance's position that awakened the softest 
compassion. When Norbourne entered the 
room, a deep flush of crimson betrayed how 
instantly she recognised him.' The colour 
had faded, but enough remained to make her 
look almost pretty; and, if any thing can 
make a woman look so, it is the presence of 
him she loves. Poor Constance loved her 
cousin timidly ; for, painfully conscious of 
her personal defects, she was shy and retiring. 
During the lives of her sisters, she had been 
thrown quite in the background ; and her 
cousin had been the only one from whom she 
had always received support and considera- 
tion. How gratefully does a woman repay 
such a debt ! 

Norbourne Courtenaye was the only person 
with whom Constance was at her ease. Du- 
ring the lifetime of her beautiful sisters, she- 
had met with so many mortifications, that she 
shrank from all general society ; and she had 
been too secluded, during the last twelve- 
month, to know the merits and charms which 
would inevitably be found in Lord Norbourne's 
heiress. Of her father she stood in great awe, 
and of her aunt scarcely less ; to which was 
also added a sense of strangeness. But Nor- 
bourne she had known from a child : he had 
taken her part as" a boy, and as a young man, 
had never neglected her ; her memory was 
stored with a thousand slight attentions which 
he had himself forgotten. After the first flutter 
of conscious delight which his entrance had 
caused, she was able to talk to him cheerfully, 
and her spirits rose with the unwonted enjoy- 
ment. 

It may be doubted whether Lord Norbourne 
was quite as much engrossed by his pamphlets 
as he appeared ; for once or twice, as his 
daughter's laugh reached his ear, his stern 
features relaxed into a smile, which changed 
the whole expression of his face. More than 
once, too, he tried to catch Mrs. Courtenaye'a 
eye; but she was too much absorbed in he. 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



23 



book. Norbourne, it must be confessed, was 
impatient for the close of the evening : he had 
so much that he wished to tell his mother, 
and it struck him that she looked unusually 
pale and harassed. Still his cousin's claims, 
as a woman and his guest, were imperative ; 
and, moreover, he felt for a young creature, 
shut out from so many ordinary sources of 
enjoyment, and whose life was so solitary. 
But never had she appeared so utterly uninter- 
esting as now ; for Ethel's sweet face shone 
before him, a sad contrast to the sickly and 
languid countenance of Constance. Neither 
had Constance the natural talents of Ethel; 
she was deficient in all powers of conversa- 
tion. Accustomed to be repressed and neg- 
lected, she lacked courage to say what she 
thought. What a change from the sweet, 
uncurbed vivacity of Ethel, whose thoughts 
sprang directly from the heart into utterance ! 
At length, however, the evening wore away; 
and, after kindly assisting his cousin across 
the galley, Norbourne hurried to his mother's 
dressing-room : she was just going in, as he 
asked admission to tell all his adventures. 

" Not to-night, my beloved child ; you must 
be tired : not to-night." 

She leant forward to kiss his forehead : he 
started at the touch, for her lips were cold as 
ce. 



CHAPTER IX. 

DIFFERENT VIEWS OF YOUTH AND AGE. 

There was a shadow on his face, that spake 
Of pass'on long since harden'd into thought. 
He had a smile, a cold and scornful smile; 
Not gayety, not sweetness, but the sign 
Of feelings moulded at their master's will. 
A weary world was hidden at that heart; 
Sorrow and strife were there, and it had learnt 
The weary lessons time and sorrow teach ; 
And deeply felt itself the vanity 
Of love and hope, and now could only feel 
Distrust in them, and mockery for those 
Who could believe in what he knew was vain. 

xt was with a natural touch of pride that 
Norbourne Courtenaye paced his paternal 
hall, while waiting for his uncle, with whom 
he was going to ride. It was one of those 
fine specimens of Norman architecture which 
yet attest the taste of that stately race. It 
was lined with oak, long since black with age, 
richly carved in all the quaint devices of art, 
then in its childhood ; but the arms of the 
family, the crest, and the motto, were conspi- 
cuous everywhere. Around were those me- 
morials to which time gives such value — 
several complete suits of armour, each belong- 
ing to some honourable name, whose deeds 
were the theme of legendary story. The dark 
plumes yet waved over each helmet, the slight 
feather outlasting the stalwart warrior on 
whose head it had once danced : a fragile 
thing, yet more enduring than its master. 
There were stands, too, of curious arms — some 
strange and foreign-looking eastern cimiters, 
whose crooked steel had been brought from 
Palestine : others, of a more recent date, had 



equally their histor}? - . There were the short 
heavy carbines, and the richly mounted pis- 
tols, which had done their duty in the parlia- 
mentary wars, when the Courtenayes followed 
the fortunes of the ill-fated Charles. The 
gallant history came down to the present 
time ; for there were the colours which his 
father had taken from a French battery with 
his own hands, at the battle of Blenheim, and 
for which he received the thanks of Marlbo- 
rough. 

The Gothic windows of painted glass 

" Taught light to counterfeit a gloom ;" 

and the rich purple and yellow dyes fell, in 
gorgeous confusion, on the relics around. A 
magnificent prospect lay beyond. On one 
side, you could see only the vast extent of 
park, whose oaks might have served as tem- 
ples to the druids : deer were feeding on the 
sunny slopes ; and on a noble lake you saw 
the glittering of the morning light on the 
white wings of the swans. On the south 
side, the view was more varied :* fields and 
orchards were obviously in a state of high 
cultivation ; and a church, built by his grand- 
father, crowned the hill. Below, cottages 
peeped from among the trees, realizing all the 
painter could have wished of quiet and cheer- 
fulness. The view stretched away like a 
panorama, lost in the gray and misty tints 
which mingle with the sunshine of an October 
morning. Far as the eye could reach all was 
his own : his forefathers had built those cot- 
tages, had planted those trees. He could not 
look around without the consciousness of 
power. 

I frankly confess that I have a respect for 
family pride. If it be a prejudice, it is preju- 
dice in its most picturesque shape ; but I hold 
that it is connected with some of the noblest 
feelings in our nature. Is it nothing to be 
connected with the history of one's country, 
and to feel 

The name of every noble ancestor 

A bond upon your soul against disgrace ? 

No one who admits the rule, can deny its 
exceptions ; but I believe the pride of blood 
to have a beneficial influence. It is much to 
feel, that the high and the honourable belong 
to a name that is pledged to the present by 
recollections of the past. 

It would have been difficult to find a finer 
specimen of the English aristocracy than the 
handsome and intelligent young man on whom 
his uncle's e3 T e had fixed on entering. There 
was something peculiar in that gaze. It was 
obviously one of pride in its object ; but there 
was also sadness, which gradually changed 
into an expression of harsh determination. 
There was something, however, contagious in 
the glad, frank greeting of his nephew ; some- 
thing, too, in the soft clear morning air, that 
Lord Norbourne could not quite resist. He 
sprang on horseback with a feeling of vague 
enjoyment, which he was as little as any man 
in the habit of experiencing. 

" Whither shall we ride," said he, afte? 



24 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



they had cantered a little distance over the 
soft grass of the park. TI19 influence of cus- 
tom, that second nature, stronger even than 
.he first, was upon him ; he had enjoyed him- 
self quite enough — he now wanted an object. 

" There is a splendid view from those hills, 
or — " 

Here Norbourne was interrupted by his 
uncle laughing much louder than he often per- 
mitted himself to do. 

" Why, my dear boy," exclaimed he, " what 
have you ever seen in me to imagine I cared 
for any prospect that did not terminate in 
Whitehall ? Green trees and blue skies are 
very well in their way ; I believe indispen- 
sable to painters, and useful to poets : I was 
not aware that I figured in either department." 

" No one ever suspected, or even accused 
you of such proceedings," replied Norbourne, 
smiling at the idea of his lordship in either 
capacity ; but can you not understand enjoying 
the country for its own sake ?" 

" No, I cannot," replied his companion, 
drily. 

" Is it possible ?" cried his nephew, eager- 
ly. " I cannot ride along, this lovely morn- 
ing, without a thrill of delight. My whole 
frame seems lighter ; a thousand subtle influ- 
ences excite my spirits ; I catch beauties I 
never saw before, and long for some one to 
admire with me." 

" All this," replied the other, " only proves 
what a good constitution you have, and that 
you are very young. I dare say you will grow 
more rational in time." 

" More rational !" cried Norbourne ; " nay, 
now, I have all the high authorities. Is not 
this delicious quiet, this serenity of rural en- 
joyment, the one admitted happiness of hu- 
man existence ; that which the statesman 
craves, and the philosopher holds forth, as the 
golden secret of life ?" 

" Statesmen and philosophers too," replied 
Lord Norbourne, " often talk a great deal of 
nonsense. Half of what are called our finest 
sentiments originate in the necessity of round- 
ing a sentence. Lord Bolingbroke writes, 
with an eloquence which would make an en- 
thusiast rave, about the dignity and delight 
of retirement : I do not find that he intrigues 
with one atom less of activity to obtain a 
place in the ministry." 

" Do you know him ?" asked Norbourne, 
eagerly. 

" Ah ! he is one of your idols, I suppose," 
said Lord Norbourne, with a slight approach 
;o a sneer. "Youth is prone to admire ; but 
H is odd how, in a few years, we discover the 
defects of our demigods. At first we look 
only to the head of the image, which is of 
gold : we soon find the necessity of looking 
down to earth, were it but to find out our 
path ; and then we discover that our idol has 
feet of clay !" 

" Is there no such thing as excellence ?" 
exclaimed his listener. 

" Very far from it. I admit that there are 
a great many excellent things in this world ; 
Sir Robert's last measures, for example," re- 



turned his uncle, half smiling. " I would only 
warn you against youth's usual error of be- 
lieving and expecting too much — not that I 
expect you to take my warning. I do not 
often give advice ; first, because it is a bad 
habit that of giving any thing ; and, secondly, 
because I always think of the ambassador's 
answer to Oliver's declaration, 'that if the 
court of Spain cut off his head, he would send 
them the heads of every Spaniard in his do- 
minions.' ' Yas, please your highness,' re- 
turned the diplomatist, 'but among them all 
there may not be one to fit my shoulders.' In 
like manner, with all our choice of other peo- 
ple's experience, there is never any that suits 
us but our own." 

" In the mean time," said Norbourne, " we 
have arrived at the park gate, and have not 
determined whither we shall ride." 

" Crowded cities please me ihen, 
And the busy scenes of men." 

" For ' then,' substitute ' always,' and Mil- 
ton has just expressed my sentiments," re- 
plied his uncle. The ' crowded cities' are 
unattainable, but there are still 'the busy 
haunts of men.' Let us go and call on some 
of our neighbours. After all, the country may 
be interesting when there is a rumor of a 
general election." 



CHAPTER X. 

Ah ! waking dreams, that mock the day, 

Have other ends than those 
That come beneath the moonlight ray 

And charm the eyes they close. 

The vision, colouring the night, 
'Mid bloom and brightness wakes, 

Banished by morning's cheerful light. 
Which brightens what it breaks. 

But dreams, which fill the waking eye 

With deeper spells than sleep, 
When hours unnumber'd pass us by; 

From such we wake and weep. 

We wake, but not to sleep again, 

The heart has lost its youth ; 
The morning light that wakes us then, 

Cold, calm, and stern, is truth. 

Norbourne was amply repaid for giving up 
his gallop over the hills,. by the curious study 
which his uncle presented. He was astonish- 
ed at the facility with which Lord Norbourne 
seemed to divine the character of each indivi- 
dual, and how he contrived to adapt himself 
to it. He avoided politics, and yet often 
managed to make Sir Robert Walpole the sub- 
ject of discourse ; but it was only to tell some 
favourable personal anecdote. Once or twice 
he was fairly entangled in an argument ; and 
each time he allowed himself to be convinced 
on some minor point, which left, however, the 
original subject quite untouched. 

An allusion to some pamphlet, which had 
just made a noise, induced Norbourne to men- 
tion Walter Maynard to his uncle in terms of 
warm praise. 

" He realizes," exclaimed he, warmly, " al. 
one ever imagines of genius. He has the 
keenest sensibility, and this gives him the 
key to the sensibility of others. He is eio- 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



25 



quent, for his heart is in his words ; and he 
lias that passionate melancholy which is the 
true element of poetry." 

"Say no more," interrupted Lord Nor- 
bourne ; "you have described the man of all 
otheis the most unfitted to struggle with the 
actual world. His sensibility will make him 
alive to a thousand annoyances, which would 
be scarcely perceptible to one of colder mould ; 
his eloquence will obtain just admiration 
enough to deceive him ; and his melancholy 
only asks a few years' experience to deepen 
into utter despondency. Still, give me his 
town address ; I will, if I can, serve any 
friend of yours." 

" He has wonderful talents," continued his 
friend. 

"Talents," resumed Lord Norboume, " of 
this high and imaginative order, seem to me 
rather given to benefit others than their pos- 
sessor. Their harvest is in the future, not the 
present. Their brains produce the golden ore, 
which commoner hands mould to the daily 
purposes of life." 

" 1 think," replied the young advocate, un- 
willing to give up a point in which his feel- 
ings were interested, "that even you would 
believe in Walter Maynard's success in life, 
if you knew him. What has brought the 
world to its present state, but individual ta- 
lent ?" 

"I do not deny your assertion," said his 
uncle ; " but minds of the higher order are not 
the best suited to ordinary use. I cannot ex- 
press my meaning better than by using a 
3imile of our opponent, the Irish dean. Swift 
says, — ' take a finely polished razor, and you 
will waste your labour in getting through a 
ream of paper, which you need to cut : a 
coarse bone knife will answer your purpose 
much better." Now, your fine-minded man 
is the razor, and I leave you to make the ap- 
plication." 

"Weil," replied Courtenaye, "I commend 
him to your kindness, and beg you to put your 
judgment out of the question." 

" A very common method of acting in this 
life. But," continued Lord Norbourne, " you 
can form wishes for a friend — have you none 
for yourself ? I am amazed to see a young 
man of your appearance and talents — though, 
after I have been thus depreciating the latter, 
it is almost an affront to say any thing about 
those you possess — I am amazed to see you 
vegetating among your own oaks, as if, like 
them, growth were your only value." 

" I often visit London," replied Norbourne. 

" Yes," interrupted his uncle, with some- 
thing between a smile and a sneer, " to de- 
cide on the merits of rival actresses ; to bear 
away a few bon-mots from the coffee-houses ; 
to see that the fashion of your hair is not too 
much behind hand ; and to choose the newest 
embroidery for your waistcoat." 

Norbourne coloured ; for there Avas, at least, 
truth enough in the description to make it 
come home. 

" As little do I think that your country pur- 
suits deserve to engross your time. • Life was 

Vol. II.— 4 



given for something better than sitting aftei 
fish, walking after birds, and riding after 
hares." 

" As well, my dear uncle," said Courtenaye, 
laughing, " as tying up your whole life with 
red tape." 

Lord Norbourne smiled. 

" We will not try any more attempts at wit. 
Wit only gains you the reputation of being 
hardhearted, which it is very well to be in 
reality, but not to have the reputation of being 
It shocks people's little innocent prejudices, 
and these I always respect when I can. In- 
deed, the only character I ever found of any 
use to man, was that of having no character 
at # all." 

*" That is the very fault I find with your 
faction," exclaimed his hearer, eagerly. " It 
is too much the fashion to decry all lofty mora 1 , 
purpose, to disbelieve in public virtue, and to 
destroy all high excellence by a crushing dis- 
belief in its excellence." 

" That is to say," answered his uncle, 
calmly, " that Sir Robert knows the world, 
instead of imagining it : he deals with facts, 
not sentiments. But I will speak seriously, 
for it is a subject on which I wish you both to 
think and act. Look at the results of the 
Waipole administration — peace and prosperi- 
ty. We are feared abroad, and tranquil at 
home. You may easily find finer theories 
than ours, but I appeal to our practice." 

Norbourne remained in attentive silence ; 
while his uncle's quick eye noted the impres- 
sion he had made, and then continued : — 

" You might do any thing with your unde- 
cided neighbourhood, and your position points 
you out as its leader. Ah ! I wish that you 
had the political eagerness of Sir Robert's 
younger son, Horace ; who, hearing some one, 
during a dispute, say, ' W ny, we have opi- 
nions enough on our side to form a sect !' ex- 
claimed, — 'but have you enough to form a 
party ?' " 



CHAPTER XI. 

OPINIONS. 

He scorn'd them from the centre of his heart, 
For well he knew mankind ; and he who knows 
Must loathe or pity. He who dwells apart, 
With books, and nature, and philosophy, 
May lull himself with pity; he who dwells 
In crowds and cities, struggling with his race, 
Must daily see their falsehood and their faults, 
Their cold ingratitude, their selfishness: 
How can he choose but loathe them ? 

At any other time, Norbourne Courtenaye 
would have been delighted at his uncle's visit ; 
which, had it been but six months sooner, 
would have presented a very different aspect. 
Lord Norbourne was one of those men who 
made it his boast, that he had succeeded in 
whatever he undertook. We beg his lord- 
ship's pardon ; he never boasted of any thing : 
he knew fortune too well to tempt her by a 
defiance. No two people are more different 
in outward seeming, than a man sometimes 



26 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



grows to diffei from himself. Twenty-five 
and fifty are epochs which bear no resem- 
blance. In the reserved, cautious, yet bland 
and insinuating- statesman, no one could have 
recognised the gay, wild, and extravagant 
young man that Lord Norbourne had once 
been. A younger brother, he had been the 
architect of his own fortunes; and having 
one's own way to make in the world is not the 
best possible method towards giving a good 
opinion of it. One by one Lord Noro^urne 
had left behind him the generous belief, the 
warm affection, and the elevated sentiment. 
If he now thought at all about them, it was 
only to think how much, and how often, they 
had been imposed upon. The fault of his 
system was, that he gave the head an undue 
preponderance over the heart. It was the 
inevitable result of his experience : there are 
no weaknesses which we so thoroughly de- 
spise as those to which ourselves have yield- 
ed ; and no faults strike us so forcibly as our 
own, when they are past. 

The same process leads to different results. 
Sir Jasper Meredith hated mankind, Lord 
Norbourne only despised them ; the one had 
exaggerated his feelings in solitude, the other 
had dispersed them in society ; the one shrunk 
from his fellows, the other delighted in mak- 
ing them his tools : the sense of superiority 
was thus gratified in both. Sir Jasper under- 
valued worldly honours : Lord Norbourne even 
over-estimated their advantages. The diffe- 
rence lay in this : Sir Jasper had led a life of 
wild adventure in foreign lands ; seeking ex- 
citement for excitement's sake ; gaining riches 
by lucky chances ; and, wearied out both in 
mind and body, sinking into solitude at last, 
while he gathered round him all the bitterest 
recollections of the past. Lord. Norbourne, 
on the contrary, had led a life of business, in 
the same city and same court ; he had taken 
his daily lessons in small intrigues for small- 
er ends. 

The success and the disappointment alike 
belonged to the one aim — worldly success. 
He ended with being rich, a peer, and in the 
minister's confidence ; while the insecurity 
which, in a government like ours, attends po- 
litical elevation, kept away any approach to 
satiety. He had not gone through life without 
learning its many bitter lessons ; but the moral 
he drew from them was a sneer. Moreover, 
the habits of business are the most enduring 
of any; and Lord Norbourne's most positive 
enjoyment was in what are called the fatigues 
of office. Still he lingered in the country, 
and every day his nephew took greater de- 
light in his society. There was something 
very flattering to the self-love of any young 
man in the easy confidence of one so distin- 
guished, and usually so reserved. The polish- 
ed misanthropy, too, of Lord Norbourne's 
sarcasm was delightful to one who felt in his 
own heart the deep enjoyment of disbelief. 

It was an unusually mild and lovely evening 
that tney were loitering on the banks of the 
hke. The sun was just setting — a conqueror 
as lie went down; for every cloud that had 



flitted about during the day, now gathered on 
the west, mantling with crimson and gold. 
There was something triumphal in the rich 
colouring that arrayed every object. The vivid 
green of the oaks stood out more distinct amid 
the scarlet of the sycamore and the yellow of 
the thyme, together with the rich brown that 
was covering the chestnuts. The grass, too, 
of the park was in strong contrast to the purple 
heath that clothed the distance, only broken 
by the blossoming furze, which intersected it 
like a golden sea : a faint perfume came on 
the air, more subtle even than the breath of 
flowers ; it was like the last sigh of each fall- 
ing leaf, that flitted by noiseless as a ghost. 

To me there is no season so lovely as the 
autumn. There is a gayety about the spring 
with which I have no sympathy: its per- 
petual revival of leaf and bloom is too great 
a contrast to the inner world, where so many 
feelings lie barren, and so many hopes wither- 
ed. There is an activity about it, from which 
the wearied spirits shrink; and a joyousness, 
which but makes you turn more sadly upon 
yourself; but about autumn there is a tender 
melancholy inexpressibly soothing ; decay is 
around, but such is in your own heart. There 
is a languor in the air which encourages your 
own, and the poetry of memory is in every 
drooping flower and falling leaf. The very 
magnificence of its Assyrian array is touched 
with the light of imagination : even while 
you watch it, it passes away as your brightest 
hopes have done before. 

The lake, on whose bank Courtenaye and 
his uncle were standing, was just then an ob- 
ject of singular beauty. The sky was reflect- 
ed in its depths in huge masses of crimson 
shadow, which softened away into a deep 
purple mirror, clear and motionless, saving 
when the swans swept slowly across, leaving 
behind a vein of violet light. 

" Can you," said Norbourne, "be quite in- 
sensible to the beauty of a scene like this ? 
It enters into my very heart : I feel a kindlier 
disposition to the whole human race." 

" Nay, nay," exclaimed Lord Norbourne, 
" I cannot go quite so far as that. I have, 
thanks to your hospitality, laid in a stock of 
health enough for the ensuing winter : but as 
to the general benevolence of which you talk, 
I confess I find no symptoms : if I did, they 
would alarm me more than those of the gout." 

" But, my dear uncle," asked his young 
hearer, is it not a pleasanter thing to think 
well of one's species ?" 

" Pleasanter, I grant you," replied his 
uncle ; " but one always pays for one's plea- 
sures. Now I am arrived at an age when one 
grows economical on that head. I do not 
agree wdth Waller, who says, 

' Surely the pleasure is as great 
In being cheated as to cheat.' 

At all events, there is small enjoyment in be- 
ing cheated with one's eyes open, which 
would be my present case. My opinion of 
my kind is couched in St. Simon's answer to 
Louis XIV — ' Is there any thing,' asked the 



ETHEL CHURCHILL 



3/ 



king-, ' that you despise more than men ?' 
* Yes,' replied the duke, — ' woman.' " 

" I had hoped," said Norbourne, " that you 
had some soft relentings in favour of the fairer 
sex." 

" Not I," answered Lord Norbourne ; " wo- 
men have all our faults, heightened by a 
falsehood and inconsistency peculiarly their 
own. You may make a man understand his 
real interests ; now, a woman you never can. 
Of all materials with which it may be my 
evil fate to work, I especially abjure and abhor 
the fanciful." 

"Really, my dear uncle, you make me 
very uncomfortable," exclaimed Courtenaye, 
laughing. "Do you not even believe in 
love." 

"Yes," was the reply, — " as I do in the hoop- 
ing-cough, or the measles; as a sort of juve- 
nile disease to be got over as soon as possible. 
If young people would but consider, — a thing 
which young people never do, — they would 
rind that love is its own cure. Gratified, it 
dies of satiety ; ungratified, of forgetfulness. 
Let any man, in the course of a few years, 
look back upon the most desperate passion 
he ever experienced, and he will find himself 
not only cured, but ashamed of it." 

Norbourne walked on in silence : he felt 
too keenly to like to speak of his feelings, 
He shrank from mentioning his engagement 
to his uncle. It was almost sacrilege to men- 
tion Ethel's name with a chance even of sar- 
casm or of blame. 

" Cato's a proper person 

To intrust a love tale with !" 

So he kept his thoughts " in their sweet si- 
lence ;" and when Lord Norbourne returned 
to the house, long did he linger by that lonely 
lake, recalling a thousand looks and words 
which, lovely a,", they seemed at the time, 
grew even lovelier thus remembered. What 
impossible things inconstancy or inditference 
appeared to Norbourne ! Never did young 
worshipper more devoutly believe in the di- 
vinity of love. 

" For nothing in this wide world would I 
give up my sweet Ethel." It was almost like 
parting with herself when he left the lake side. 



CHAPTER XII. 

DIFFICULTIES. 

I do not ask to offer thee 

A timid love like mine ; 
I lay it, as the rose is laid, 

On some immortal shrine. 

I have no hope in loving thee, 

I only ask to love ; 
I brood upon my silent heart, 

As on its nest the dove. 

But little have I been beloved, 

Sad, silent, and alone ; 
And yet I feel, in loving thee, 

The wide world is mine own. 
Thine is the name I breathe to Feaven, 

Thy face is on my sleep ; 
I only ask that love like this 

May pray for thee and weep. 

Agreeable as Norbourne Courtenaye found 
his uncle's society, he could not but perceive 



that it operated, in some strange way, as a 
restraint upen his mother. For the first time 
in her life she avoided all his attempts at ob- 
taining an hour's quiet conversation. She 
kept herself almost entirely to her own apart- 
ments ; and when she made her appearance 
at table, it was with a worn and haggard 
countenance, and a frame that her son could 
see wasting before his very eyes. All Lord 
Norbourne's efforts to draw her into conversa- 
tion were vain : she would start and turn pale 
if he suddenly addressed her ; though, the mo- 
ment after she would recover herself, and 
evince absolute anxiety to address him. Nor- 
bourne was convinced that there was some 
secret ; and the deep respect and affection he 
felt for a parent who had been every thing to 
him, made him reluctant to inquire into aught 
that she might wish concealed. Yet what 
possible mystery could there be ? He was 
fretted and irresolute. Besides, what would 
Ethel think of his silence ? 

Another cause for embarrassment began to 
occasion him considerable uneasiness. He 
found that the report of his marriage with his 
cousin was universal. That, however, was 
of small consequence, compared with a con- 
sciousness, that daily fofCCO itself upon him, 
of a preference on the part of that cousin. It 
would be too cruel to encourage such a fancy 
for a moment. He could not but perceive that 
the faint colour never visited her pale cheek 
but when he spoke to her; that her eyes un- 
consciously followed hhn ; and that the slight- 
est opinion he expressed became, from that 
moment, hers. 

One morning he had admired the perfume 
of a rare flower which she had in her hand. 
A taste for flowers had been among her few 
enjoyments, and her father had indulged this 
taste at a most lavish cost : the hothouse at 
Norbourne park was the admiration of the 
country. The next morning he found the 
room he deemed peculiarly his own, filled 
with plants of the same description. Con- 
stance had sent to the park for them. There 
was nothing in the attention beyond that ready 
kindness which is so essentially feminine ; 
but the manner in which she received his ac- 
knowledgements was much : there was an 
embarrassment so far beyond the occasion, 
and a happiness not less obvious because it 
was rather betrayed than confessed. But 
Norbourne himself loved, and love has a ready 
sympathy with love. 

Love is a new intelligence entered into the 
being ; it is the softest, but the most subtle 
light ; in all experience it deceives itself; but 
how many truths does it teach, — how much 
knowledge does it impart ! It makes us alive 
to a thousand feelings, of whose very exist- 
ence, till then, w<e had not dreamed. The 
poet's page has a new magic : we comprehend 
all that had before seemed graceful exaggera- 
tion ; we now find that poetry falls short of 
what it seeks to express ; and we take a new 
delight in the musical language that seems 
made for tenderness. 

Even into philosophy is carried the deepej 



28 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



truth of the heart — and how many inconsis- 
tencies are at once understood ! We grow 
more indulgent, more pitying ; and one sweet 
weakness of our own leads to so much indul- 
gence for others. We doubt, however, whe- 
ther the term weakness be not misapplied in 
this case. If there be one emotion that re- 
deems our humanity by stirring all that is 
generous and unselfish within us, that awakens 
all the poetry of our nature, and that makes us 
believe in that heaven of which it bears the 
likeness, it is love : love, spiritual, devoted, 
and eternal ; love, that softens the shadow of 
the valley of death, to welcome us after to its 
own and immortal home. Some Greek poet 
says, — " What, does he know who has not 
suffered ?" Hs might have asked, — " What 
does he know who has not loved ?" Alas ! 
both questions are synonymous. God help 
the heart that breaks with its after know- 
I 

How sad seemed the lot of a young girl, 
touched by all the keen susceptibilities of 
youth, full of gentle and shrinking tenderness, 
fated to be unreturned ! Nothing can com- 
pensate to a woman for the want of exterior 
attraction. There is a nameless fascination 
about beauty, which seems, like all fairy gifts, 
crowded into one. It wins without an effort, 
and obtains credit for possessing every thing 
else. How many mortifications, from its very 
cradle, has the unpleasing exterior to endure ! 
To be unloved — what a fate for a woman whose 
element is love ! 

Poor Constance was originally pretty: the 
outline of the features was still graceful, but 
long sickness had contracted, and given an 
expression of suffering: while all colouring 
had faded into a cold white. The eyes were 
heavy, and their naturally soft blue was dim 
and faded before its time. Her figure was 
slight ; but the cruel accident — a fall in her 
childhood, which had laid the foundation of 
her ill-health — had made her a little aside, and 
caused a degree of lameness, which rendered 
it difficult for her to move without assistance. 
The only positive beauty she possessed was a 
profusion of hair of the softest gold, which 
gave the pale face around which it hung al- 
most the likeness of a spirit. What a con- 
trast to the bright and blooming image of 
Ethel Churchill, which was treasured in Nor- 
bourne's memory ! 



CHAPTER XIII. 



A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 

What mockeries are our most firm resolves ! 

To will is ours, but not to execute. 

We map our future like some unknown coast, 

And say, " Here is an harbour, here a rock— 

The one we will attain, the other shun ;" 

And we do neither. Some chance gale springs up 

And bears us far o'er some unfathom'd sea. 

Our efforts are all vain ; at length we yield 

To winds and waves, that laugh at man's control. 

The next morning there was more restraint 
Shan usual at the breakfast table. Norbourne 



was amazed that, though his mother had re- 
fused, on the excuse of a headache, his peti- 
tion for an interview, she had afterwards re- 
ceived Lord Norbourne, and their conversation 
had lasted nearly two hours. That its effect 
had been a sleepless night, at least, to Mrs. 
Courtenaye, was obvious from her haggard 
appearance ; and her hand was so unsteady, 
that it was with difficulty she raised her cup to 
her lips. There was something, too, in Lord 
Norbourne' s face that expressed anxiety; 
though his set brow and contracted lip, 
marked determination. Scarcely did his quiet 
and restrained manner give outward sign of 
what was working within. He would have 
conversed as usual ; but his attempts were so 
ill-seconded, that he was fain to take refuge 
in the letters that lay beside him. Courts 
naye himself was lost in thought. What 
could be the meaning of his mother's restraint 
and suffering — her reluctance to see himself? 
What could be the cause of estrangement be- 
tween a parent and child, hitherto so united ? 
One only cause presented itself. Could there 
be a second marriage in the case ? But the 
thought was rejected even as it rose; it was 
like sacrilege : so haughty, so old, so devoted 
to himself — it was impossible. 

But Norbourne's was no temper to remain 
patient amid so much doubt and annoyance. 
His unwillingness to urge any point upon 
which a mother he idolized seemed disinclined 
to enter, had hitherto kept him silent; but 
now silence seemed false delicacy, and he 
owed to himself to investigate the mystery 
which oppressed his once easy and happy 
home. He felt, too, that he was acting un- 
justly by Ethel : he had allowed a fortnight 
to elapse — he startled when he numbered up 
the days ; it is strange how we allow them to 
glide imperceptibly away. He resolved no 
longer to delay the avowal of his engagement. 
Had his mother permitted it, she would hav« 
received his first confidence; as it was, to 
acknowledge his attachment became a duty to 
her who was now his first and dearest object. 

With these thoughts passing in his mind, 
it may be supposed how much the cook's 
feelings would have been hurt, could she have 
known how the collared eels and raised pies, 
on which she had expended her utmost skill, 
were neglected. 

Constance was the happiest one of the party: 
accustomed to have her observations disre- 
garded, her faculty of observation was but 
little cultivated; equally accustomed to silence, 
it was more natural in her eyes that people 
should not talk than that they should. It 
was enough for her to sit by her cousin's side, 
to breathe the air that he breathed, to catch his 
least look and lightest word. At even a little 
usual civility of the table from him she 
blushed ; and if her eyes met his for a moment, 
they filled with light, which none who saw 
them at another time, spiritless and drooping, 
would have believed their faint azure could 
possess. 

It was a beautiful feeling that, which warmed 
the pale cheek of the youthful Constance. It 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



29 



was love in its gentlest, tenderest, and least 
earthly essence. It was hopeless ; for, in her 
humility, she had never dreamed of return; it 
was unalloyed by any meaner motive of va- 
nity or of interest, and surrendered its whole 
existence in a spirit of the purest and meekest 
devotion. The young and loving heart needed 
some object of which it might dream, in its 
many lonely hours, and on which it might 
lavish its great wealth of fresh and deep affec- 
tion. 

There is nothing to which you so soon be- 
come accustomed as to the presence of the 
beloved one ; the gentle chain of habit easily 
becomes a sweet necessity. Constance had 
now lived a fortnight in the same house with 
her cousin, and it already seemed the most 
natural thing in the world to see him every 
day. This morning, however, her enjoyment 
was doomed to be curtailed ; for she had 
scarcely finished her breakfast, before her 
father gently reminded her of a promise she 
had given to sort some letters for him. 

" I shall make you quite my little secretary 
in time," said he, with one of his own pecu- 
liarly sweet smiles. 

To Constance's affectionate temper, her 
father's kind look or word was more than 
enough to recompense any sacrifice, and she 
left even her cousin's side with almost glad- 
ness. Norboume's whole attention was ri- 
veted on his mother. She all but started from 
her seat when Lord Norbourne told his 
daughter to go; and, as Constance left the 
room, she rose with an intention of following, 
and then sat down, pale and trembling, as if 
she equally dreaded to stay or go. 

"You are ill, my dearest mother!" ex- 
claimed Norbourne, springing to her side. 

Lord Norbourne rose also ; and his move- 
ment seemed to recall Mrs. Courtenaye to 
herself. She rose calmly ; and, saying to her 
son, — " I shall expect you in half an hour ; I 
wish to have some conversation with you ;" 
she, also, quitted the apartment. 

Courtenaye thought the intermediate space 
a good opportunity of telling his uncle that his 
affections were irrevocably engaged. He had 
surmised, once or twice lately, that Lord Nor- 
bourne was not so careless of Constance as 
he seemed to be, and that the report of their 
marriage was not without his sanction. How- 
ever painful the subject might be, the sooner 
any such idea was put an end to the better, for 
the sake of all parties. 

"My mother has of late," said he, "been 
as inacessible as a minister of state, and I 
want to talk to her about my marriage." 

" You are thinking, then, of the holy and 
blessed state, as it is called, of matrimony ? — 
I guessed as much," replied his uncle. " I 
have observed lately that you do not hear 
above half that is said to you ; and the next 
thing that a young man loses, after his heart, 
is his hearing." 

"There have been cases, I believe," re- 
turned Courtenaye, with a forced smile, 
" when a man has wished that the last men- 
tioned loss would continue " 



" By the saffron robe of Hymen," cried 
Lord Norbourne, "but that Avould be a bless* 
ing ! I own that I am no great friend to mar- 
riage in general ; in nine cases out of ten, the 
opinion of the French poet, Marivaux, is mine 
also : — 

'I would advise a man to pause 

Before he takes a wife: 
Indeed, I own, I see no cause 
He should not pause for life. 

If a 3 r oung man has his way to make in the 
world, a wife is a dead weight upon his hands. 
Indeed, I have looked upon the fable of Sisy- 
phus as an allegory, and that his wife was the 
stone which so perpetually rolled back upon 
his hands, effectually retarding his weary pro- 
gress up hill. 

Norbourne smiled, and remained silent, for 
nothing repels confidence so much as raillery : 
how can you be confiding when your hearer 
is only witty ? Lord Norbourne, however, 
continued speaking, and now more seriously. 
" Situated as you are, my dear Courtenaye, 
the case is quite different ; an heir is indis- 
pensable to an illustrious family, and your 
name entails upon you the necessity of a wor- 
thy alliance." 

" My choice," interrupted Norbourne, 
" would do credit to any house." 

" It is not for me to contradict you," said 
his uncle, with a politer bow than the occa- 
sion seemed to require. 

" I am so glad of your approbation," ex- 
claimed Courtenaye. 

" You need never have doubted it," w T as 
the courteous reply ; " Constance — " 

" Constance!" ejaculated Norbourne, " I — " 
" Ah ! I see," interrupted Lord Norbourne, 
" that you think me even more ambitious than 
I am. I know that my heiress might look tr 
the highest honours of the peerage, but I pre 
fer yourself to the first duke in the land." 

" But, my dear uncle," interrupted Nor- 
bourne, — 

" No modesty, and no raptures," cried Lord 
Norbourne, as he turned to the door; "the 
pastoral and the heroic age are alike past 
away with me. Besides, your mother expects 
you ; and I do not think that a lady ought to 
be kept waiting, unless it be at an assignation, 
and then it is a useful moral lesson." 

The door closed after him, and his nephew 
felt that he had been completely outgeneraled. 
He now saw, what he had only suspected be- 
fore, that his uncle wished him to marry C on- 
stance. 

" Why put such nonsense into her head ?" 
But, even while he spoke, he reproached him- 
self: his very love for Ethel made him sensi- 
ble how dreadful was the existence to which 
love came not. 

" But," continued he, " she is young, gen- 
tle, — nay, sometimes almost pretty ; she may 
yet find an unoccupied heart." 

To this he might have added, that she was 
one of the first heiresses in England ; but Nor- 
bourne was too young, and too enthusiastic, to 
balance interest and affection for one moment 
in the scales together. I believe all the good 
c. 2 



30 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



fhat is sometimes said of human nature when 
t remember the feelings of youth ; and it is 
this principle explains why men whose 
"hearts are dry as summer's dust," often 
delight in the society of the very young. The 
sympathy is awakened by memory. 

Wallenstein exclaims of Max Piccolomini : 
" For, O ! he stood beside me like my youlh." 

The stern and worldly general saw in the 
young and ardent all that he had himself once 
been — generous, confiding, impatient of evil, 
confident of good, devoted and affectionate : 
all these must have passed away from one 
whose career had been in courts and camps, 
where he had learned the falsehood of the one, 
and the indifference of the other. He saw 
himself in his youthful officer : such was he 
no longer ; still it was pleasant to think that 
he had had in him so much of 



CHAPTER XIV. 

THE CONFESSION. 

Life has dark secrets ; and the hearts are few 
That treasure not some sorrow from the world — 
A sorrow silent, gloomy, and unknown, 
Yet colouring the future from the past. 
We see the eye subdued, the practised smile, 
The word well weigh'd before it pass the lip, 
And know not of the misery within : 
Yet there it works incessantly, and fears 
The time to come ; for time is terrible, 
Avenging, and betraying. 

Norbourne paused, with an irresolution for 
which he himself could not account, as he 
approached the door of his mother's room. 

The future has a more subtle sympathy with 
the present than our imperfect nature can ana- 
lyze. Who has not felt that nameless shadow 
upon the spirit, w T hich indicates the coming 
trouble as surely as the overhanging cloud 
foretells the thunderstorm ? The external 
world is full of signs ; and so is the internal, 
if we knew but how to trace them. There is 
the weight on the air before the tempest; 
there is the weight on the heart as the coming 
evil approaches. 

Scorning himself for his folly, Courtenaye 
made an effort and opened the door; but, 
almost unconsciously to himself, he did it 
slowly and softly. He entered unperceived, 
and saw his mother prostrate before the cross ; 
her face was buried in her hands, and the 
whole attitude bespoke humiliation and de- 
spair. It was as if she had dashed herself 
upon the floor in the last agony of an overbur- 
dened spirit, which seeks solace in prayer, and 
finds it not. Norbourne sprang to her side, 
and, raising her in his arms, exclaimed, — 

"For God's sake, my beloved mother, let 
this mystery cease ! Whatever be your sor- 
row, let your child share it. Can I do nothing 
for you ?" 

For the first time in her life, Mrs. Courte- 
naye let her head sink on her son's shoulder, 
and burst into a passionate flood of tears. 
Strange, for a woman and a widow, it was the 
first time that he had seen her shed such. 



What must be the force of that grief which 
thus utterly subdued one so proud, and so 
self-controlled ! Norbourne carried rather 
than led her to a seat ; and, lavishing upon her 
every tender and soothing epithet, implored 
her to tell him the worst. He was struck to 
see how she mastered herself. The sobs 
were swallowed down, the tears dashed aside ; 
and, with one kindly pressure of the hand, she 
went to the inner room, saying, in a low but 
unbroken voice, — " In five minutes, my child." 

Norbourne was left alone, and, insensibly, 
his eye was caught by the gloomy appearance 
of the room. The black hangings yet re- 
mained that had been put up at his father's 
death, but they were faded and somewhat 
torn. There was no carpet on the black oak 
floor, through whose crevices the wind came 
with that dreary sound which seems peculiar 
to it w^hen it enters the dwelling of man. The 
wind, amid the green leaves and the breathing 
flowers, goes its way in music ; it is the 
sweet and mystic song of universal nature. 
But it enters info our dwellings, and it learns 
there the accent of pain ; it breathes what it 
bears away — the sigh that tells, even in the 
midnight hours, of unrest, and the voice of 
lamentation that speaks but in solitude. 
These echoes accumulate, and the house that 
has stood for years retains within its walls 
complaints long since lost in air: but the 
wind, that heard, recalls them ; and there is a 
strange likeness to humanity in its murmurs, 
as it howls mournfully along the vaulted 
ceiling, or shrieks through the winding pas- 
sages. 

Its dreary influence was on Norbourne, 
though he knew it not, and added to the dis- 
consolate effect of the chamber. He knew 
that it was his mother's sittingroom, and yet 
there was not a single object that indicated 
feminine taste or presence. Chair and table 
alike were of deal ; and, from the damp ap- 
pearance of the grate, where the fire scarcely 
struggled into warmth, he surmised, and truly, 
that a fire was rarely lighted there. The 
only picture was the martyrdom of St. Sebas- 
tian ; and Norbourne shuddered at the terrible 
truth, which gave so vivid a representation of 
torture. The crucifix, on which the Saviour 
was extended in his last agony, occupied a 
recess; and, beyond these, not an object 
caught his attention : all around depicted 
suffering and gloom. 

But Norbourne had little time to dwell on 
the life of ascetic penance to which, it was 
obvious, his mother had condemned herself; 
for she came from the inner apartment. Stern 
must have been the mental discipline that had 
so banished all trace of emotion. Her clear 
olive cheek was pale, and the lip colourless; 
but so had they been for years. Perhaps the 
large black eyes had a brightness that had 
since left their thoughtful depths, but the 
scarcely checked tears glistened on the eye- 
lids. Her tall figure was drawn up to its ut- 
most; and the long black flowing garments 
and veil might have suited the abbess of some 
strict and proud order, who had renounced the 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



31 



a orld — its hopes, its feelings, and its vanities. 
But a nearer glance would have belied the 
first surmise. The lip was white, but it was 
tremulous ; and human emotion was in the 
passionate paleness, and in the dark and glis- 
tening eyes. Mrs. Courtenaye took her seat; 
and, after a moment's silence, said — but the 
\roic3 was hollow and constrained through all 
its etTort at calmness, — 

" I wished, my dear Norbourne, to express 
my entire approval of your marriage with your 
cousin — " 

" My marriage with my cousin," interrupt- 
ed Norbourne, will never take place. My 
uncle is so accustomed to arrange everybody's 
affairs for them, that he forgets that I am the 
first, person to be consulted in an affair like 
this. I admire and like my uncle, but will 
not be dictated to. Once for all, my dear 
mother, I will not marry Constance Courte- 
naye." 

" Think," exclaimed his mother, eagerly, 
" on the advantages of the alliance. You 
know very well that your estate, fine as it is, 
is burdened by heavy mortgages, which Con- 
stance's noble fortune would at once redeem." 

" And, by the sacrifice of all my best feel- 
ings and dearest hopes, I might," cried Nor- 
bourne, " command a few luxuries to which I 
am perfectly indifferent." 

" You are wrong," replied Mrs. Courte- 
naye : " luxury is but a trifle — not so power 
and position. With an unencumbered estate, 
you take the first place in the county; you 
obtain the finest field for the exertion of your 
talents : and England has no distinction to 
which you may not reasonably aspire." 

" But I am not ambitious," returned Nor- 
bourne. 

" It is what every man ought to be," inter- 
rupted his mother. " I should, from my in- 
most soul, despise any one who, with your 
advantages, could voluntarily sit down to a 
country life of indolent seclusion." 

"I have no such idea," replied her son; 
" but my future does not depend on my marry- 
ing my cousin." 

" It does, it does !" interrupted Mrs. Courte- 
naye. 

" You overvalue the advantages of the alli- 
ance," said Norbourne ; " but, even were 
they tenfold, it would be of no avail to urge 
them upon me. My heart, my faith, are 
pledged to another." 

" Do not tell me so !" almost shrieked his 
listener. " Norbourne, I charge you, by your 
mother's blessing, to marry your cousin — I 
command, I entreat you !"• 

Norbourne stood startled into silence by her 
sudden vehemence : it was but for a moment; 
and he continued, calmly, but kindly, — 

" My mother's command would be sacred 
Ta any matter less intimately connected with 
my happiness and my honour." 

"They cannot," said Mrs. Courtenaye, 
with such utter sadness of tone that Nor- 
Dourne started at the sound, " be dearer to 
yourself than they are to me. Do not for 
p ome foolish fancy — " 



"Nay," interrupted Courtenaye, "I would 
not present to you a daughter unworthy of 
yourself. The fortune, the family, of Miss 
Churchill are equal to my own ; and as to 
herself—" 

" Do not talk of her !" exclaimed his mo- 
ther. " I implore you, think of the claims 
that your cousin has on your forbearance — 
your pity : she loves you." 

Norbourne coloured, and then said, gravely, 
— " I do not wish to hear this, even from you. 
My cousin's feelings are too delicate for even 
our confidence." 

" You are content, then, to repay the affec- 
tion you have yourself inspired with the 
coldest ingratitude ?" asked Mrs. Courtenaye. 

"My dearest mother," cried the youth, 
"your desire for my advantageous settlement 
makes you unjust. You know well that 
nothing in my conduct has ever authorized 
Constance to fancy that I looked upon her 
but as a relative." 

" And can you bear to think," replied Mrs. 
Courtenaye, " on the misery you have in- 
flicted on that young and innocent heart ? 
She loves you simply, earnestly, uncon- 
sciously ; her whole life is bound up in yours : 
she will die, Courtenaye — die of a broken 
heart." 

" You press me too hardly," exclaimed her 
son; "there is one as young — and O, how 
fair ! — who has intrusted her destiny to my 
keeping. I have sought in vain the oppor- 
tunity of telling you — of imploring your con- 
sent: I do now. I cannot marry my cousin, 
for I love another." 

" O, Norbourne ! O, my own beloved " 
child !" exclaimed Mrs. Courtenaye, wringing 
her hands with a passionate gesture of en- 
treaty, — " have you no love for me ? This 
affection is of but a few months' growth : 
will you weigh it against that which has 
cherished you for years ? My son, have pity 
upon your mother ! I will never consent to 
your marrying any but your cousin — for my 
sake consent." 

" My dearest mother," cried Norbourne, 
" is it possible that wordly advantages can so 
far blind your judgment ? Do you know what 
it is to love — to feel how unutterably dear the 
presence of another can be — to know that all 
life could offer were valueless without her — 
to hope, to fear, to think, only for her be- 
loved sake ?" 

" Hush, hush !" said his mother ; " this is 
a boy's vain passion : will you weigh it against 
your mother's love ? Norbourne, few mothers 
have ever loved a child as I have loved you. 
You have been my all — my world : night 
after night I have watched your sleep ; j r our 
little head was never cradled near any heart 
but my own — ay, and more, for your sake I 
have sinned against myself. I know the 
falsehood of the faith in which you have been 
brought up, yet never have I sought to divert 
you from it : it led to power and honour in 
your native land. On my head, I said, let the 
sin rest. These walls could tell how the 
penance of midnight has expiated my fault. 



32 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Choose, Norbourne, between your mistress 
and your mother — between my blessing and 
my curse." 

Norbourne was less affected by this pas- 
sionate appeal than might be supposed. He 
was the most struck by what appeared his 
mother's extreme unreasonableness. She had 
not brought forward one rational objection, nor 
one argument beyond his interest. It appear- 
ed to him that she had allowed her imagina- 
tion to gain an undue sway from the solitude 
in which she had lived. The idea of a mar- 
riage between himself and his cousin had 
been dwelt upon till it reigned paramount, 
and she could not even comprehend that there 
was another side to the question. 

Impressed with this belief, he rose ; and 
said to his mother, in a kind, but determined 
tone, " I will not now prolong an interview 
which so agitates you. Think over the sub- 
ject, my dearest mother ; and, after I have 
spoken to my uncle, I will return." 

" Speak to your uncle ! Stop !" exclaimed 
Mrs. Courtenaye, grasping his arm with a 
convulsive force, of which her thin white 
fingers did not seem capable ; while her fine 
features were convulsed by some strong, 
though still suppressed emotion : "rash boy, 
3 T ou rush upon your fate ! You shall not — 
must not leave tb s room to meet your uncle, 
unless it be to tell him that you marry his 
daughter." 

" Mother," said Norbourne, startled by her 
manner, "I will not, indeed, leave the room 
till you tell me the meaning of all this. My 
uncle has no right to influence my actions : I 
am independent of him." 

" No, no, you are not independent of him ; 
every thing you have," interrupted Mrs. 
Courtenaye, "hangs upon his will. Come 
hither to the window, boy," and she drew 
him after her with the unnatural strength of 
a moment's excitement : " look there !" 

Norbourne mechanically gazed from the 
casement; and nature, so strong in her love- 
liness, for an instant caught his attention. 
The golden light that bathed the richly- 
coloured woods, and warmed the purple dis- 
tance of the hills, was in strong contrast to 
the cold and gloomy chamber in which he 
stood : but such tranquil beauty has no in- 
fluence on an hour of strong emotion ; and he 
turned away, to question of his mother's face. 

" Look from the window," said she, in a 
hoarse whisper ; "do you see the turrets of 
our old house fling their shadows on the 
grass below ? Do you see the fields and 
woods around ? They now call you master. 
I tell you, that one word of your uncle's, and 
they are gone from you forever. If you do 
not marry his daughter, he speaks that word." 

Norbourne heard her words : he made no 
answer, for at first he doubted that he had 
heard aright. Then a terrible fear of his mo- 
ther's sanity crossed his mind ; but there was 
that in her face which allowed no question of 
her intellect. 

" I know not," at last he exclaimed, " what 
strange mystery thus gives my birthright over 



to another ; but this I know, though it be in 
his power to alienate from me every rood of 
that which is my rightful inheritance, I will 
not wed his daughter. Two things are yet 
left me — my honour and my name." 

Mrs. Courtenaye's hand yet rested on that 
of her son ; he felt the cold shudder which 
passed through her, and he saw the drops 
stand on her high white brow. 

" Not even that !" said she ; and he started 
at the faint hollowness of her voice. " Re- 
fuse to wed Constance, and you are with nei- 
ther house, nor land, nor name !" 

" What do you mean, madam?" exclaimed 
he, in a tone as strange and altered as her own ; 
" am I not the son of the late Mr. Courtenaye 
— am I not your son ?" 

Both stood silent, each with a fixed and 
fascinated gaze on the other : she, with a face 
worn with a sorrow borne for many years — 
wan, emaciated, and on whose still fine fea- 
tures suffering wrought like physical pain ; he, 
with all the hope and bloom of youth smitten 
by a sudden blow — pale as death, and yet 
with lip and brow curved as if they defied the 
very agony that wrung the blood from the 
heart. 

" Am I," asked the youth, slowly, but with 
a voice so changed that it came unfamiliar to 
the ear even of his mother, — " am I the son of 
Mr. Courtenaye ?" 

" Ycu are," replied his mother — and she 
leaned against the wall for support ; while the 
blood, that had curdled at her heart for years, 
rushed over her face, throat, and hands, for a 
moment, and then left her even more deadly 
pale than before,-—" but I was not his wife." 



CHAPTER XV. 

THE CONSENT. 

It is the past that maketh my despair; 

The dark, the sad, the irrevocable past. 

Alas ! why should our lot in life be made, 

Before we know that life ? Experience comes, 

But comes too late. If I could now recall 

All that I now regret, how different 

Would be my choice ! at best a choice of ill ; 

But better than my miserable past. 

Loathed, yet despised, why must I think of it? 

The bitterness of death was upon the unfor 
tunate young man : he stood gazing from the 
window, but seeing nothing. He felt stunned 
— mortification sorrow, and anger, mingled 
together : the past was like a dream, and the 
future swam indistinctly before him. The 
first object that roused him was the sight of 
his mother, who still leaned against the wall 
for support, her stately figure bowed in an 
attitude of hopeless misery; and her pale 
hands hung down as if she had not the power 
to raise them even to dash away the few tears, 
the one or two drops, that overflowed her fixed 
and dilated eyes. Norbourne saw how worn 
and wan they were : he caught them in his ; 
and, pressing them to his lips, exclaimed, — 

" My poor mother ! I ask not of the past ; 1 
know you have suffered — that you suffer far 
more than I do. To me you have ever been 



ETHEL CH URCHILL. 



33 



the kindest, the best, the dearest. Let my 
uncle do his worst, we will leave this toge- 
ther." 

"You will marry Constance," exclaimed 
she, " and save us both from the misery of 
disclosure ?" 

Norbourne's brow darkened. 

" It were dishonour in me to yield. I will 
not play the part of an impostor, whom my 
uncle must despise even while he screens. 
No ; these estates are his right : let him take 
them; I will not buy them with his daugh- 
ter's hand." 

"Not for your own sake, but for mine," 
said Mrs. Courtenaye, " do I implore you to 
consent. My life and death are in your hands ; 
for never would I survive the disgrace of a 
discovery." 

" It is somewhat late to think of this," ex- 
claimed Norbourne, bitterly. The word was 
repented as spoken : " My dearest mother, 
you urge me too far." 

" Norbourne," said she earnestly, almost 
calmly, " listen to my story ; and you will 
then find it is not even the harshest justice that 
you measure upon my ill-fated head." 

She returned to her seat by the fire, and, 
pointing to a chair near, made one strong effort 
at self-control, and began as follows : 

" I was but sixteen when I met your father ; 
yet even then I had known sorrow. My pa- 
rents had both died within my recollection, 
and left me to guardians, who, only intent on 
securing my fortune, used every means to 
induce me to follow a religious life. They 
forced me into a convent, whence your father 
rescued me ; and that evening I was married 
to him — ay, married. A daughter of my noble 
house could not have stooped to a love un- 
sanctified by duty. We were married accord- 
ing to the rites of my own faith, — a faith I still 
hold as sacred as it was once held in this 
recreant land. 

" We had many dangers and difficulties to 
encounter ; and it was months before we 
reached England in safety. Alas ! you were 
born before that time ; and, as I learned too 
late, our differing faiths made our marriage 
illegal. He was only my husband before his 
God and his honour. He should have thought 
of them before he disgraced the woman who 
never wronged him by a doubt, and the child 
whose very existence was his own. I learned 
the truth, but would never consent to a second 
marriage. It could not do you justice ; and, 
for myself, I needed none. I stood acquitted 
by my own conscience. I had not transgressed 
the laws of God ; and the laws of men, what 
were they ? — founded on the party and the 
policy of the moment. None knew the se- 
cret but Mr. Courtenaye's brother, and till now 
he has held it inviolable. But I know Lord 
Norbourne well ; he would sacrifice his life 
for the success of a favourite project. Tell 
me that you will marry Constance : save me 
from shame — from death !" 

Norbourne stood silent and irresolute. Ethel 
and his mother rose confusedly together; but 
Mrs. Courtenaye could not bear the suspense. 

Vol. II— 5 



She sprang from her seat — she threw herself 
at her son's feet, and, resisting all his attempts 
to raise her, exclaimed, while she clasped his 
knees with passionate vehemence, " Never, 
never will I rise till you promise to save me 
from all I most loathe and fear! Must I be 
made a by-word and a scorn ? The days of 
my youth and beauty to be remembered only 
to tell how fair I was as Courtenaye's mis- 
tress ! To become the subject of the pity I 
have so despised ! Norbourne, you are your 
father's representative ; you owe me some 
atonement : at 3 7 our hands I ask the name and 
fame which your father risked in his selfish 
passion. The God whose shrine I deserted 
for earthly affection is terribly avenged. My 
husband deceived — my son deserts me ; but 
you cannot, Norbourne, abandon to shame the 
mother who watched your cradle. It is my 
life I ask — I will not survive the disgrace !" 

" Mother," said Norbourne, in a hoarse 
whisper, " tell Lord Norbourne from me, I 
will marry his daughter." 



CHAPTER XVI. 

A LONDON LIFE. 

The poet's lovely faith creates 

The beauty he believes; 
The light which on his footsteps waits, 

He from himself receives. 

His lot may be a weary lot ; 

His thrall a heavy thrall ; 
And cares and griefs the crowd know not, 

His heart may know them all : 

But still he hath a mighty dower 

The loveliness that throws 
Over the common thought and hour 

The beauty ol the rose. 

Existence is full of strange contrasts. 
The wheel of life whirls round, and leaves us 
scarcely time to know where we are before we 
find ourselves in a totally different position. 
The material is always much the same, — 
pride, vanity, deceit, and selfishness ; but it is 
worked up into very different shapes. 

A few weeks ago, Walter Maynard was 
pensively dreaming away existence to the 
music of a woodland brook, or in the soft sha- 
dows of the falling leaves. He was enjoying 
the most delicious hour of a poet's life — that 
consciousness of power which indicates its 
possession ; but a consciousness unimbittered 
by the harsh realities of its after-struggles intc 
actual life. In this one charmed hour is aL 
that afterwards constitutes poetry : at once 
poetry and its prophecy, it is the Aurora of 
the mind, 

"Fille de la jour, 
Qui naquit avant son pere." 

But he had left the green wood, and tne 
thousand inspirations of the wild flowers, and 
the shadows that flit athwart the drooping 
boughs, for scenes whose inspirations were 
thought, toil, and suffering. The clock of St 
Mary had just tolled one, and the neighbour 
hood around was hushed in profound repose 



i\ 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Every window was darkened excepting one ; 
and there a faint light burned steadily. Night 
after night it burned till it mingled with the 
chill white light of morning. 

There has always been to me something 
inexpressibly touching in the single taper 
burning through the long and lonely hours of 
siience and sleep. It must mark some weary 
vigil ; one, perhaps, by the sick couch, where 
rests the pale face on which we dread every 
moment to look our last. How the very heart 
suspends its beating in the hushed stillness of 
the sick chamber ! what a history of hopes 



fears, and cares, are in its he 



How does 



love then feel its utter fondness and its help- 
lessness ! How is the more active business 
of the outward world forgotten in the deep 
interest of the hushed world in those darkened 
walls ! — a look, a tone, a breath, is there of 
vital importance. With what tender care the 
cup is raised to the feverish lip ; with what 
intense anxiety the colour is watched on the 
wasted cheek ! How are the pulses counted 
on the thin hand, and sometimes in vain ! 

Again, that lonely taper, how often is it the 
companion and sign of studies for which the 
day is too short — studies that steal the gloss 
from the sunny hair, and the light from the 
overtaxed eye ! 

Walter Maynard is bending over a little 
table, while the rapid pen is slow in putting 
down the thoughts that crowd upon him. His 
cheek is flushed with eagerness, and the red 
lip is curved with triumph. It does not suit 
the scene around ; but from that the mind of 
the young poet is far, far away. There was 
that desolate air about the chamber which is 
peculiar to an ill-furnished London room : 
cities need luxuries, were it only to conceal 
the actual. In the country, an open window 
lets in at once the fair face of heaven : the 
sunshine has its own cheerfulness ; the green 
bough flings on the floor its pleasant shade ; 
and the spirit sees, at a glance, the field and 
the hedge where the hawthorn is in bloom. 
Not so in a town : there smoke enters at the 
casement ; and we look out upon the darkened 
wall, and the narrow street, where the very 
atmosphere is dull and • coarse. Its gloomy 
influence is on all. 

The room where Walter was seated writing 
was one that any, who had looked inside for 
a moment, must have known could only have 
belonged to a town. The floor was blackened, 
as were the unpapered walls. The curtains, 
thin and scanty, had long merged their original 
red into a dusky brown. Ornaments there were 
none, for the crooked mirror could scarcely 
h3 such : you started back at your own face, 
so grim was the shadow thrown over it, so 
rough was the complexion reflected. The 
dust had lain on its surface so long that it had 
become part even of the glass. A fire burned 
in the grate ; but it rather indicated its pre- 
sence by smoke, which stole forth in occa- 
sional puffs, than by its warmth. 

The air which the young student breathed 
was bitter with the vapour that had gradually 
gathered around him. His hands, small and 



delicate as a woman's, had long since assumed 
that dead white which marks extreme cold. 
Still he wrote on. He was too much en- 
grossed in his own charmed employ not to be 
insensible for a time to all external influences : 
he might suffer afterwards, but now his mind 
was his kingdom. Ever and anon the cheek 
wore a deeper crimson, and the dark eyes 
filled with sudden fire, as he felt the idea 
clothe itself in words tangible to the many, 
as its bodiless presence had previously been 
to himself. Solitary, chilled, and weary, yet 
the young poet huno- over his page, on which 
was life, energy, and beauty ; and under such, 
or similar circumstances, have been written 
those pages to which the world owes so much. 
A history of how and where works of imagi- 
nation have been produced, would be more ex- 
traordinary than even the works themselves. 
Walter Maynard is but a type of his class. 

The life of the most successful writer has 
rarely been other than of toil and privation; 
and here I cannot but notice a singularly ab- 
surd "popular fancy," that genius and industry 
are incompatible. The one is inherent in 
the other. A mind so constituted has a rest- 
lessness in its powers, which forces them into 
activity. Take our most emident writers, 
and how much actual labor must have been 
bestowed on their glorious offerings at the 
altar of their country, and their fame ! What 
a godlike thing that fame is ! Think what it 
is to be the solace of a thousand lonely hours 
— to cheer the weary moments of sickness, to 
fling a charm around even nature. How many 
are there to whom, in long after years, your 
name will come like a note of music, who 
will love and honour you, because you have 
awakened within them thoughts and feelings 
which stir the loftiest dreams and the sweetest 
pulses of their nature ! The poet's life is one 
of want and suffering, and often of mortifica- 
tion — mortification, too, that comes terribly 
home ; but far be it from me to say, that it 
has not its own exceeding great reward. It 
may be late in coming, but the claim on uni- 
versal sympathy is at last allowed. The 
future, glorious and calm, brightens over the 
grave ; and then, for the present, the golden 
world of imagination is around it. Not an 
emotion of your own beating heart, but it is 
recorded in music. 

Walter Maynard felt neither his poverty nor 
his seclusion. He was living in the old heroic 
time ; the brave and the beautiful were at his 
side, while he gave them high words, fitting 
their high converse. On the heroine of his 
play he dwelt with the passionate fondness of 
a lover : there the real mingled with the ideal ■ 
could he write of love, and not think of Ethe. 
Churchill ? She was the Egeria of his heart, 
who taught him all the truth of tenderness. 
If there be poetry in this world, it is in the 
depths of an unrequited and an imaginative 
passion — pure, dreaming, sacred from all 
meaner cares and lower wishes ; asking no 
return, but feeling that life were little to lavish 
on the beloved one. Often and often did" 
Walter's dark eyes glisten as he poured' Ma 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



35 



whole soul in some strain of tender eloquence, 
which he knew must touch the heart of wo- 
man. " She will read it ;" that little phrase — 
what hope, what happiness, has it net given ! 
"Walter had been spared some of the difficul- 
ties attendant on a young- writer's first efforts in 
London, by the kindness of Sir Jasper Mere- 
dith, whose letter of introduction to his book- 
seller had been more efficacious than such 
things usually are. The fact was, he had 
written another, repeating his commendations, 
and saying that he would be responsible for 
any expenses incurred in bringing any early 
productions before the public. Of this fact 
Walter was in complete ignorance, and him- 
self was astonished at his own good fortune, 
in having his pamphlet and poems so readily 
received. In the mean time, he shut himself 
in obscure lodgings, and pursued his labours 
with the industry that hope gives to a pur- 
suit. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

ANOTHER LONDON LIFE. 

A pretty, rainbow sort of life enough ; 
Fill'd up with vanities and gay caprice*. 
Such life is like the garden at'Versailles, 
Where all is artificial ; and the stream 
Is held in marble basins, or sent up 
Amid the fretted air, in waterfalls ; 
Fantastic, sparkling ; and the element, 
The mighty element, a moment's toy ; 
And, like all toys, ephemeral. 

Pleasure lasts fDrever, but enjoyment does 
not : the reason is, that the one lies around, 
and perpetually renews itself; but the other 
lies within, and exhausts itself. Lady March- 
mont was at the pleasantest stage of both. At 
first, all things are new, and most things de- 
lightful. Vanity , novelty, and excitement, at 
once the graces and fates of society, were all 
in attendance upon her. A few weeks made 
her a reigning toast; verses were written, 
and glasses broken, in her honour ; and it was 
an undecided thing, whether the Duke of 
"Wharton wore her chains, or those of Lady 
"Wortley. One day would suffice to tell the 
history of many. 

'• When sleepless lovers just at twelve awake," 

she awakened also. Chocolate came in those 
fairy cups of India china, which made the de- 
light of our grandmothers, and whose value 
was such, that the poet satirist considered 
their loss to be the severest trial to a woman's 
feelings — alias her temper; while to be 
'• Mistress of herself, though China fall," 

was held an achievement almost too great for 
feminine philosophy. Chocolate thenenabled 
the languid beauty to go through the duties 
of her toilette. Notes were read? laces looked 
over, the last new verses looked over with 
them ; perhaps a page read from the last 
French romance — the mind a little disturbed 
from its heroirj sorrows by the consideration, 
whether the next set of new bodkins should 
be of silver or pearl. Then it was to be de- 



cided what ribands would suit the complexion; 
whether the gazer would have to exclaim, 

" In her the beauties of the spring are seen, 
Her cheek is rosy, and her gown is green ;" 

or whether he would have to soar a yet higher 
flight, and cry, — 

u In her the glory of the heaven we view, 
Her eyes are starlike, and her mantle blue." 

Then the patches had to be placed — patches 
full of sentiment, coquetry, and bits of opin- 
ions as minute as themselves. Essences and 
powder had to he scattered together, and Hen- 
rietta's long black tresses gathered into a 
mass which might fairly set all the orders of 
architecture at defiance. Lastly came the 
hoop, and, with scarf and fan, 

" Conscious beauty put on all her charms." 

Friends began to drop in. One came with 
intelligence of a sale, where the most divine 
things in the world were to be had for nothing, 
or next to it — that next to it, by-the-by, is 
usually a very sufficient difference. Another 
came fresh from an Indian house, where silks 
and smiles, fans and flirtations, Chinese mon- 
sters and lovers, made the most delightful con- 
fusion possible. Ah, those Indian warehouses 
made the morning pass in a charming manner ! 
many a soft confession was whispered over a 
huge china jar ; many a heart has succumbed 
to a suite of mother-of-pearl card-box and 
counters ; and as to the shawls, why, the 
whole feminine world has long ago acknow- 
ledged them to be irresistible. To one or 
other of these Lady Marchmont was usually 
hurried away ; occupied with bargains, 

"Bought, because they may be wanted — 
"W anted, because they may be had." 

Then came the walk on the Mall, with as 
many cavaliers in her wake as there are bub- 
bles in the track of the stately swan^ each 
with sigh and compliment equally Teady- 
made. Heavens, but the classic deities did 
see service in those days ! Juno, Venus, and 
the Graces, do, certainly, round off a sentence ; 
and the very commonplace is redeemed by a 
fine world of olden poetry, that nothing can 
quite destroy. 

There is an exquisite vein of flattery running 
through our ancient masters of song: when 
they wished to paint their mistress's charms, 
all nature was compelled into the sweet ser- 
vices. How fine is Dryden's, 

'•'In the far land of pleasant Thessalie, 
Uprose the sun, and uprose Emily !" 

How sweet Donne's parting prayer to her whe 
would fain have companioned him, a gentle 
page,— 

;; When I'm away, dream me some happiness ;" 

or the sea captain's petition to his unknown 
mistress, — 

" Tell me thy name, fair saint, 
That I may call upon it in a storm, 
And save some ship from perishing ;" 

or, to conclude with Carew's picturesque bo 
lief, 



36 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" Ask me no more where June bestows, 
When spring is gone, the fading rose; 
For in her beauty's orient deep 
Those flowers, as in their causes sleep." 

These days of romantic gallantry had some- 
what waned : but enough of the high-toned 
and classic remained to make the charming 
things then said very charming indeed ; and 
never were they poured in a fairer ear than in 
Lady Marchmont's ; nor, it must be confessed, 
in one more ready to receive them. 

Night came, with that increase of gayety 
which has always been night's peculiar privi- 
lege — perhaps on the principle of contrast. 
Monday, it was the ridotto ; Tuesday, the 
opera ; Wednesday, Ranelagh ; Thursday, the 
play ; Friday, a ball ; Saturday, a rout, or else 
a little of all these blended together. What 
a sensation was produced the first night of her 
appearance in the stage box ! One line in the 
play was, 

" I look upon her face, and think of heaven ;" 

and how many white gloves at once addressed 
the line and their applause together to herself. 
No wonder that Lady Marchmont began to 
wonder whether Paradise and London were 
not synonymous terms. 
One morning, while 

" Watching the dumb devotion of her glass," 

in came Lady Mary Wortley Montague, who 
caught both her hands, and cried, laughing, — 
" Yield yourself my prisoner — rescue or no 
rescue !" 

"Why," replied Henrietta, "the fashion 
of wearing your ladyship's chains is too uni- 
versal for me to resist it." 

" There is a good child ! and now come and 
do as I bid you. We have improvised the 
most charming party imaginable. The sum- 
mer has come back by surprise. I own I 
wonder that June was not tired of us : still 
here is a day so sunny, that October does not 
know its own. The Duke of Wharton, Lord 
Hervey, and some two or three others, have 
designed a water party in our honour. We 
are to go and see Pope's new grotto, opened 
for the first time : then try Hampton Court, 
and see if Mrs. Howard will stake a little 
princely gold on a pool of basset." 

Lady Marchmont was delighted ; and a 
little time saw them 

" Sailing the bosom of the silver Thames." 

There were several besides, but a partie quarree 
was formed at their end of the boat, b)' herself, 
Lady Mary, the duke, and Lord Hervey. The 
ladies were on their best looks, the gentlemen 
on their best manners ; and manner in the one 
sex is equivalent to look in the other. The 
two fair dames were sufficiently jealous of the 
glory of conquest; and the two cavaliers suffi- 
ciently undecided, to give a due degree of 
piquancy to exertion ; and it must be allowed 
that each was worth the trouble of pleasing. 

Lady Mary was in the zenith of her beauty ; 
and, as it was a beauty that had always rested 
on feature and expression, the first bloom was 
scarcely missed. She caught the attention at 



once, but she was more likely to attract vlian 
to fix. The bright dark eyes were restless, 
and the lip had smiles more sarcastic than 
sweet ; and there was a pretty defiance in her 
air, which piqued rather than interested. Her 
dress was picturesque, but careless, and would 
not have suited any one but herself; and her 
manners were in exact keeping with her face 
and costume; — they were at once indifferent 
and flattering: she exacted much attention, 
but she also bestowed much ; and there was a 
brilliant uncertainty in her conversation, which 
gave it a peculiar charm. None could tell 
whether the next sentence was to be a com- 
pliment or an epigram. She talked much, and 
enjoyed talking; and, obviously, did not dis- 
like a little tracasserie. Scandal, with her, 
did not lose any of its usual snowball pro- 
pensities, of gathering as it went. 

Next her sat the Duke of Wharton, in an 
attitude ingeniously indolent. He had that 
air, so English, and yet so impossible to de- 
fine — high-bred. To-day his toilette was sim- 
ple to affectation : he had resolved, he said, 
not to have a care in the world, and he began 
by dismissing the most important. His figure 
was good, but slight ; and with singular grace 
in all its movements. His finely cut features 
were capable of every variety of expression ; 
they were, to use a French epithet, expressive 
as their epithets for all social qualities usually 
are, mobile in the extreme. They needed the 
passing animation of the moment; for, when 
in a state of repose, there was something 
wanting. The face did not interest; you 
noted in it a certain contraction of forehead, 
and an indecision about the mouth, which in- 
dicated, surely enough, Wharton's character. 
It was like a fairy tale, in which the good 
fairies assemble round the infant's cradle, and 
lavish upon it all the choicest gifts. Suddenly, 
some old and malicious magician appears, and 
destroys the effect of all these fine qualities by 
some one evil addition. 

The curse to Philip Wharton was the same 
that Jacob pronounced over Reuben on his 
death-bed : " Unstable as water, thou shalt not 
excel." To-day he was 

" Captive in Cytherea's bower, 
To' Beauty and her train ;" 

to-morrow engaged in some dark intrigue, 
whose intricacy was its chief charm : and still, 
whether as lover or politician, diverted from 
his first aim by some other object. 

" Thus, on the sands of Afric's burning plains, 
Though deeply made, no long impress remains. 
The slightest leaf can leave its figure there, 
The strongest form is scattered by the air." 

What the Duke of Wharton wanted was 
passion — passion, which alone gives intensity 
to the purpose, and constancy to the pursuit. 
He knew no feeling stronger than excitement, 
and looked for nothing beyond amusement. 
His friends could not rely upon him, but his 
foes could ; they might be sure that his resent- 
ment would, like all his undertakings, only go 
half way. 

On the other side was Lord HerveJ, a 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



37 



slight, fair, young 1 man, dressed — 0, ye gods, 
— invention enough for an epic must have 
gone to complete that toilette ! It involved 
the peace of mind of " a whole sex of queens ;" 
it was too destructive, and such Lord Hervey 
felt himself to be : his voice to a woman took 
a tone of tender pity, as if he compassionated 
his conquests. He never talked about any 
thing but himself; because he was persuaded 
that, in so doing, he chose the most attractive 
subject to his listeners. His horse, his dog, 
his every thing that was his, had a peculiar 
charm, from the mere fact of belonging to 
him. He was clever, and yet did the most 
absurd things, only because he believed that 
his doing them redeemed the absurdity. 

It was a lovely day ; for, say what they 
will, England does see the sunshine some- 
times. Indeed, 1 think that our climate is an 
injured angel : has it not the charm of change, 
and what charm can be greater ? That morn- 
ing the change was a deep blue sky, with a 
few large clouds floating over it ; a sun which 
turned the distant horizon into a golden haze ; 
and a soft wes,t wind, that seemed only sent 
to bring the sound of the French horns in the 
boat that followed their own. As they passed 
along Chelsea Reach, the bells of the church 
were ringing merrily. 

" Why, that is a wedding peal !" cried the 
Duke of Wharton ; "and it puts me in mind 
that Miss Pelham and Sir John Shelley are 
just going to enter into the holy and blessed 
state." 

" Yes," replied Lady Mary, " and I never 
knew a marriage with a greater prospect of 
happiness — she will be a widow in six 
weeks !" 

"Well," said Lady Marchmont, "you 
carry your connubial theoiy even further than 
in your last ballad : — 

' My pruver is pass'd by like a dream, 

And I have discover'd too late, 
That whatever a lover may seem, 

A husband is what we must hate.' " 

Lady Mary smiled very graciously ; she 
almost forgave Henrietta for looking so well : 
to have one's own verses learned by heart, 
and gracefully quoted, is more than poetical 
nature can resist. 

" For my part," continued the Duke of 
Wharton, "I hold that the connubial sys- 
tem of this country is a complete mistake. 
The only happy marriages I ever heard of are 
those in some Eastern story I once read, 
where the king marries a new wife every 
night, and cuts off her head in the morning." 

" It would suit your grace, at all events," 
replied Lady Mary ; " you who are famed for 
being to one thing constant never." 

"Well," exclaimed Lord Hervey, who had 
appeared to be absorbed in watching his own 
shadow on the water, " I do not think it is 
such a dreadful thing to be married. It is a 
protection, at all events." 

" • Thou, who so many favours hast received, 
Wondrous to tell, and hard to be believed !' " 

ciied Lady Mary : " and so, like the culprits 
Vol. II. 



of old, you are forced to take refuge from 
your pursuers at the altar." 

"For pity's sake," ejaculated the duke, 
" do let us talk of some less disagreeable 
subject." 

" Fie, your grace !" exclaimed Lady Mary. 
" Disagreeable subject ! Lord Hervey was 
only, as usual, talking of himself." 

The whole party were silent iix some 
minutes. After all, wit is something like 
sunshine in a frost — very sharp, very bright, 
but very col d and uncomfortable. The silence 
was broken by Lady Marchmont exclaiming, — 
" How fine the old trees are ! there is some- 
thing in the deep shadow that they fling upon 
the water, that reminds me of home." 

" I am not sure," answered the duke, " that 
I like to be reminded of any thing. Let me 
exist intensely in the present — the past and 
future should be omitted from my life by 
express desire." 

" What an insipid existence !" replied Hen- 
rietta, — " no hopes, and no fears." 

" Ah ! forgive me," whispered Wharton, 
" if the present moment appear to me a world 
in itself." 

" I," said Lord Hervey, " do net dislike 
the past, present, nor future. Like wo- 
man, they have all behaved very well to me. 
The past has given me a great deal of plea- 
sure ; the present is with you ; and as to the 
future, such is the force of example, that I 
doubt not it will do by me as its predecessors 
have done." 

" Truly," cried Lady Mary, " the last new 
comedy that I saw in Paris must have model- 
led its hero from you : let me recommend you 
to adopt two of its lines as your motto : — 

' J'ai I'esprit parfait— du moinsje le crois; 
Et je rends grace au Dieu de m'avoir cr£e— moi !' 

" It is very flattering to be so appreciated,' 
answered Lord Hervey, with the most per- 
fect nonchalance. 

" What an afFecting thing," said Lady 
Mary, " was the death of Lord Carleton ! He 
died as he lived, holding one hand of the fair 
Dutchess of Queensberry; who, with the 
other, was feeding him with chicken. What 
an example he gave to his sex ! he was 
equally liberal with his diamonds and his 
affections." 

" Uun vaut Men Pautre" said Lady March- 
mont. 

" I shall set off for Golconda to-morrow," 
cried Wharton. 

"Don't!" interrupted Lady Mary; "it 
would be too mortifying, when you come 
back, to find how little we had missed you." 

" O, you would miss me," returned he, 
laughing, " precisely because you ought not. 
I hope that you have heard the proposed altera- 
tion in the commandments at the last political 
meeting at Houghton ? Hanbury suggested 
that the 'not' should, in future, be omitted; 
but Doddington objected, as people might 
leave off doing wrong if it became a duty 
At all events, they would not steal, covet, and 
bear falsp witness against their neighbour. 



3S 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



with half the relish that they do at pre- 
sent." 

" Ah," replied Lady Mary, " we make 
laws, and we follow customs. By the first 
we cut off our own pleasures; and by the 
second, make ourselves answerable for the 
follies of others." 

" Well, Lady Mary," replied Wharton, " we 
have now arrived where you, and you only, 
give the laws— yonder is our poet's residence." 

The boat drew to the side, and the gay 
party stepped upon the bank. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

pope's villa. 

I say not, regret me ; you will not regret ; 
You will try 10 forget me, you cannot forget ; 
We shall hear of each other, ah, misery to hear 
Those names from another which once were so dear ! 

But deep words shall sting thee that breathe of the past, 
And many things bring thee thoughts fated to last : 
The fond hopes that centred in thee are all dead, 
The iron has enter'd the soul where they fed. 

Of the chain that once bound me, the memory is thine, 
But my words are around thee, their power is on thine ; 
No hope, no repentance, my weakness is o'er, 
It died with the sentence— I love thee no more ! 

It was a very bit of Arcadia, the scene that 
the lawn presented. A few late flowers lin- 
gered among the shrubs, and the rich colour- 
ing on the autumnal foliage supplied the place 
of bloom. The garden was laid out with ex- 
quisite taste, and the groups scattered around 
seemed animated with the spirit of the place ; 
for they placed themselves in little knots, just 
where they were calculated to produce the 
best effect. There was an elegant collation 
ready ; and, while Pope talked of 

"His humble roof, and poet's fare," 

he had neglected nothing that could please his 
assembled guests. To Lady Marchmont he 
was the most interesting object of all, though 
all his petits soins were addressed to Lady 
Mary Wortley Montague, who received them 
with that encouraging coquetry born of flat- 
tered vanity. 

Flattery is like champagne, it soon gets into 
the head ; but in Pope's flattery there was too 
much of the heart. Long after hours of neg- 
lect and mortification dearly atoned for that 
morning's pleasant delusion. There is some- 
thing in genius for which fate demands se- 
vere atonement. In some things Pope's was 
an exception to the general lot. He dwelt in 
that " lettered ease" to which his own taste 
gave refinement ; his talents pined in no long 
obscurity, but early reached their just appre- 
ciation; his friends were those whose friend- 
ship is honour, and he lived in a very court of 
personal homage and flattery. But fortune 
only neglected to do what nature had already 
done. Dwarfed from his birth, that slender 
frame was tenanted by acute physical ills ; 
which, acting upon a mind even more sensi- 
tive than his body, made life one long scene 
of irritation and suffering. The fmgers were 
contracted by pain that yet gave the sweetest 



music to their page : satire was at once hi* 
power (and the sense of power is sweet to us 
all) and his refuge. 

The passion and melancholy of one or two 
poems just suffice to show what a world of 
affection and sentiment was checked and sub- 
dued, because their indulgence had been only 
too painful ; but to-day was to be as flowing 
as his own verses : he was at her side on 
whom he lavished so much passionate and 
graceful flattery ; and Lady Mary paid him 
back, — not in kind, for his heart went with 
his words, but hers was " only sweet lip 
service." 

There is a cruelty in feminine coquetry, 
which is one of nature's contradictions. Form- 
ed of the softest materials — of the gentle 
smile and the soothing word, yet nothing can 
exceed its utter hard-heartedness. Its element 
is vanity, of the coldest, harshest, and most 
selfish order: it sacrifices all sense of right, 
all kindly feelings, all pity, for the sake of a 
transient triumph. Lady Mary knew — for 
when has woman not known ? — her power. 
She knew that she was wholly beloved by a 
heart, proud, sensitive, and desponding. She 
herself had w r armed fear into hope — had made 
passion seem possible to one who felt, keenly 
felt, how much nature had set him apart. If 
genius for one moment believed that it could 
create love, as it could create all else, hers 
was the fault ; she nursed the delusion : it was 
a worthy tribute to her self-love. 

"Truly, her ladyship," said the Duke of 
Wharton, " parades Parnassus a little too 
much. Does she suppose nobody is to be 
flattered but herself? Come, Hervey, let us 
try a little wholesome neglect." Forthwith 
they devoted themselves exclusively to Lady 
Marchmont. Lady Mary's smiles w r ere un- 
marked, and her witticisms fell dead weights 
so far as they were concerned. This was too 
much for a wit and a beauty to endure. Of 
what avail was flattery that she only heard 
herself ? She grew impatient till the colla- 
tion was over, and was the first to step out 
upon the lawn. 

Pope did the honours of his garden, which 
was a poem in itself. He showed them his 
favourite willow — fittest tree for such a soil — 
so pale and tender in its green, so delicate a 
lining within the leaves, so fragile and so 
drooping, with so mournful a murmur v*hen 
the wind stirs its slender branches. The 
whole scene was marked by that air of refined 
and tranquil beauty which is the charm of an 
English landscape. The fields had that glossy 
green, both refreshing and cheerful ; the slight 
ascents w T ere clothed with trees — some retain- 
ing their verdure, others wearing those warm 
and passionate colours that, like all things 
coloured by passion, so soon exhaust them- 
selves. Yet what a gorgeous splendour is on 
an autumnal landscape ! The horsechestnut, 
with its rich mixture of orange and brown— 
the sj^camore, with its warrior scarlet— the 
coral red of the small leaves of the hawthorn, 
mixed together with an oriental pomp ; as if 
the year died like the Assyrian monarch, on a 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



39 



pyre of all precious things. Winding its 
way in broken silver, the sunshine dancing- on 
every ripple, the Thames lay at the edge of 
the grassy sweep. The blue sky, with the 
.'ight clouds floating on its surface, was mir- 
rored in the depths of the river ; but, as if it 
lost somewhat of its high tranquillity under 
the influence of our sphere, the reflection was 
agitated and tremulous, while the reality was 
calm and still. It is but the type of our rest- 
less world, and the serene one to which we 
aspire : we look up, and the heavens are 
above, holy and tranquil ; we look down on 
their mirror below, and they are varying and 
troubled. But few flowers, and those pale 
and faint, lingered in the garden : these Pope 
gathered and offered to his fair guests. Lady 
Marchmont placed hers carefully in her girdle. 
" I shall keep even the withered leaves as a 
relic," said she, with a smile even more flat- 
tering than her words. It was well that she 
engrossed the attention of her host from the 
dialogue going on between Lord Hervey and 
Lady Mary. 

" You learned the language of flowers in 
the east," said he, "but I thought" dwarfs 
were only the messengers." 

" And such they are now," replied his 
listener : " here is one flower for you, 

' The rest the gods dispersed on empty air,' " 

ind she flung the blossoms carelessly from 
tier. 

Pope did not see the action, for he was 
pointing out a beautiful break in the view. 
" I have," said he, '* long had a favourite pro- 
ject — that of planting an old Gothic cathedral 
in trees. Tall poplars, with their white stems, 
the lower branches cut away, would serve for 
the pillars ; while different heights would 
form the aisles. The thick green boughs 
would shed ' a dim religious light,' and some 
stately old tree would have a fine effect as the 
tower." 

" A charming idea !" cried Wharton ; " and 
we all know 

' That sweet saint whose name the shrine would bear.' 

But, while we are waiting for the temple, can 
you not show us the altar ? — we want to see 
your grotto." 

Pope desired nothing better than to show 
his new toy, and led the way to the pretty and 
fanciful cave, which Avas but just finished. It 
was duly admired ; but, while looking around, 
Wharton observed some verses lying on the 
seat. 

" A treasure for the public good," exclaimed 
he ; "I volunteer reading them aloud." 

" Nay, nay, that is very unfair," cried Pope, 
who, nevertheless, did not secretly dislike the 
proposal. 

" O," replied the duke, "we will allow for 
your modesty's ' sweet, reluctant, amorous 
delay ;'• but read them I must and shall." 
Then, turning towards Lady Mary, he read 
the following lines : — 

"Ah, friend, 'tis true— this truth you lovers know, 
In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow ; 



In vain fair Thames reflects the double scene 
Of hanging woodlands, and of sloping areen: 
Joy lives not here ; to happier seals it flies, 
And only lives where Wortley casts her eyes." 

" Pray, * fair inspirer of the tender strains,' let 
me lay the offering at your feet." 

" Under them, if you please," said she, her 
fine features expressing the most utter con- 
tempt; and, trampling the luckless compli- 
ment in the dust, she took Lord Hervey 's 
hand, and, exclaiming, — " The atmosphere of 
this place is too oppressive for me," left the 
grotto : but part of her whisper to her com- 
panion was meant to be audible, — 

"A signpost likeness of the human race, 
That is at once resemblance and disgrace." 



CHAPTER XIX. 

Alas, how bitter are the wrongs of love 

Life has no other sorrow so acute : 

For love is made of every fine emotion, 

Of generous impulses, and noble thoughts; 

It looketh to the stars, and dreams of heaven; 

It nestles 'mid the flowers, and sweetens earth. 

Love is aspiring, yet is humble, too: 

It doth exalt another o'er itself, 

With sweet heart homage, which delights to raise 

That which it worships ; yet is fain to win 

The idol to its lone and lowly home 

Of deep affection. 'Tis an utter wreck 

When such hopes perish. From that moment, life 

Has in its depths a well of bitterness, 

For which there is no healing. 

Lady Marchmont was left alone in the 
grotto with its ill-fated master, and every 
kindly feeling in her nature was in arms. 
Affecting not to have noticed what passed, she 
approached where Pope stood, — speechless, 
pale with anger, and a yet deeper emotion : 
she said, in a voice whose usual sweetness 
was sweeter than ever, with its soothing and 
conciliating tone, — " There is one part of your 
garden, Mr. Pope, which I must entreat you 
to show me. I have a dear, kind, old uncle 
at home, who owes you many a delightful 
evening. He will never forgive me unless I 
write him word that I have seen 

' The grapes long lingering on the sunny wall.' " 

Pope took her hand mechanically, and led 
her forth ; but the effort at self-control was 
too much for his weak frame. The drops 
stood on that pale, high brow which was the 
poetry of his face, and he leant against the 
railing. " No !" exclaimed he, passionately, 
after a few minutes' silence, " your courtesy, 
lady, cannot disguise from me that you, too, 
heard the insult, of that heartless woman. Let 
me speak — I know I may trust your kindness ; 
and, even if you turned into after ridicule the 
bitter outpouring of this moment's misery, you 
would but do as others, in whom I trusted, 
have done. My God! how madly I have 
loved her — madly, indeed, since it made me 
forget the gulf that nature has set between 
us — she so beautiful, and I, as she has just 
said, who only resemble my kind to disgrace 
it ! Yet she sought me first, she led me on, 
she taught me to think that the utter prostra- 
tion of the heart was something in her eyes— - 
that a mind like hers could appreciate mind 



40 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Fool, fool, that I have been ! What have I 
done, that I should be thus set apart from my 
kind, — disfigured, disgraced, immeasurably 
wretched ? O ! that i might lay my weary 
head en my mother earth, and die !" 

" We could not spare you," exclaimed Lady 
Marchmont, taking his hand affectionately, — 
the tears starting in her eyes ; " but not for 
this moment's mortification must you forget 
your other friends — how much even strangers 
love and admire you. Think of your own 
glorious genius, and on the happiness which 
it bestows. I have but one relative in the 
world : he is an old solitary man ; and I think 
of him with cheerfulness, whenever I send 
him a new page of yours. I speak but as one 
of many who never name you but with admi- 
ration and with gratitude." 

Pope pressed the hand that yet remained in 
his own. " God bless you, my dear, kind 
child ! I thank you for calling my power to 
my mind. She shall learn that the worm on 
which she trod has a sting." 

They loitered a little while, till the irritated 
host was equal to joining his guests. The 
boat was ready ; and the whole party joined 
in laughing at Lady Marchmont for her long 
tete-a-tete with Pope. 

" I am not jealous," cried Lady Mary : 

" ' Ye meaner beauties, T permit ye sh'ne — 
Go triumph in a heart that once was mine !' " 

" I think," said Lady Marchmont, pointedly, 
" there has been as little heart in the matter 
as possible ; but you shall none of you laugh 
me out of my cordial admiration of a man of 
firstrate genius, and whose personal infirmi- 
ties call upon us for the kindliest sympathy." 

" By Jove ! you are right," cried the Duke 
of Wharton : " how much vanity may be par- 
doned in one who has such cause for just 
pride ! He is building up a noble monument 
in his language, which will last when we, 
with our small hopes and influences, are as 
much forgotten as if we had never been." 

" I see no great good in being remembered," 
retorted Lady Mary : " I would fain concen- 
trate existence in the present. I would forget 
in order to enjoy. As to memory, it only re- 
minds me that I am growing older every day ; 
and as to hope, it only puts one out of conceit 
with possession." 

" All this is very true of our commonplace 
existences," replied Lady Marchmont; "but 
the gifted mind has a diviner element." 

t: 'How charming is divine philosophy — 

Not harsh and rugged, as dull fools believe,' " 

exclaimed Lord Hervey, with a sneer. 

" With the single exception of Lady March- 
mont," said Wharton, kt we have all behaved 
shamefully to-day. How I will admire the 
the next thing that Pope writes ! and, what is 
m )re, I will ride over to Twickenham to tell 
him so ;" and, having made this compromise 
with his conscience, the conversation dropped. 

From that day, however, all friendship was 
at an end between Lady Mary and Pope. 
How lie revenged himself is well known. 
His lines yet remain, stamped with all the 



bitterness of wounded vanity and mortified 
affection. Strange, the process by which love 
turns into hate. I pity it even more than ] 
blame it. What unutterable wretchedness 
must the heart have undergone ! What scorn 
and what sorrow must have been endured be- 
fore revenge could become a refuge and a 
resource ! 



CHAPTER XX. 

THE MARRIAGE MORNING. 

My heart is fill'd with bitter thought, 
My eyes would fain shed tears ; 

I have been thinking upon past. 
And upon future years. 

Years past — why should I stir the depths 
Beneath their troubled stream ? 

And years that are as yet to come, 
Of them I dread to dream. 

Yet wherefore pause upon our way ? 

'Tis best to hurry on ; 
For half the dangers that we fear, 

We face them," and they're gone. 

The morning came when Norbourne Court- 
enaye was to marry his cousin. He and his 
mother had arrived at Norbourne Park the 
evening before, as it had been settled that the 
ceremony was to be performed in the little 
chapel Lord Norbourne had himself built. 
At one time he had spent large sums of money 
on the house, but that was when he had hoped 
for a son ; of late years he obviously directed 
his views in another channel. He had pulled 
down a great part of the building, while he 
increased his landed property to a vast ex- 
tent; but all his purchases were adjacent to 
the Courtenaye property, which, when united 
with his own, would make one of the finest 
estates in England. He had long gone back 
upon the ancient honours of his house, instead 
of his once hope to be the founder of another 
line. 

In the little, as in the great things of life, 
are to be found the type and sign of our im- 
mortality. Every hope that looks forward is 
pledge of the hereafter to which it refers. 
Who rests content wdth the present ? None. 
We have all deep within us a craving for the 
future. In childhood we anticipate youth ; in 
youth manhood ; in manhood old age ; and to 
what does that turn, but to a world beyond 
our own ? From the very first, the strong 
belief is nursed within us ; we look forward 
and forward, till that which was desire grows 
faith. . The to-come is the universal heritage 
of mankind ; and he claims but a small part 
of his portion who looks not beyond the 
grave. 

The house was alive with bridal prepara- 
tions — still there was but little mirth. Lord 
Norbourne had, as well as Mrs. Courtenaye, 
impressed his character on his household. 
His lordship's was quiet, obedient, and per- 
fect in all mechanical arrangement ; the lady's 
was staid, slow, and solemn. Merriment ap- 
peared a sort of excess to either, at least while 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



41 



m the atmosphere of either master or mistress. 
The day itself was miserably dull ; a thick 
fog shut out the landscape, while a few of the 
nearer trees alone were visible, spreading out 
their thin spectral arms on the murky air. 
Over head, the sky was of that dull leaden 
hue to whose monotony even a dark cloud 
would be a relief. It was as if the most 
smoke like of earth's vapours had obscured the 
fair face of heaven. 

It was curious to look within each chamber, 
and mark the different employ of the princi- 
pal individuals. Lord Norbourne was seated 
by a blazing fire, while the whole dressing- 
room was fragrant with the coffee which had 
just been brought to him. Mechanically, he 
was turning over paper, and opening letters ; 
but his thoughts were not with his employ. 
He looked more anxious than he often allowed 
himself to look ; but then, to be sure, there 
was no one near to observe it. Suddenly, his 
glance fell on a casket near ; he opened it, and 
the fire's light shone reflected from its glitter- 
ing contents. 

"Ay," said he, aloud, "these toys make 
the destiny of woman ; and I doubt whether, 
after all, our own be not equally worthless. 
Is there any thing worth the exertion of pro- 
curing it ? Thank God, we grow accustomed 
to our daily yoke ; and it is habit, and habit 
only, that enables us to get through life. 
Would that I could put my head, for a few 
hours, on Norbourne's shoulders. ' If young 
people would but consider,' says a moral essay 
that I have somewhere read : it would be 
putting the thing much more rationally, to 
say, if young people would but let us consider 
for them, and be satisfied. Youth would be 
a delightful time, if it were not so singularly 
absurd; and if the consequences of its vain 
hopes, and foolish beliefs, did not remain long 
after themselves had passed way. I, for one, 
have no wish to live my youth over again ;" 
and the speaker sank back in a gloomy revery. 

Lord Norbourne was a very handsome man, 
and young looking for his time of life. It 
was as if the moral energy which was the 
great characteristic of his mind, exercised its 
strong control even over time, and forbade it 
to leave traces of internal struggle on that 
smooth and polished brow. But to-day the 
shadow of long past years rested upon it; and 
in the dejected attitude, the melancholy ex- 
pression, few would have recognised the 
bland and stately bearing which generally 
defied scrutiny in Lord Norbourne. Suddenly, 
he started from his seat. 

k * Folly!" exclaimed he, "to waste my 
time in these miserable recollections ! I have 
decided that Norbourne shall marry Con- 
stance. It is life to her, and every thing that 
makes life worth having to him. Wealth, 
rank, and power — these may surely weigh in 
the scale against a boy's fancy:" but the 
speaker's countenance again darkened, and he 
was silent. "This is worse than foolish," 
said he, in a low and determined tone : " of 
all follies that we can commit, the greatest is 
to hesitate." 

Vol. II.— 6 



So saying, he took up the case of jewels 
and, with his usual smile, and quiet step 
souo-ht his daughter's chamber. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

THE TOILETS. 

Bring from the east, bring from the west, 
Flowers for the hair, gems for the vest ; 
Bring the rich silks that are shining with gild, 
Wrought in rich broidery on every fold. 

Bring ye the perfumes that breathe on the rose, 
Such as the summer of Egypt bestows ; 
Bring the white pearls from the depths of the sea — 
They are fair like the neck where their lustre will be. 

Such are the offerings that now will be brought, 
But can they bring peace to the turmoil of thought 1 
Can they one moment of quiet bestow 
To the human heart, feverish and beating, below 1 

The next chamber was that of Mrs. Court- 
enaye. For the first time since her husband's 
death, she had thrown off her weeds, and put on 
attire more suited to the occasion. She was 
richly, yet plainly dressed, in a purple velvet, 
with a hood of white point lace. Even her silent 
handmaids were surprised out of their ordi- 
nary propriety by her appearance. She waved 
away, with an impatient gesture of her hand, 
the mirror that they brought ; and, saying she 
wished to he alone, flung herself on a seat. 

"I know not," exclaimed she, "why I 
should feel this depression and regret. Does 
not this marriage insure Norbourne all that 
life can desire — wealth, rank, and security ? 
I wedded, as I thought, for love, faith, and 
happiness ; and what was the end ? Years 
of bitter fear and doubt. Dishonour has stood 
forever, a spectre, viewless, but dreaded, at 
my side. That ghost is now laid forever ; 
why, then, am I sad ?" 

Her own heart told her why. Years had 
passed since, with a burning cheek and a 
beating heart, she had knelt by the side of 
Norbourne's father, and arisen from before the 
priest and the crucifix, his bride. She thought 
what a world of sweet emotion sent the light 
to her eyes, and the colour to her blush, as 
they wandered together beneath the silvery 
shadows of the olive grove. How minutely 
was the slightest thing impressed on her me- 
mory ! She remembered the childish sorrow 
with which she saw the thicker boughs shut 
out the sunshine, because she no longer could 
watch his shadow. She thought, too, how 
they leant beside the old Moorish well, whose 
deep water was like a dark and polished 
mirror — leant gazing each on the image ot 
the other, and then laughed aloud in tender 
mockery, to think that they should gaze on a 
shadow with the reality so near; and they 
looked into each other's eyes with a deeper 
fondness. With what sweet confidence did 
they talk of the future ; what a loveliness,, 
never noted before, was on the blue sky and 
the fair earth ! 

It was the loveliness of love, flinging his 
own divine likeness over all ; and this love, 
the only spiritual and mighty happiness o 
d2 



12 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Krhich humanity is capable, was henceforth 
1.0 be to Norboume a forbidden word. He 
loved one, and was to wed another. Earth 
has no such misery. It is wretchedness to 
pine through long years of uncertain absence, 
subject to all the casualties of doubt and dis- 
tance, feeding on long expectation; till, as 
the scripture so touchingly says, hope de- 
ferred is sickness to the heart : still there is 
hope, and love has a store of subtle happiness 
in the many links that memory delights to 
bind, and whose tender recallings are the 
dearest guarantee for the future. 

It is wretchedness to kneel by the grave of 
the departed, who have taken with them the 
verdure from the earth, and the glory from the 
sky ; who have left home and heart alike de- 
solate : but then the soul asserts its diviner 
portion, looks afar off through the valley of 
the shadow of tears, and is intensely con- 
scious that here is but its trial, and beyond is its 
triumph. The love that dwells with the dead 
has a sanctity in its sorrow ; for love, above 
all things, asserts that we are immortal. But 
wretchedness takes no form, varied as are its 
many modes in this our weary existence, like 
that where the hand is given, and the heart is 
far away — where the love vowed at the altar 
-s not that which lies crushed, yet not quench- 
ed, within the hidden soul. Hope brings no 
comfort ; for there were cruelty and crime in 
..ts promises : memory has no solace ; it can, 
at best, only crave oblivion — and oblivion of 
what ? Of all life's sweet dreams, and deep- 
est feelings. Yet, what slight things must, 
with a sting like that of the adder, bring back 
the past— too dear, and yet too bitter ! a word, 
a look, a tone, may be enough to wring ever) 7 ' 
pulse with the agony of a vain and forbidden 
regret. 

Mrs. Courtenaye felt that her son needed 
consolation ; and she hurried to his chamber, 
and had opened the door before she recollect- 
ed that she could say — nothing. He was al- 
ready dressed, and alone. He was leaning 
against the fireplace, and so lost in thought 
that he did not hear his mother enter. 

" My own dear child !" said she, laying 
her hand on his. He started — his cheek grew 
deadl}'- pale : it was for a moment, and his part 
was taken. 

"Ah! you were afraid I should not have 
finished my toilet," exclaimed he, with a 
forced smile; "but do let me admire the re- 
sult of yours. Why, my dear mother, I did 
not know how beautiful you were !" and he 
gazed with a natural touch of pride on the 
noble face and stately figure, to which time, 
while it stole freshness, had given dignit)\ 

The tears, in despite of her efforts, swam 
in her eyes. He would not seem to see them ; 
but, taking her hand, kissed it fervently as he 
led her forth. Deep and bitter is the grief 
that shrinks from words, even with those the 
most loved and trusted ; and what a world of 
unspoken sorrow was in t^e soul of both mo- 
ther and son as they crossed the threshold ! 



CHAPTER XXII. 

THE JEW T ELS GIVEN. 

A gentle creature was that girl, 

Meek, humble, and subdued; 
Like some lone flower that has grown up 

Iu woodland solitude. 

Its soil has had but little care, 

Its growth but little praise ; 
And down it droops the timid head 

It has not strength to raise. 

For other brighter blooms are round, 

And they attract the eye ; 
They seem the sunny favourites 

Of summer, earth and sky. 

The human and the woodland flower 

Hath yet a dearer part,— 
The perfume of the hidden depths, 

The sweetness at the heart. 

" You must wear these to-day, my de^r 
child," said Lord Norboume, as, entering the 
dressing-room of his daughter, he laid a suit 
of pearls on her table. 

Constance looked up in her father's face, 
tearfully : there was something in his voice 
so kind, so subdued, so different from its or- 
dinary careless and sarcastic tone ; and the 
expression on his features was equally unusu- 
al. Touched and encouraged for the first time 
in her life, she flung herself, unbidden, into 
her father's arms, and he held her tenderly to 
his heart. 

" Are you happy, my child ?" asked he in 
a low broken whisper. 

"Happy! my dearest father," exclaimed 
she, hiding her face on his arm, where she 
still hung, till he could only see the back of 
her neck, and even that was rosy with one 
deep blush — " unutterably happy ! Even to 
myself I never dared own, till now, how much 
I loved my cousin. When others taunted me 
with faults which, God knows, I felt but too 
bitterly, Norbourne always took my part. 
From him I never heard an unkind Avord. I 
have often cried myself to sleep in his arms. 
As I grew older, I loved him but the more, 
because such love seemed hopeless. I never 
dreamt that one so beautiful, so gifted, could 
waste a thought on myself. But it was hap- 
piness to hope that he might be happy, to 
think of him, to pray for him. And now to 
know that he loves me (for he would not 
marry me without.) makes me feel as if I 
were in a dream, whose only fear is to awake. 
And you my dearest father, how kind you are 
to me ! Can you forgive me if I tell you that 
there was a time w T hen I thought you did not 
care for me, because I was not fair as my 
sisters'? It made me feel so lonely, so sad; 
and I clung yet more to my love for my cou- 
sin : no one cared for my affection ; it was, 
therefore, my own to do with as I would. 
But his love scarcely fills me with a deeper 
joy than does yours. O, my father ! if I have 
ever given you cause for pain, if I have ever 
angered you, forgive me now: tell me that in 
future years, when weary of the hurried life 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



43 



that you now lead, my care, my affection, 
will be a comfort to you ; tell me, my own 
dearest father, that you love me !" 

While sperJung, Constance had raised her 
head, and gazed eagerly on her father ; her 
cheek was warm, with colour more lovely 
from its extreme delicacy; her eyes lighted 
up with the eloquence of excited emotion; 
and every feature was animated with the im- 
passioned and beautiful feelings of the mo- 
ment. She looked lovely; and Lord Nor- 
bourne, for an instant, forgot the under current 
of self-reproach, which, though he would not 
have owned, yet made itself only too forcibly 
felt within. 

"Do I love you ?" said he, in answer to 
her touching appeal : " deeply and dearly, my 
last, my only child. I have, Heaven knows, 
nothing to pardon in one who has always been 
so patient, so sweet, and so good. No, my 
dearest and gentlest, it is you who must for- 
give, if, taken up with the cares of the world, 
in projects that looked only to the future, I 
have forgotten the womanly tenderness due 
to an orphan girl ; yet you are, you have 
been, very dear to me, my own sweet Con- 
stance." 

His voice faltered; for affections, undis- 
turbed for years, swelled within him. Every 
kindly and warm emotion was awakened, and, 
for the first time, he felt remorse : he almost 
trembled to think how completely his daugh- 
ter was deceived, while he also felt that her 
happiness could not be dearly purchased. 
And yet, Norbourne — was he not his victim, 
and made such by all that was most generous 
in his nature l Had he stood alone his uncle 
was perfectly aware that no wealth, no rank, 
no worldly advantage, would have moved 
him ; but his mother had been the tie, and 
Lord Norbourne started to think how merci- 
lessly he had enforced his power. A glance 
at Constance somewhat reassured him. Could 
his nephew be long wholly given up to vain 
regrets, with one so devoted, and so sweet, at 
his side ] Such affection must bring with it 
hope and healing. For the first time, too, he 
thought with pity on her who was forsaken. 
He knew there was some prior attachment. 
What at this moment might not some young 
and lovely victim be suffering ! 

But it was not in his temper to dwell long 
on vain regrets : he soothed them by turning 
to the numerous advantages which attended 
this alliance, and was soon able to say calmly 
to his daughter, — " Shall I lead you down 
stairs ?" 

" A few minutes yet," exclaimed she. 
" Leave me a little while alone." 

The door closed after Lord Norbourne ; and 
Constance flung herself on her knees, and 
half said, half wept, a thanksgiving for her en- 
tire happiness 



CHAPTER XXIII. 



THE MARRIAGE. 



Bind the white orange-flowers in her hair. 
Soft be their shadow, soft and somewhat pale — 

For they are omens. Many anxious years 
Are on the wreath that bends the bridal veil. 

The maiden leaves her childhood and her home, 
All that the past has known of happy hours— 

Perhaps her happiest ones. Well may there be 
A faint van colour on those orange-flowers : 

For they are pale as hope, and hope is pale 

With earnest watching over future years ; 
With all the promise of their loveliness, 

The bride and morning bathe their wreath with tears. 

Constance was yet kneeling when Mrs. 
Courtenaye entered, who was wholly softened 
by the attitude, and the tearful eyes that met 
her as she approached. She did not like 
Constance: there was a timidity and a gen- 
tleness about her, which, to her calm and de- 
termined temper, seemed only weakness. Be- 
sides, however innocent, she was the cause 
of her own suffering; and she confounded the 
unoffending girl with her father. But it was 
impossible to be quite untouched with Con- 
stance's meek sweetness, and she took her 
hand with a degree of kindness which melted 
the poor child into tears of tender gratitude. 
But she was silent, for Constance feared her 
aunt too much for any burst of the confidence 
with which she indulged herself to her father, 
They went down stairs together, and found 
the bridal party assembled. 

The guests had been selected with Lord 
Norbourne's usual judgment. There were 
only some three or four, of the highest rank. 
A young nobleman connected with the minis- 
try, who had come from Sir Robert W^alpole 
to summon Lord Norbourne, on business of 
the first importance, to London, was the S' 
cavalier, to the great discontent of the t\ 
bridesmaids. These were the ladies Diana 
and Frances, who came with their mother, the 
Duchess of Pympton, a distant connexion of 
the family. Tall, dark, with harsh features, 
from which five-and-thirty summers had stolen 
all youthful bloom, if they had ever had any 
— a fact admitting of more than doubt — they 
afforded no injudicious contrast to the bride. 
Constance, half hidden in her veil, blushing 
and agitated, looked, at least, ladylike and 
interesting ; and there was as little room given 
as possible for a contrast between the appear- 
ance of the bride and bridegroom. 

The chapel was a small Gothic edifice, 
which had been built by Lord Norbourne, and 
who had spared no pains on its decoration : 
yet its chief ornaments were tombs. There 
was the monument of his wife, and child afte* 
child had followed. Every niche was filled 
by a funeral urn, and by marble shapes that 
bent down in a pale eternity of sorrow. In 



44 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



one arch was a marble tablet, bearing a date, 
but no name; and beneath was a kneeling 
female : the beautiful hands were clasped as 
if in prayer and penitence ; but the bowed-down 
face was hidden in the long hair, that fell un- 
bound over the exquisitely sculptured figure. 
There was a grave beneath, but who slept in 
that grave was known only to Lord Norbourne. 
There was in the stillness of the statues around, 
so colourless, so calm, that which struck cold 
upon the guests. All around spoke of deso- 
lation and of death, till life seemed but a 
mockery in their presence. What folly to 
crowd so brief a span with the toil and the 
fever in which men spend their days ! It is a 
strange and solemn thing that the bridal ritual 
should take place in the presence of the dead. 
Dust, that a breath could blow aside, yet that 
was once, like ourselves, animate with hope, 
passion, and sorrow, is below ; around are the 
vain memorials of human grief and human 
pride ; yet all alike dedicated to the gone. 

Norbourne Courtenaye glanced around on 
the marble monuments — they seemed fitting 
company at his bridal : the service sounded 
like a burial rite ; it was the funeral of his 
hopes. Mechanically he obeyed the directions 
to place the ring on the finger of his bride. 
Constance started at the death-cold hand that 
touched her own ; for the first time she ven- 
tured to raise her eyes to his, but they an- 
swered not to that timid and imploring look: 
his thoughts were far away. Alas, for Con- 
stance, had she known that they dwelt upon 
another ! Even as it was, the pale cheek, and 
the sad, abstracted eye, sent a chill to the 
heart of the young bride : she was pale and 
absent as the bridegroom. When the service 
was over, she started, as if from a dream, 
when all pressed round to congratulate her as 
the wife of Norbourne Courtenaye. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

CONFIDENCE. 

Fear not to trust her destiny with me : 

I can remember, in my eariy youth, 

Wandering amid our old ancestral woods, 

I found an unfledged dove upon the ground. 

I took the callow creature to my care, 

And fain had given it toils nest again: 

That could not be, and so I made its home 

In my affection, and my constant care. 

I made its cage of osier-boughs, and huns: 

A wreath of early leaves and woodland flowers : 

I hung it in the sun ; and, when the wind 

Blew from the cold and bitter east, 'twas screen'd 

With care that never knew forgetful ness. 

T loved it, for I pitied it, and knew 

Its sole dependence was upon my love. 

"I understood, my lord, that you wished 
o see me," said Norbourne Courtenaye, with 
the calm, cold manner, that had marked his 
bearing to his uncle since his marriage had 
been decided upon : " 1 fear that I have kept 
you waiting, for 1 went first to your own 
loom — " 

" It was here," interrupted Lord Norbourne, 

that I wished to see you." 

He paused, and his nephew stood by with 



his arms folded, in silence, as if resolved no, 
to begin the conversation. There was much 
resemblance between the two : both had the 
same cast of features. It is curious to remark 
how a family sets its mark on its descend- 
ants : assuredly there is a subtle sympathy in 
the ties of blood, still one of the mysteries of 
our nature. But if their old line gave the 
resemblance, time had marked the difference. 
The meaning on Norbourne' s fine features 
came direct from the feeling ; his eyes were 
thoughtful, but they had that deep and inward 
look which belongs only to the dreaming me- 
ditations of youth. He wore a saddened and 
subdued air ; it was obvious that he had not 
yet learned sorrow's bitterest task — that of 
concealment. 

Lord Norbourne's countenance needed 
closer analysis to detect its hidden meaning. 
His dark brow was knit, and his darker eye 
rarely wore any other expression than that of 
penetration. He looked upon you, and read 
you through. His features, fine, high, and 
somewhat stern in repose, were yet capable 
of being moulded to any meaning it was his 
will that they should express. Now, though 
his mouth worked with agitation, it had not 
lost its bland and habitual smile; but there 
was that in his face few ever saw in the self- 
possessed, the cold and reserved Lord Nor- 
bourne. He paced the gallery with quick and 
irregular steps, while his eye more than once 
met that of his nephew, who, however, pre- 
served a resolute silence. 

" This is most unworthy hesitation," ex- 
claimed he, at last ; and, approaching the fire- 
place, leant opposite Norbourne. " I see," 
continued he, " that you resent my conduct. 
I do not wonder at it. I reproach myself for 
it ; but, at least, hear me before you utterly 
condemn me. I find I cannot do without some 
portion of your good will ; for, little as you 
may believe it, you have ever been dear to me 
as a child of my own." 

The earnestness of his uncle's manner 
touched Norbourne in spite of himself; and, 
almost unconsciously, he made a step nearer 
to him, as he continued : — 

" I am ambitious : I own it ; for what are a 
man's talents given, but for a high and influ- 
ential career? I was ambitious for myself; 
I am now ambitious for my line. I do take 
pride in thinking of our house restored to all 
its original honours. Have you none in 
knowing the position you will occupy ?" 

" Do you think," said Norbourne, sternly, 
" wealth and rank would have tempted me to 
act as I have done ? Lord Norbourne, I tell 
you to your face, but that you had in your 
power the name and fame of a beloved mo- 
ther — ay, and her life too, I would never have 
married your daughter. I loved — I do love 
another ; but why should I speak of warm and 
natural emotions to one who knows not of 
them ?" 

" Poor Constance !" exclaimed her father. 

"Nay," interrupted Norbourne, "do no : 
fear for her. She, at least, shall never know 
that at the altar where I pledged my faith, did 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



45 



I also sacrifice my sweetest and my best hopes. 
She shall not be the victim of your ambition. 
Carefully will I guard her from any sorrow 
that rests with me : pity girdles' her round 
with a tenderness, deep almost as love. And 
now, my lord, I conclude that our conference 
is at an end : why should we inflict unneces- 
sary pain en each other ?" 

" Not yet," exclaimed his uncle, yielding 
wholly to the impulse of strong emotion. 
" Norbourne, I am neither so callous nor so 
wordly as you deem me. Look on these por- 
traits !" and he pointed to four pictures that 
hung on the wall opposite. Never was the 
painter's skill taxed to give more lovely like- 
nesses of humanity. There were four bloom- 
ing girls, all drawn at full length ; and, though 
different, it was hard to say which was the 
most beautiful. "Are not those children of 
whom any father might be proud ?" asked 
Lord Norbourne. " For years I hoped to have 
a son; and, when that was denied me, I 
thought ever of one of those girls as your 
wife. Years passed by, and each year saw 
one of those bright heads laid low in the grave. 
My poor sickly Constance alone escaped the 
hereditary malady which destroyed her lovely 
and healthful sisters. A year ago that neg- 
lected child, so young, so feeble, and so un- 
cared for, was my nurse through the fever 
which even the hireling would hardly brave. 
I loved her with that deep remorseful love 
which feels that it is a late atonement. I saw 
(for she is too ignorant and too guileless for 
disguise) that her heart was wholly yours. I 
saw her, too, delicate, sensitive ; ready to 
fade away before life's first sorrow. I could 
not bear to think that disappointed affection 
should hurry her to an early grave. Nor- 
bourne, in the name of the deepest and the 
holiest feeling that I have, I implore you to 
forgive me." 

Norbourne took the proffered hand ; his 
anger had vanished in sympathy, and they 
stood for a few moments in agitated silence, 
which was broken by Lord Norbourne. 

" I know that you are now in love : but 
what is love ? — a young man's feverish dream, 
whose realities, on awakening, he would give 
worlds to recall. I loved once — foolishly, 
madly; for 1 sacrificed every thing to my 
boyish passion. I married one without for- 
tune or connexion ; for her sake I gave up all 
those higher schemes on which my hopes had 
fed from very childhood. For her sake I was 
content to endure poverty, and — far worse — 
obscurity. Do you wish to see the face which 
made me — a fool ?" 

He stepped forward, and touched the spring 
of a picture-case, which Nourboume had not 
before seen opened. He almost started at the 
dazzling loveliness of the countenance on 
which he gazed. The- large black eyes flash- 
ed, as if they realized the old poet's descrip- 



" Such eyes on Jove had thrown 
A lightning, fierce and sudden as his own." 

The colour on the cheek was rich and elo- 



quent, and the small mouth curved with a 
consciousness of its own loveliness. It was 
one of those faces that at once appeal to the 
imagination : you feel that there must be a his- 
tory belonging to it. You have a foreboding 
of passion, and its fulfilment, 



CHAPTER XXV. 

THE RESULT. 

And this, then, is love's ending. It is like 

The history of some fair southern clime: 

Hot fires are in the bosom of the earih, 

And the warm'd soil puts forth its thousand flowers, 

Its fruits of gold— summer's regality; 

And sleep and odours float upon the air. 

Making it heavy with its own delight. 

At length the subterranean element 

Bursts from its secret solitude, and lays 

All waste before it. The red lava stream 

Sweeps like a pestilence ; and that which was 

A garden for some fairy tale's young queen 

is one wild desert, lost in burning sand. 

Thus it is with the heart. Love rights it up 

With one rich flush of beauiy. filark the end: 

Hopes that have quarrell'd even with themselves, 

And joys that make a bitter memory ; 

While the heart, scorch'd and wither'd, and o'erwhelm'd 

By passion's earthquake, loathes the name of love. 

Both stood for a few moments gazing on 
the picture ; when Lord Nourbourne exclaim- 
ed, as he saw his nephew's look of admira- 
tion, — " Yes, the bait was fair enough ; and 
how was I repaid for my utter devotion — for 
the sacrifice of my future ? By desertion. 
She left me for another — how immeasurably 
my inferior ! I had my revenge, for I followed 
them abroad. She had already been false to 
him as to me. He was alone, but not the less 
did I avenge my dishonour : we met, and he 
fell. Years afterward, and I met her also ; 
changed, but lovely, amid sickness and want. 
I saved her from destitution, and saw her once 
more; for I stood by her death-bed, and for- 
gave her. There is a grave, without a name, 
in yonder chapel : she so fair, and so frail, 
sleeps below." 

Norbourne again grasped his uncle's hand 
He could not speak : it was as if, for the first 
time in his life, he had looked beyond the 
seeming surface of humanity. Was it possi- 
ble that the calm, the polished, the worldly 
Lord Norbourne could have been shaken by 
such fierce passion — touched by such soft 
feelings as he had really known ? And yet so 
it ever is. How little do we know of even 
our most familiar associates ! Hopes, feelings, 
and passion petrify one after another ; the crust 
of experience soon hardens over the hidden 
past; and who, looking on the levelled and 
subdued exterior, could dream of the wreck 
and ravage that lies below ? 

"I bought my experience dearly," con» 
tinued Lord Norbourne; "but I did buy it. 
Henceforth woman assumed with me her na- 
tural destiny : a toy, if fair, for a vacant hour ; 
a tool, if rich, for advancement in the world. 
I next married for fortune and family, and I 
found I had acted wisely. Lady Norbourne 
and myself got on perfectly together. My 
house was one of the best appointed in Lon 



46 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



don, and her relations deemed it due to one 
connected with their family to take every op- 
portunity of serving me. We never descended 
to the vulgarism of a quarrel. People said 
that neither of us had a heart, but it appears 
to me that politeness is an excellent substitute. 
I really felt very uncomfortable when she died. 
But I hear my travelling carriage; and busi- 
ness has long been to me duty, inclination, 
mistress, friend. But tell me that we part 
kindly ?" 

" My dear uncle !" replied Norbourne, who 
accompanied the traveller to his carriage with 
very different feelings from what, an hour be- 
fore, he had deemed it possible that he could 
have entertained. 

A feather on the wind, a straw on the stream 
. — such are, indeed, the emblems of humanity. 
We resolve, and our resolutions melt away 
with a word and a look : we are the toys of an 
emotion. And yet I think Norbourne was 
right in his sudden revulsion in favour of his 
uncle. We are rarely wrong when we act 
from impulse. By that I do not mean every 
rash, and wayward, and selfish fantasy ; but 
by allowing its natural course to the first warm 
and generous feeling that springs up in the 
heart. Second thoughts are more worldly, 
more cold, and calculate on some advantage. 
This is what the ancients meant when they 
said that the impulse came from the gods, but 
the motive from men. Our eager belief, our 
ready pity, our kindly sensations — these are 
the materials of good within us. As one of 
our poets says, with equal truth and beauty, 
" The heart is wise." We should be not only 
happ er, but better, if we attended more to its 
dictates. Half the misery in the world arises 
from want of sympathy. We do not assist 
each other as we might do, because we rarely 
pause to ask, do they need our assistance 1 
And this works out the moral of suffering : 
we need to suffer, that we may learn to pity. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH. 

There is in life no blessing like affection; 

It soothes, it hallows, elevates, subdues, 

And bringeth down to earth its native heaven. 

It sits beside the cradle patient hours, 

Whose sole contentment is to watch and love ; 

It bendeth o'er the death-bed, and conceals 

Its own despair with words of faith and hope. 

Life has nought else that may supply its place : 

Void is ambition, cold is vanity, 

And wealth an empty glitter, without love. 

My Dearest Uncle, — I have this morning 
been returning the visit of the young Dutchess 
of Marlborough. I should lose the reputation 
that I am gradually acquiring among our im- 
penetrables here, were I to confess the excite- 
ment which I felt at the idea of entering his 
house — the house of that great general under 
whose command you made your ^ first charge. 
It was to be quite a visit d'amilie, so she was 
almost alone, in her closet richly furnished with 
crimson silk hangings, and the portraits of her 
Mther and mother. I was struck, not so much 



with the extraordinary beauty of the latter, 
though extraordinary it is, as with its extreme 
sv/eetness. I never saw such a loveable face. 
The imperious dutchess had the eyes of a dove, 
and the mouth of a child ; and the hair had 
that soft, glossy silkness which I fancy usually 
belongs to a gentle and sensitive temperament. 
I could not help alluding to its loveliness. 

" Yes," said the young dutchess, " my mo- 
ther's hair was quite remarkable, both for its 
length and profusion. But will you believe 
that she cut it all off one day, in order to 
plague my father, whose especial admiration 
it was. He had left her displeased about 
some trifle, and she severed the favourite 
tresses, and laid them in a conspicuous place 
on a table in his room. The long curls dis- 
appeared, no one knew how, and my father 
never made the slightest allusion to their loss ; 
but, after his death, they were found in his 
cabinet, where he kept all that he had most 
precious. Even my mother's haughty temper 
was fairly subdued by this ; she never could 
allude to the circumstance without tears." 

"After all," said Mr. Congreve, who was 
present, "madame la duckesse well understood 
the principles by which your sex obtain do- 
minion. I always thought that there was 
great truth in what the French lover said, on 
being asked by what means his mistress had 
obtained such an empire over him : ' Cht 
qu'elle me querelle toujours. 9 " 

" I rather think," said a youthful Italian, 
just presented to me as la Signora Rosalba, and 
who was employed in finishing a miniature 
of the dutchess, " that nothing gives offence 
between people who really love each other. 
The tempers may be irritated, but there is still 
a secret sympathy in the hearts." 

"Moreover," replied Congreve, "it was a 
sort of flattery to the duke. It showed that 
she valued the power of plaguing him more 
than her own fairest ornament. Flattery is 
the real secret by which a woman keeps her 
lover." 

" Ah !" exclaimed the Italian, raising the 
softest dark eyes that I ever saw, " you speak 
of the love in crowds and cities, made up of 
falsehood and vanity, not of that high and 
holy passion, sent to elevate and redeem our 
nature — the religion of the heart." 

There was something about the youthful 
artist, that interested me exceedingly. I 
must ask her to take my likeness for you. 
Painted by one so enthusiastic, it will come 
less surrounded by the vanities and follies of 
my present life. I never feel the value of af- 
fection so much as when I think of yours; 
nor its want, but when I look at my own 
home. 

Well, I sometimes think that I should be 
glad to quarrel with Lord Marchmont, even 
like the Duke and Dutchess of Marlborough : 
it would show that we cared for each other. 
But I must write something else than these 
vague fantasies : and now for their very anti- 
podes, Mr. Congreve. He is not badlooking, 
and dresses to desperation; with a peculiarly 
soft and flattering manner. He seems to be 



ETHEL CHURCHILL, 



47 



witty against his will ; and if, by some salty 
that will have its way, he makes you laugh, 
he is at once ashamed, and starts back into 
his usual languid and affected strain of com- 
pliment. Nature has made him an author and 
a wit ; he blushes for both, and trusts that 
they are forgotten in the very fine gentleman. 
I was struck with the difference between his 
small affectation of denying and despising his 
own talents and their laudable use, and the 
earnest belief in their nobility which exists in 
the Italian artist. The one belongs to a higher 
order of intelligence than the other. 

Well, enthusiasm is the divine particle in 
our composition : with it we are great, gene- 
rous, and true ; without it, we are little, false, 
and mean. Do let me tell you one thing the 
signora said : "I alwa) T s pray in German — 
the language is so expressive and energetic." 
I wished at the moment that I knew it, that I 
might pray for you, my dear uncle — my more 
than parent. 

"We are going to-night to a ball at the 
Dutchess of Queensberry's. I wonder she is 
not afraid at the world of disappointment her 
invitations have created. She has asked every- 
body^ but those who expected it. People are 
really not half thankful enough to her, she 
gives them so much to talk about. What, 
after all, is the great staple of conversation ? — 
why, the faults and follies of others ; and, 
generally speaking, they are insipid enough. 
How grateful, therefore, we ought to be to 
her grace, whose follies are all of the most 
original order ! Why, there is invention 
enough in them for a history, — 

" As histories are in these degenerate days." 

And now for the toilet of your affectionate 

Henrietta. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH. 

Mind, dangerous and glorious gift! 
Too much thy native heaven has left 
Its nature in thee, for thy light 

To be content with earthly home. 
It hath another, and its sight 

Will too much to that other roam ; 
And heavenly light, and earthly clay, 
But ill bear with alternate sway: 
Till jarring elements create 

The evil" which they sought to shun, 
Ami deeper feel their mortal state 

In strucrclingfor a higher one. 
' There is no rest for the proud mind, 
Conscious of its high powers confined ; 
Vain dreams and feverish hopes arise, 
It is itself its sacrifice. 

Is it not Le Sage, my dearest uncle, who 
says, "to judge by their own account, the 
people of England are the most unhappy peo- 
ple under the sun — with religion, liberty, and 
property ; also, three meals a day ?" He 
was not far wrong, for nothing strikes me 
more forcibly than the universal tendency to 
grumble ; conversation and complaint are sy- 
nonymous terms. Our weather and our go- 
vernment are equally bad — at least every one 
say that they are. 



I was at the dinner yesterday, which, you 
know, has long been the subject of my anti- 
cipation — the one at Lady Oxford's, wheie I 
was to meet Pope, Swift, Gay ; in short, all 
the wit in the world. We had a delightful 
day : the dinner — and though it is difficult 
to appreciate an enjoyment into which yen 
cannot, for the very life of you, enter — still I 
begin to think that a good dinner is, at least, 
the steppingstone to masculine felicity. The 
cook is one of the three Fates. Lady Oxford 
is a very good hostess. Without being clever 
enough to put people on their guard, she un- 
derstands talent, which none can do without 
some of their own; and has a peculiar tact 
for putting a person's amour propre at rest by 
putting it in the best light. She knows how 
to ask questions judiciously : and it is a first 
requisite to make people feel it is easy to 
answer you ; and, also, that their answer 
reflects credit on themselves. 

You see that I am studying my part as fu- 
ture dame de chateau. I hope, in time, to 
make my house the most brilliant in London ; 
but I do not agree with Lord Marchmont in 
thinking that wealth is the only thing re- 
quisite. Wealth is to luxury what marble is 
to the palace — it must be there, as the first 
material ; but taste, and taste only, can direct 
its after use. The light arch, and the grace- 
ful column, owe their exquisite proportion ti- 
the skill with which they are modelled. 

But I am wandering away from the asser- 
tion that I was about to make ; namely, that, 
with all the appliances of cheerfulness, with 
all the means of wit, the chief portion of the 
"table-talk" turned upon individual and ge- 
neral grievances. Each person was the most 
injured individual under the sun. Swift was, 
however, the one that most excited my sym- 
pathy. There is a stern melancholy in his 
dark features, inherent and engrossing, which 
rivets the attention. The brow is black and 
overhanging, and the eyes gloomy while in 
a state of repose ; but, when the}' kindle, it is 
like living fire, with a sort of strange animal 
fierceness in them. His laugh is suppressed 
and bitter; and I shall not easily forget the 
sarcasm of his smile as he told us of the 
Prince of Orange's harangue to the mob at 
Portsmouth : " We are come," said he, " for 
your good — for all your goods." "A universal 
principle," added Swift, " of all governments ; 
but, like most other truths, only told by mis- 
take." His manner is abrupt, and yet I could 
fancy it very kind sometimes ; and he is more 
eloquent than I ever before heard in general 
society. Nothing could be more gloomy 
than the picture he drew of his residence in 
Ireland. It is that worst of solitudes, an in- 
tellectual one : above all things, the mind 
requires interchange. The heart may, per- 
haps, shut itself up in itself, as the motto on 
a pretty French seal that I have, says, — 

" Avec les souvenirs et les esperances 
L'on se passe de bonheur ;" 

but the mind frets that only feeds upon its 
own resources. Swift's existence is ong of 



48 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



the intellect : he does not look to the plea- 
sures, to the affections, to the small employ- 
ments of life; every sentence, however care- 
less, betrays his contempt for them. He 
needs an active and stirring career — he needs 
to be taken out of himself — communication 
and contradiction are to him necessary ele- 
ments ; and, in the dull seclusion of his Irish 
deanery, he is wholly shut out from them. 
"It closes round me like a pall :" I cannot 
tell 'you the impression these words made 
upon me ; they conjured up so many hours of 
dulness and of discontent. It must be so 
mortify ing to a man, the consciousness of 
talent, and the knowledge that he is shut out 
frc m the sphere to which its exercise belongs. 
But here, again, is the old variance between 
nature and fortune ; each seems to delight in 
msrring the work of the other 

There was one contrast in Swift with his 
fellow wits : they grew gayer as the dinner 
progressed, he did not. At first, his conver- 
sation was very lively — a sort of fierce viva- 
city, like a bird or beast of prey dashing at 
its game. He gave a very amusing account 
of his journey from Ireland; how he was not 
only stopped at the "Three Crosses," by a 
shrew of a landlady, but scolded into the 
bargain. His revenge was most characteris- 
tic. "Most people," said he to the landlord, 
" are content or discontent with paying their 
bill. I do more : I leave you, as a legacy, an 
invaluable piece of advice," pointing to some 
lines that he had written, with a diamond 
ring, on the Avindow pane, — 

" There are three crosses to your door, 
Hang up your wife, and there'll be four." 

As the evening closed in, I was struck with 
the gloom which seemed to fall upon him. 
His face lost its intellectual animation — it 
was almost stupid ; and I never before saw 
blank despondency so expressed in human 
eye. Even now I try to shake off tht painful 
impression. But I must leave the remainder 
of the dinner till to-morrow, trusting that you 
will not say, 

" Un diner rechauffi§ ne valut jamais rien." 

We are going to play loo at Mrs. Howard's ; 
but, alas ! though he is the fashion, I am 
quite inaccessible to the fascinations of Pam. 
Good-by till to-morrow. 

Your affectionate 

Henrietta. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

LADV MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH. 

Life's best erifis are bought dearly. Wealth is won 
By years of toil, and often comes too late: 
With pleasure comes satiety; and pomp 
Ts compass'd round with vexing vanities: 
And genius, earth's most glorious gift, that lasts 
When all beside is perish'd in the dust- 
How bitter is the suffering it endures! 
How dark the penalty that it exacts ! 

My Dearest Uncle, — I return at once to 
the dinner at Lady Oxford's. Mr. Pope was 



within two of me at table. At first our meet- 
ing was a little awkward : he could not forget 
that I had witnessed his mortification. Pope 
is more pettish than the Dean of St. Patrick's. 
He could not, I am persuaded, even compre- 
hend the other's deep misanthropy. He takes 
pleasure in what Swift would disdain. 1 
cannot imagine the dean laying out grass 
plots, and devising grottoes ; he has no ele- 
gant tastes, — sources, it must be acknowledg- 
ed, of great gratification to the possessor. 
Pope, moreover, is greedy : such a dinner he 
devoured, and then talked of his moderation ! 
I do not think that he would have given 
Swift's answer to Lord B — , who tried to 
persuade him to dine with him by saying, — 
" I will send you my bill of fare." " Send 
me," was the reply, " your bill of company."" 
Still, I am charitable enough to make great 
allowance for the capricious appetite of an 
invalid, more than I do for his predilection for 
Mrs. Martha Blount, who was also of our 
party. She is undeniably handsome — what 
you gentlemen call a fine woman; but she 
has cold, unkind eyes, and thin lips, which 
she bites. Now, if a bad temper has an out- 
ward and visible sign, it is that. I hear that 
she has great influence over the poet, and can 
readily believe it. He is affectionate, and 
keenly sensitive to his personal defects ; and 
would, therefore, be at once grateful for, and 
flattered by, any display of feminine kindness. 
Moreover, in all domestic arrangements, it is 
the better nature that yields ; a violent temper 
is despotic the moment that it crosses your 
threshold. I disliked her, too, for her depre- 
ciating way ; she had an if and a but foi 
every person named. Now, the individual 
who can find no good in any one else has 
certainly no good in himself: 

" How can we reason but from what we know V 

Pope talked very readily and playfully about 
his translation of Homer : for, example, some 
discussion arising about what flower was 
meant by the asphodel of Homer, he said, 
laughing, — " Why, I believe it to be the poor 
yellow flower that grows wild in our fields : 
what would you say if I had rendered the line 
thus, — 

— ' The stern Achilles 
Stalk'd through a mead of daffodillies V " 

He also told me an anecdote quite as charac- 
teristic of the teller as that of Swift's. There 
was a Lord Russell, who had ruined his con- 
stitution by riotous living. He was not fond 
of fieldsports, but used to go out with his dogs 
to hunt, for an appetite. If he felt any de- 
lightful approaches of hunger, he would cry 
out, " 0, I have found it !" and ride home 
again, though in the middle of the finest chase* 

" You see," said Pope, " there is no foot 
without some portion of sense." 

Gay gave me more the idea of a clever 
child ; he was dressed with the greatest neat- 
ness, and did not dislike a little raillery about 
his toilet. He has a sweet, placid expression 
of countenance ; and an excellent appetite, 
which quite belied the melancholy manner in 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



49 



which he told us of his disappointments at 
court. He quoted that deeply pathetic pas- 
sage of Spencer's, — 

"Full little knowest thou, who hast not tried 
What hell it is, in suing long, to bide ; 
To lose good days, that might be better spent ; 
To waste long nights in pensive discontent; 
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow ; 
To feed on hop'e, to pine with fear and sorrow ; 
To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares ; 
To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs ; 
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run, 
To spend, to give, to want, to be undone." 

Yet there was something- so irresistibly ludi- 
crous i n his manner, that there was not one of 
us but laughed at his misfortunes. 

Alas, for human nature ! even grief must 
take an attitude before it can hope for sym- 
pathy. I new understand on what principles 
our widows wear weeds, and our judges wigs. 
The imposing external appearance is every 
thing in this world. 

The Duke and Dutchess of Queensberry, 
however, have taken Gay under their especial 
patronage ; and he lives with them. And now 
that the day is over, there is one great regret, 
which is, that, with all my wish to tell you 
every thing, I can remember so little. But 
the spirit of conversation cannot be caught 
and recorked : moreover, of all our faculties, 
memory is the one the least under our control. 
I am sometimes amused, but oftener provoked, 
at the way in which a thing utterly escapes 
recollection, and then comes back when least 
expected, and, usually, when least wanted. 
Still my general impression is that of great 
interest and amusement : and you know, my 
dear uncle, you spoil me, by saying, " Only 
tell me every thing — your telling is enough." 
All my details, at least, serve to show you 
how anxious I am to make you acquainted 
with every thought of 

Your affectionate 

Henrietta. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH. 

COURTIERS. 

Not in a close and bounded atmosphere 
Does life put forth its noblest and i»s best; 
'Tis from the mountain's top that we look forth, 
And ?re how small the world is at our feet. 
There the free winds sweep with unfetter'd wing; 
There the sun rises first, and flings the last, 
The purple dories of the summerVve ; 
There does the eagle build his mighty nest ; 
And there the snow stains not its purity. 
When we descend the vapour ga-hers round, 
And the path narrows : small and worthless things 
Obstruct our way : and, in ourselves, we feel 
The strong compulsion of their influence. 
We grow like those with whom we daily blend : 
To yield is to resemble. 

Ah, my dearest uncle ! now I find the truth 
ofw T hat you used to tell me. I once thought 
that you drew human nature in too dark co- 
lours ; I now begin to think that is wholly 
impossible. Here we are flattering and hating, 
envying and caressing, duping and slandering, 
complimenting and ridiculing, each other. I 

Vol. II— 7 



really doubt whether there be such a thing as 
a heart in the world : perhaps, after all, it is 
only an elegant superfluity kept for the use of 
poets. Certainly we have no use for it here. 
In consequence of the recent death of the 
king, we preserve a decorous appearance of 
dulness ; but black is very becoming to a fan 
skin, and public mourning never yet interfered 
with private gayety. I hear that his present 
majesty complains that he is no better off as 
king than he was as prince ; the queen com- 
manding to retain Mrs. Howard as dame de ses 
pensces. She is right; it is only positive qua- 
lities that are dangerous, and Mrs. Howard is 
made up of negations : not, I dare say, that 
she ever said a good downright "no" in her 
life. But you must make her acquaintance 
personally. Fancy a tall and fine figure in a 
green taffety dress, set off with rose-coloured 
ribands, both colours well suited to her fair 
hair and skin ; a white muslin apron, trimmed 
with delicate lace ; ruffles of the same mate- 
rials, showing to much advantage a white and 
rounded arm : a chip hat, with flowers, is 
placed quite at the back of the light hair, 
which leaves the white and broad forehead 
exposed. By-the-by, talking of her fair hair, 
I must tell you an anecdote of the use to which 
it was once applied. Wben she and her hus- 
band were staying at Hanover, they asked 
some people to dinner, and Mrs. Howard was 
obliged to cut off her luxuriant tresses and sell 
them to pay for the said dinner ! What a 
beginning ! and, alas, what an excuse for any 
faults in her afterlife ! Think of all the 
wretchedness included in the single word j90- 
verty .■ Truly Shakspeare says, — 

— '• Want will perjure 
The ne'er stain'd vestal." 

But to proceed with my description : her 
features are regular, and the eyes a soft blue ; 
and she is singularly young looking. Mrs. 
Howard is the very person to look young to 
the last. "What fades the cheek, and marks 
the brow with lines, but the keen feeling and 
the passionate sorrow ? and of these she is in- 
capable. The only expression of her face i3 
repose; and, I must add, a sweet and gentle 
repose. An attachment to her would be just 
an agreeable and easy habit. 

My dear uncle must let me borrow one of 
his own phrases. Mrs. Howard is just the 
type of a social system, whose morality is ex 
pediency, and whose religion is good breed- 
ing. In such a close and enervating atmos- 
phere, it is scarcely possible for a generous 
sympathy, or a warm emotion, to exist. Coui- 
tiers and wits crowd round the royal idol, 
flinging one a compliment, and another an 
epigram, all ready to be snatched up again ; 
the first to be used to any who may succeed, 
and the second to be turned against herself: 
all were alike actuated by selfishness on the 
smallest scale. 

Still, I must say, the life of a maid of honoui 

is no sinecure. Lady Harvey was giving me 

the description of a day. First there is the 

getting up early, which I, who should not 

£ 



50 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



tmow seven o'clock in the morning if I were 
to see it, think a most dreadful way of begin- 
ning the day. Then comes the imperative 
necessity of eating smoked Westphalian ham 
for breakfast : this is on the principle that imi- 
tation is the most delicate flattery. Then to 
horse — life and limb risked on hired hacks, 
and over hedge and ditch ; the neck in com- 
parative, the complexion in certain, danger. 
Home, then, they come in the middle of °th3 
day ; blusing, not " celestial rosy red," but a 
good positive scarlet, with the heat; and also 
with a crimson mark on the forehead, from 
the pressure of the hat. Then they have to 
dress in a hurry, put on pleine toilette and 
smiles for the princess's circle, where they 
stand, simper, and catch cold, till dinner. So 
much for attendance at court. 

In the mean time, Mrs. Howard has found 
leisure for divers other adorateurs. Lord 
Bathurst even excited the royal jealousy; for 
the prince intimated to the lady, that all sup- 
plies would be cut off, to use a national figure 
of speech, if any flatteries were held too 
charming, save his own. This threat, his 
royal highness thought, was the most effective 
he could use. We always judge of others by 
ourselves ; and his idea of Cupid's quiver is a 
rouleau. I heard a droll story of his court- 
ship, in earlier days, of the beautiful Mrs. 
Campbell, when maid of honour. After sit- 
ting in silence for some time, he drew out his 
purse and began to count his money. The 
lady pushed his elbow, and down rolled the 
glittering coin. They say that he has not yet 
forgiven her — not for the breach of etiquette, 
but for the risk that the poor dear guineas ran 
from the crevices on the floor. Lord Bathurst 
does not appear to me to be a very dangerous 
rival. I always long to quote two lines from 
Gay's "Fables:" 

" Shall gra ve and formal pass for wise, 
When men the solemn owl despise." 

Lord Peterborough, the romantic, the chi- 
valric, was another of her adorateurs^ — he who 
is enough to make one believe in the doctrine 
of transmigration ; for no soul but that of Lord 
Herbert of Cherbury could possibly inhabit 
his body. 

Lady Mary Wortley Montague, who knows 
every thing about everybody, has greatly di- 
verted me with the Great Cyrus style of their 
correspondence. I remember hearing you 
read — ah, dear uncle, how pleasant were those 
winter even'.ngs ! — of some plant that exists 
floating on the air, never deigning to touch 
our meaner earth. The grands sentimens of 
these epistles have a similar kind of existence. 
One compliment is so very original, that I 
must quote it. He says, 

" The chief attribute of the devil is, torment- 
ing. Who could look upon you, and give you 
that title ? Who can feel what I do, and give 
you any other ? But, most certainly, I have 
more to lay to the charge of my fair one than 



can be objected to Satan or Beelzebub. . e 
believe that they have only a mind to torment 
because they are tormented, — they, at least, 
are our companions in suffering ; but my white 
devil partakes of none of my torments." 

He concludes by exclaiming, — 

"Forgive me if I threaten you: take this 
for a proof, as well as punishment. If you 
can prove inhuman, you shall have reproaches 
from Moscow, China, or the barbarous quar- 
ters of Tartary." 

How he was to carry this " last bold threat" 
into execution, I know not. However, do not 
be too sorry for him : he has consoled his 
misery in the smiles of Mrs. Robinson. Per- 
haps he may urge with Mrs. Howard, that she 
had such influence over him that he even fol- 
lowed her advice. In one of her answers she 
recommends a little inconstancy, and says, 

" Successful love is very unlike heaven, 
because you may have success one hour, and 
lose it the next. Heaven is unchangeable. 
Who can say so of love ? In love there are 
as many heavens as there are women ; so that 
if a man be so unhappy as to lose one heaven, 
he need but look for another, instead of throw- 
ing himself headlong into hell." 

Some of our fine gentlemen about town 
would say that this is what his lordship has 
actually done ; or, what is much the same, he 
is married : for they do say that there is a 
secret marriage between him and the fair 
Anastasia. I passed her in his berlin the 
other day, and just caught a glimpse of very 
pretty features, with an interesting and sad 
expression. I believe that she is his wife, 
because I always believe for the best. This 
I do for the sake of originality — one likes to 
do differently to everybody else. 

I must conclude with a characteristic ejacu- 
lation of Lord Portmore — a sort of plaster cast, 
in bread and milk, of Lord Harvey, who has 
quite a sect. Lord Portmore is about to build 
a house. A very fine situation Avas proposed 
to him, where he might have a noble view of 
the ocean ; but he started back, with an atti- 
tude of terror Betterton might envy, when 
Hamlet meets his father's ghost, and cried out, 
— " 0, Christ! the sea looks so fierce that it 
frights me !" 

And now good night. If they do nothing 
else, my long letters ought to put you to sleep. 
Once for all, I make no apologies for their 
egotism or their incoherency. The first you 
will take as a thing of course. Writing 
to you is thinking on paper; and as to the 
second, things here happen too fast for me to 
sort them. You must take my events as I do 
the ribands from my box — I snatch the first 
that comes to hand, from not having a moment 
to choose between them. I fear, however, 
that I cannot have left you an atom of pa- 
tience ; but still bear with, and love 
Your affectionate 

Henrietta 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



51 



CHAPTER XXX. 

A FIRST DISAPPOINTMENT. 

The deep, the lone, the dreaming hours, 

That I have nast with thee, 
When thou hadst not a single thought 

Of how thou wert with me. 

I heard thy voice, I spoke again, 

I gazed upon thy face ; 
Ana never scene of actual life 

Could bear a deeper trace. 

Than all that fancy conjured up, 

And make thee look a'nd say; 
Till I have loathed reality, 

That chased such dream away. 

Alas! this is vain, fond, and false; 

Thy heart is not for me ; 
And, knowing this, how can I waste 

My very soul on thee 1 

I believe that, to the young, suspense is 
the most intolerable suffering. Active misery 
always brings with it its own power of endu- 
rance. What a common expression it is to 
hear, — " Well, if I had known what I had to 
go through beforehand, I should never have 
believed it possible that I could have done it." 
But it is a dreadful thing to be left alone with 
your imagination, to have to fancy the worst, 
and yet not know what that worst may be ; 
and this, in early youth, has a degree of acute 
anguish that after years cannot know. As we 
advance in life, we find all things here too 
utterly worthless to grieve over them as we 
once could grieve : we grow cold and care- 
less ; the dust, to which we are hastening, has 
entered into the heart. 

But no girl of Ethel Churchill's age could 
hold this 41 inevitable creed." Hitherto she 
had thought but little — she had only felt. 
She loved Norbourne Courtenaye without a 
doubt, and without a fear. To her it seemed 
so natural to love him, that his affection ap- 
peared a thing of course, the inevitable con- 
sequence of her own. A sweet instinct soon 
told her that she was beloved, and it wanted 
no confirmation of words. Words are for the 
worldly, the witty, the practised; not for the 
simple, the timid, and the impassioned. It 
never occurred to her to question of the future ; 
every thing was absorbed in the intense hap- 
piness of the present. She saw him go, un- 
fettered by a vow, unbound by aught of pro- 
mise ; yet his change never crossed her mind. 
She was sad to part with him — very sad ; it 
was the sunshine past from her daily existence: 
but the sadness was unmixed with fear. He 
had never said that he would write, yet she 
fully relied upon his writing ; simpty because 
she felt that, in his place, she would have 
written. 

Norbourne was very wrong not to write. 
True, he was so situated that an explanation 
was impossible ; still a letter would have been 
r consolation, and she would so readily have 



believed whatever he had written. He said 
to himself, " How can I write ? what shall I 
write ? It is impossible to tell her on whose 
sweet face I have gazed till, though the soft 
eyes were never raised, she knew that I could 
not but look ; she by whose side I have lin- 
gered hours — how can I tell her that I am 
about to marry another ?" 

Day by day passed by, and Ethel re- 
mained in an uncertainty that grew more 
and more insupportable. It was sad to mark 
the change that was passing over her. Her 
soft colour faded, or else deepened with fever- 
ish agitation. Her step, that had been so light, 
now loitered on its way ; 

For nothing like the weary step 
Betrays the weary heart. 

She used to bound through the plantations, 
her eye first caught by one object, then another, 
gazing round for something to admire and to 
love. Now she walked slowly, her eyes fixed 
on the ground, as if, in all the wide fair world, 
there was nothing to attract nor to. interest. 
She fed her birds carefully still ; but she no 
longer lingered by the cage to watch, nor 
sought to win their caresses by a playfulness 
that showed she was half a child. Now her 
work dropped on her knee, and her book fell 
from her hand ; she was perpetually seeking 
excuses for change of place ; and the change 
brought added discomfort. The sole thing to 
which she turned with any wish to do, was 
the frequent visits that she paid to Sir Jasper 
Meredith. 

The restraint that she put upon herself, while 
with her grandmother, was too much for one 
so young and unpractised ; it was so hard to 
talk on every subject but the one of which 
her very soul was full : but going to that kind 
old man was a relief — it brought its own re- 
ward, because it was a kindness. It soothed her 
to feel that she was of importance to any one ; 
and she was so grateful to Henrietta for her 
affectionate notes and messages — her friend, 
at least had not forgotten her. Moreover, she 
took a strange pleasure in seeing Sir Jasper 
Meredith receive letters : it was the heart ho- 
vering about the object that was 3^et consum- 
ing it. By degrees their conversations grew 
more and more interesting. A few weeks 
before, there would have been nothing in her- 
self that responded to his gloomy views of 
humanity ; now she felt their truth in her own 
depression. 

The old poet pursued the usual course, when 
he said, — 

" When I am sad, to sadness I applie 
Each leaf, each flower, each herbe, that I passe bye." 

Ethel looked on the fair face of nature only to 
see one image, and she now surrounded it with 
all the agfonies of doubt. 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

AN OLD MAN'S VIEW OF LIFE. 

We tremble even in our happiness ; 

Hurried and dim, the unknown hours press 

Heavy with care or grief, that none may ever guess. 

The future is more present than the past: 
For one look back a thousand on we cast, 
And hope doth ever memory outlast. 

For hope say fear— hope is a timid thing, 
Fearful, and weak, and born in suffering, 
At least, such hope as human life can bring. 

Its home, it is not here, it looks beyond ; 
And, while it carries an enchanter's wand, 
Its spells are conscious of their earthly bond. 

Ethel used often to go of an evening and 
pass an hour with Sir Jasper Meredith" who 
was always glad to see her, and always ad- 
mitted her into his library. A painter might 
have taken the scene for some laboratory of 
the olden time, occupied by an Italian alchy- 
mist, and one fair child who had grown up, 
like a dream of human beauty, amid study and 
seclusion. She was seated on a low seat by 
the hearth, wrapped still, more from forget- 
fulness than cold, in her mantle. The fire- 
light, which was flickering and uncertain, left 
her figure in complete shade, but threw sud- 
den gleams of radiance on her face. What a 
change had a few weeks wrought there ! 

On the moonlit evening which collected our 
young party together by the little fountain, 
Ethel was the cherub of the circle — a very 
dream of childlike, roseate, innocent loveli- 
ness. She had still that peculiar cast of beau- 
ty which the immortal artists of Italy have 
associated with our idea of angelic nature ; 
but it was now that of a seraph, who has both 
knowledge and pity. The long fair hair was 
thrown carelessly back, while the gleams of 
the hearth kindled it like burning gold. This 
made the paleness of the face more conspicu- 
ous, and there was an impress of sadness, 
terrible to mark in one so young. The atti- 
tude — the hands clasped, and the form droop- 
ing carelessly forward — was one of utter 
dejection. The eyelashes shone with unshed 
tears ; there was too much uncertainty for the 
relief of weeping. The large blue eyes were 
fixed on the fire ; dilated and unconscious, they 
knew not what they saw. Alas ! it was too 
soon with Ethel for the past to engross the 
spirit, that should have been hopeful and buoy- 
ant, so entirely. 

"All I hope is," exclaimed Sir Jasper, 
breaking the silence into which they had gra- 
dually sunk, — " that Henrietta will never love. 
She is guarded against it both by knowledge 
and ambition. She has not, like most girls, 
been sedulously kept from considering what 
is in reality the most important subject they 
can consider. On the contrary, she has, from 
the first, been taught to examine and to know 
the evil which mere selfishness should teach 
her to shun." 

"You think love, then, to be an evil?" 
asked Ethel, timidly. 

" I look upon it," replied the old man, " as 
the greatest calamity to which our nature is 



subject. What is it but having our happiness 
taken out of our own hands, and delivered, 
bound and bartered, into that of another." 

" But that other," exclaimed Ethel, " may 
delight in making it more precious than their 
own." 

" The chances are fearfully against it," re- 
plied the old man. " Nature and fate rarely 
accord their old dark variance. You are by 
the one formed to be beloved, and to love. As 
all experience shows, the probabilities are, 
that you will waste the rich treasure of your 
affection on one who has none to give in re- 
turn, or who is wholly unworthy of the gift." 

" But," persisted his companion, " experi- 
ence also shows instances of mutual and en- 
during affection." 

"And how fate prepares the path for love," 
returned Sir Jasper, " by surrounding it with 
difficulty, by trying it with poverty and by 
absence, till the wornout spirit sinks beneath 
some last disappointment : but this is an un- 
common instance. Mutual and lasting attach- 
ment is the rarest shape taken by suffering." 

"And the sweetest," said Ethel, in so low 
a voice as scarcely to-be audible. 

" But what," continued Meredith, " is the 
ordinary history of the heart ? We yield to 
some strong and sudden impulse. One sweet 
face sheds its own loveliness over earth. A 
subtle pleasure, unknown before, enters into 
the commonest thing. W T e gaze on the stars, 
and dream of an existence spiritual and lovely 
as their own, far removed from all lower cares, 
from all the meaner and baser portion of our 
ordinary path. The face of nature has grown 
fairer than of old ; a thousand graceful phan- 
tasies are linked with every leaf and flower. 
The odour that comes from the violet with the 
last sobs of a spring shower, is more fragrant 
from recalling the faint breathing of one be- 
loved mouth. We turn the poet's page, now, 
to find a thousand* hidden meanings, only to 
be detected by a passionate sympathy; for 
poetry is the language set apart for love." 

" Ah, how true that is !" exclaimed Ethel, 
stopping short, and colouring at the idea of 
betraying that secret which, though the soul's 
dearest mystery, is never kept from others. 

" But this brief abode in fairy land is dearly 
purchased," continued Sir Jasper; " too late 
we find that the dominion of another is an 
iron rule. We doubt, we fear, we dread, only 
to be at last — how bitterly — undeceived ! We 
find that truth is a mockery ; and confidence 
but a laying bare of the heart to the beak of 
the vulture. We are mortified because we 
have been duped, and that by means of our 
kindliest affections ; hence we grow suspicious. 
Our feelings are checked, and we are afraid 
of their indulgence — why give weapons against 
our own peace ? Hence, we become cold, 
doubtful, stern, — how are the elements of 
happiness departed from us ! It is life's first 
lesson, and its severest; we shall never suffer 
so bitterly again, because we can never mor« 
know such keen enjoyment : yet this first 
lesson is but the type^of all that are to come. 
Throughout our weary pilgrimage we are 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



53 



duped and betrayed ! One hope after another 
dies away like a star in the dim chill light of 
morning and reality. Our feelings are ex- 
hausted ; our memory stored with images of 
pain. Our mistress deceived us at first, and 
our friends have gone and done likewise. 
Tired and imbittered, we take refuge in a harsh 
indifference ; the dust of the highway is upon 
us, and the heart becomes its own tomb. All 
the better part of us has gone down to the 
grave, while we sit wearily by its side, the 
wan shadows of what once we were. Life, 
after all its fever and struggle, has only one 
dark hope left; and that hope, is death !" 

The old man's voice sank, like a knell, 
amid the stillness of that gloomy chamber, 
and he sank back fatigued in his Gothic seat, 
the very image of the desolate old age he had 
painted. While Ethel, who sat cowering by 
the hearth, was equally the image of youthful 
despondency. Both were silent ; for the aged 
man was sad to think of the past, and the 
young girl trembled to think of the future. A 
few minutes passed, when both were aroused 
from their stupor by the entrance of a servant 
with a letter from Henrietta. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

DIFFERENT OPINIONS. 

Doubt, despairing, crime, and craft, 
Are upon that honied shaft. 
It has made the crowned king 
Crouch beneath his suffering; 
Made the beauty's cheek more pale 
Than the foldings of her veil : 
Like a child the soldiers kneel, 
Who had mock'd at flame or steel ; 
Bade the fires of genius turn 
On their own breasts ; and there burn, 
A wound, a blight, a curse, a doom, 
I Bowing young hearts to the tomb. 
Well may storm be on the sky, 
And the waters roll on high, 
When that passion passes by; 
Earth below, and heaven above, 
Well may bend to thee, O Love ! 

While this conversation was going on be- 
tween Sir Jasper Meredith and Ethel Church- 
ill, one of almost a similar kind was progress- 
ing between the very object of his solicitude 
and Lady Mary Wortley. After a hard day's 
shopping, they had come home laden with 
bargains, and the dressing-room was strewed 
with Indian fans, ivory boxes, and lace. 
They were going to dine tete-d-tete, as there 
was a gay ball in perspective, and they need- 
ed a little recruiting. Chloe, who had never 
forgotten his mistress's brilliant suggestion 
of the pigmies, exhausted his genius in the 
slight, but exquisite dinner, which he sent up, 
and which was, at least, duly appreciated by 
Lady Mary. 

" There is something," exclaimed she, 
" wanting in the composition of one who can 
be indinerenj to the fascination of such an 
omelet as this." 

" I own," replied Henrietta, " I never care 

hat I eat." 

" More shame for you !" returned her com- 



panion ; " it only shows how ] ttle you con- 
sider your duty to yourself." 

" My duty to myself!" cried Lady March- 
mont; "why, that would be 

' Roots from the earth, and water from the spring,' 

according to the principles laid down in moral 
essays." 

"Moral essays are only a series of mis- 
takes," interrupted her ladyship : '' r-ur duty 
to ourselves, is to enjoy ourselves as much as 
possible. Now, to- accomplish that, we must 
cultivate .all our bad qualities : I can assure 
you I am quite alarmed when I discover any 
good symptoms." 

" You are laughing !" replied her listener. 

" I laugh at most things," returned the 
other ; " and that is the reason why people in 
general do not understand me. A person who 
wishes to be popular, should never laugh at 
any thing. A jest startles people from that 
tranquil dulness in which they love to in- 
dulge : they do not like it till age has worn 
off the joke's edge. Moreover, there is no 
risk in laughing, if a great many laugh before 
you venture to laugh too," 

" How very true !" exclaimed Henrietta ; 
" there is nothing so little understood as 
wit." 

" People cannot bear," replied her lady- 
ship, " to be expected to understand what, in 
reality, they do not, and are ashamed to con- 
fess r it mortifies their self-love. 1 am per- 
suaded, if all gay badinage were prefaced by 
an explanation, it would be infinitely better 
received." 

" Why," said Lady Marchmont, " that 
would be sending the arrow the wrong way." 

" A very common way of doing things in 
this world," was the answer; "and," she 
added, "I do not care about being popular : 
and, indeed, rather like being hated ; it gives 
me an opportunity of using up epigrams 
which would otherwise be wasted. Our ene- 
mies, at least, keep our weapons in play ; but 
for their sake, the sarcasm and the sword 
would alike rust in the scabbard." 

"I care much more for being generally 
liked than you do," said Henrietta. 

" I do not care about it all," replied Lady 
Mary ; " if I did, I should not say the things 
that I do ; but, next to amusing, I like to as- 
tonish." 

"I would rather interest," replied Lad} 
Marchmont. 

" Shades of the grand Cyrus ! that volumi- 
nous tome I used to read so devotedly, — your 
empire is utterly departed from me!" ex- 
claimed her ladyship: "I have long since 
left romance behind — 

'Once, and but once, that devil charm'd my mind, 
To reason deaf, and observation blind :' 

now I look upon my lover as I do my dinner 
a thing very agreeable and very necessary, but 
requiring perpetual change." 

" What a simile !" cried Henrietta, with 
uplifted hands and eyes. 

" Believe me, rny dear," returned the other 



54 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" love is a mixture of vanity and credulity. 
Now, these are two qualities that I sedulously 
cultivate : they conduce to our chief enjoy- 
ments." 

" My definition of love," said the young 
countess, with a faint sigh, " would be very 
different to yours." 

" Yes," replied Lady Mary, " you have all 
sorts of fanciful notions on the subject. I 
know what you would like : — an old place 
in the country, half ruins, half flowers, 
with some most picturesque-looking cavalier, 
who 

' Lived but on the light of those sweet eyes !' " 

" Wei.," interrupted Henrietta, " I see no- 
thing so very appalling in such a prospect. 
How would our thoughts grow together ! 
how would my mind become the image 
of his ! What a world of poetry and of 
beauty we might create around us ! I can 
imagine no sacrifice in life that would not 
cheaply buy the happiness of loving and being 
loved." 

" Very fine, and very tiresome," answered 
the other, with half a yawn, and half a sneer. 
" How weary you would be of each other : 
to see the same face — to hear the same voice ; 
why, my dear child, I give you one single 
week, and then, — 

' Abandon'd by joy, and deserted by grace, 
You will hang yourselves both in the very same place !' " 

"At least," replied Henrietta, "we should 
carry on our sympathy to the very last. 
Though I cannot peculiarly admire its coinci- 
dence, I should say, 

' Take any shape but that.' " 

"If it does not take that," cried Lady 
Mary, "it will take some other just as bad. 
Believe me, we are all of us false, vain, self- 
ish, inconstant ; and the sooner we cease to 
look for any thing else, the better : we save 
ourselves a world of unreasonable expecta- 
tion, and of bitter disappointment !" 

" I would not think like you," replied Lady 
Marchmont, "not for the treasures of the 
crowned Ind. I devoutly believe in the di- 
vinity of affection ; and my ideal of love, is 
affection in its highest state of enthusiasm 
and devotion. No sacrifice ever appeared to 
me great, that was made for its sweet sake." 

" The Lord have mercy upon such notions !" 
cried Lady Mary, throwing herself back in 
her chair. 

Sir Jasper would have been tempted to re- 
echo her ejaculation, and he would have been 
almost right. To love another, is too often 
the sad, yet sweet seal, put upon a bond of 
wretchedness, at least to a woman. How is 
her earnest, her self-sacrificing, her devoted 
attachment, repaid * — By neglect, falsehood, 
and desertion ! 



CHAPTER XXXIQ 

THE END OF DOUBT. 

T tell thee death were far more merciful 
Than such a blow. It is death to the heart ; 
Death to its first affections, its sweet hopes; 
The young religion of its guileless faith. 
Henceforth the well is troubled at the spring ; 
The waves run clear no longer; there is doutt 
To shut out happiness— perpetual shads ; 
Which, if the sunshine penetrate, 'tis dim, 
And broken ere it reach the stream below. 

It is strange how we hope, even against 
hope. The light came into Ethel's eyes, the 
colour flushed her cheek, when she caught 
sight of the letter. She believed that it must 
be for her ; and it was with a sick feeling of 
disappointment that she saw the servant pass 
by her. I do not think that life has a sus- 
pense more sickening than that of expecting a 
letter which does not come. The hour which 
brings the post is the one that is anticipated, 
the only one from which we reckon. How 
long the time seems till it comes ! With how 
many devices do we seek to pass it a little 
quicker ! How we hope and believe each day 
will be our last of anxious waiting ! The 
post comes in, and there is no letter for us. 
How bitter is the disappointment ! and on 
every repetition it grows more acute. How 
immeasurable the time seems till the post 
comes in again ! The mind exhausts itself in 
conjectures ; illness, even death, grow terribly 
distinct to hope in its agony — hope that is 
fear! We dread we know not what; and 
every lengthened day the misery grows mere 
insupportable. Every day the anxiety takes 
a darker shadow. To know even the very 
worst of all we have foreboded, appears a 
relief. 

The letter wiiich Ethel had watched so 
eagerly, was the usual one from Henrietta. 
Her uncle almost snatched it, with hands tha* 
trembled with eagerness. His whole face 
lighted up. He read the direction ; he looked 
at the seal with an expression of even child- 
like fondness; he hoarded his enjoyment by 
delaying to break it. At last he opened the 
letter : he watched the fair Italian hand with 
delight. Lady Marchmont's handwriting 
was peculiarly fine ; often careless, and some- 
times illegible, but never to her uncle. Her 
affectionate remembrance was marked in the 
care with which she wrote, lest her letters 
might be troublesome to decipher. He read 
it at first eagerly ; he needed to be assured of 
her health and happiness ; then slowly, lin- 
gering over every word ; and then, as was his 
custom, prepared to read it aloud. 

In the mean time, Ethel had leant her head 
on her hand, while the large tears trickled 
slowly through her fingers. Every day the 
disappointment grew more insupportable. The 
sight of another's letter filled her with the 
bitterest envy. Suffering cannot come unat« 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



55 



tended with bad feelings. It was in vain that 
she checked herself; but the question would 
arise, Why should Henrietta be so much hap- 
pier than herself ? Scarcely could she com- 
mand her attention when Sir Jasper began to 
read. That last evening- when they were all 
together, rose with terrible distinctness. The 
little fountain shone with the falling moon- 
light, and Henrietta's eyes seemed to grow 
darker and more intense as they filled with 
that pure and spiritual ray. Walter Maynard 
stood beside, pale and dejected : and nearer 
still leant Norbourne Courtenaye. How well 
she remembered his tender and earnest gaze, 
and the small knot of blue harebells on which 
her own glance fell ; when, with sweet shame 
and pleasure, she looked down, too timid to 
look upon him. A more solemn and deep 
conviction of how utterly she loved him 
seemed to strike upon her heart. She started, 
for she heard his name; his name that, sav- 
ing from her own lips, whispered in the 
stillness of midnight, she had not heard since 
his departure. Quietly, even carelessly, Sir 
Jasper was reading the following passage 
from Lady Marchmont's letter : — 

-"Do you remember a young man called 
Norbourne Courtenaye, who was staying at 
Churchill Manor? He has just married his 
cousin, Lord Norboume's daughter. It is a 
splendid match. I thought him cpris with 
our pretty Ethel, but the present marriage is 
quite one of interest. They are just now 
keeping the honeymoon : but, with such an 
heiress ! I say that it ought to be called the 
harvest moon !" 

Ethel started to her feet, the rich flush that 
had covered her cheek at the first mention of' 
his name died into deadly paleness. The dew 
started on her forehead, and her eyes dilated 
with a wild, strange expression ; their very 
blue seemed curdled and glazed. She snatched 
the letter from Sir Jasper, who started as her 
icy hand touched his : she attempted to read 
the passage herself, but the letters seemed to 
swim before her gaze ; they turned to fire ; the 
paper dropped from her grasp ; a thick mist 
appeared to gather over the room ; she gave a 
convulsive shudder, and dropped on the floor 
perfectly insensible. 

It would have spared her a world of wretch- 
edness, had she never recovered from that 
deathlike trance. Truly did the ancients 
say, " Those whom the gods love, die young !" 
The flowers fall from the hand unwithered ; 
the eyes close in the sunshine ; they go down 
to the grave as if it were an altar, in their 
hour of hope and of beauty : they are spared 
life's longest agony — that of endurance, and 
endurance without expectation. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

CONFIDENCE. 

I feel the presence of my own despair; 
Tt darkens round me palpable and vast. 
I cave my heart unconsciously ; it filled 
With love as flowers are filled with early dew, 
And with the light of morning. 
******* 
If he be false, he who appear'd so true, 
Can there be any further truth in life, 
When falsehood wears such seeming 1 

Sir Jasper started from his seat ; absorbed 
in his letter, he had not perceived the altera- 
tion in Ethel's face, and the noise of her fall 
was the first thing that drew his attention. 
At once he felt what was the cause — the mar- 
riage he had so unconsciously communicated 
— and he stood for an instant lost in thought. 
But he was too much of a chemist not to have 
remedies at hand, and he raised the inanimate 
form tenderly, as if it had been his own be- 
loved child, and laid her on the couch. A 
few minutes sufficed to restore her to life, and 
also to consciousness. Slowly her scattered 
senses returned ; she gazed on Sir Jasper, but 
her eye wandered round with an unsatisfied 
gaze ; at last it rested on the letter, which had 
fallen on the ground. 

"It is all true," muttered she, with a faint 
shudder. She pressed her hands firmly to- 
gether, but the effort was vain, and she burst 
into a violent flood of tears. " Forgive me," 
she exclaimed, "I ought to wait till I get 
home ; but I am wretched, very wretched." 

The kind old man did not even attempt to 
speak ; he knew too well the vanity of conso- 
lation, to mock her with it ; but he took her 
hand gently, and his own eyes glittered with 
unusual moisture. An hour before, or an hour 
after, and Ethel would have locked her secret 
deep in her inmost heart ; but now misery 
mastered timidity, and it was a relief to 
speak. Moreover, there was such encourage- 
ment in Sir Jasper's gentle and voiceless 
sympathy. 

" I am sure that he did love me," exclaimed 
she : " young as I am, my heart tells me the 
truth. Ah, no, it has deceived me ! There 
is no truth in any thing." 

" Were you, then, engaged to Mr. Courte- 
naye ?" said Sir Jasper, who asked the ques- 
tion solely to give her an opportunity of 
expressing the emotion it was too much to 
restrain. 

" He told me he loved me," replied Ethel, 
in a tone of hopeless dejection, which went to 
her companion's heart. 

" My poor child," said he, " I can urge no- 
thing to comfort you. It will not soften yom 
sufferinof to know how common it is " 



56 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" Common !" exclaimed she. 
" Ay, common — too common. Life has 
many dreams ; all sweet, and all fugitive ; but 
love is the sweetest and most fugitive of all. 
I know nothing of Mr. Courtenaye ; but I can 
perceive enough of this affair to see that he is 
one of those who, for a moment's selfish gra- 
tification, or for the yet meaner love of gratified 
vanity, will excite the deepest feelings, and 
trifle with the dearest hopes of all who trust 
them !" 

" It is not possible !" said his listener, al- 
most inauclibly, as Norbourne's open brow, 
and simple, yet earnest manner, arose on her 
recollection. His falsehood was too evident, 
yet she could not bear to hear another say it. 
It seemed as if she had scarcely believed it, 
till confirmed by Sir Jasper. All in her mind 
was confusion ; still the paramount sense that 
predominated over all others, was the bitter 
conviction of his unworthiness. Any thing 
but that she could have borne ; but to find 
realized in him all she had ever heard of 
man's crime and cruelty, darkened the whole 
world : all belief in goodness had suddenly 
departed. Still, till Sir Jasper spoke, she felt 
rather as if labouring under a frightful dream 
than conscious of a frightful reality. She re- 
mained for a few moments in gloomy silence, 
when the entrance of a servant, with wood for 
the fire, roused her from her stupor. How 
strangely do the common domestic events, 
things of constant and hourly recurrence, jar 
upon the over-excited nerves ! It seems to 
mock our inward misery to see all but the 
pulses of our own beating heart, go on so 
calmly and uniformly. There is an exagge- 
ration in sorrow, which would fain demand 
universal sympathy : it does not find it, and 
the sorrow sinks the deeper. 

" I am very late," exclaimed Ethel, start- 
ing up, and drawing her hood over her face : 
" dear, dear sir, I will thank you for your 
kindness to-morrow." 

" God bless you, my poor child ; but will 
you take a servant with you — you are not well 
enough to go home by yourself?" 

" I am better alone : it is not five minutes' 
walk," said Ethel, eagerly. 

Sir Jasper let her depart without further 
remonstrance ; he sympathized with the fever- 
ish mood that craved the indulgence of soli- 
tude ; he knew its worth. Ethel hurried along 
the wellknown path, haunted by so many 
remembrances. She started from them : she 
felt as if she must drop, did she pause for a 
single moment. Never had she made such 
haste before ; and yet it seemed an age before 
she gained her little chamber; once there, she 
fling herself on her bed, and gave way to the 
sorrow with which she no longer struggled. 
Who among you has not felt the relief that it 
is, after constraint on some overwhelming 
misery, to reach the loneliness of your own 
room, and there yield to the passionate weep- 
ing you cannot, repress ? Ethel, was very 
young, and unaccustomed to grief; her feel- 
ings were in all their first freshness ; and to 
such, forgetfulness seems impossible : but the 



body sinks under the mind, and nature can 
endure but a portion of suffering. Ethel cried 
like a child ; and, like a child, cried herself to 
sleep. 

There was a strange contrast between tha 1 
cheerful chamber and its occupant. Every thing 
around denoted quiet, comfort, and glad and in- 
nocent tastes : the walls were of white wain- 
scot, and hung with drawings ; bookshelves 
fastened with rose-coloured riband, and in two 
recesses were stands of old china, where shep- 
herds, shepherdesses, and sheep, predominated. 
An open spinnet was in one corner, and in the 
other an embroidery-frame, whose half-finished 
flowers spoke of recent employment. In each 
of the windows was a beaupot, and the roses 
were fresh, as if still on their native bough ; 
and in one of the window-seats was a volume 
of Sir Philip Sydney's " Arcadia :" a few 
myrtle leaves were scattered on the yet un- 
closed page, a graceful mark to find the place 
where the youthful reader had brooded over 
visions of truth and love, already vanished, 
like the freshness of those leaves, strewed, as 
if they were flung on the shroud of departed 
hope. 

The casements were open, and looked on 
one of the fairest aspects of the garden : and 
the murmur of branches brought a sense of 
repose, and a faint perfume that grew every 
moment sweeter. The sun had set, and a soft 
purple haze clothed the distance ; but a few 
rosy tints yet floated on the horizon, far from 
the colourless moon, whose pale crescent, 
pure and lucid as pearl, had just arisen : one 
single star was on the sky, tremulous and 
clear, belonging to other worlds — ah, surely, 
less troubled than ours ! It rose just above 
where Ethel was sleeping, the only agitated 
thing in all that fair and calm scene : she lay 
with her head on her arm, and tears 

Seem'd but the natural melting of iis snow, 

as the flushed cheek pressed upon it. Her 
long bright tresses had escaped from all con- 
finement, and lay around her in rich confused 
masses, but giving that air of desolation which 
nothing marks in a woman so strongly as her 
neglected hair. Her eyes were closed, but 
the soft eyelids were swelled and red, and the 
eyelashes yet glittered with tears ; a spot of 
burning red was on either cheek, but the rest 
of the face was pale ; and, even in slumber, 
the muscles of the mouth quivered. Her 
breathing was difficult — how unlike its usual 
hushed and regular sweetness — while every 
now and then her whole frame was shaken by 
a quick, convulsive sob. Terrible, indeed, 
is such sleep ; but more terrible its awaking. 
At first we rouse forgetful ; but conscious of 
something, we know not what. The head is 
raised with a sudden start, only to drop hea- 
vily on the pillow from whence rest is banished 
in an instant. The eyes close again, but not 
to sleep ; we seek only to shut out the light 
from which we sicken. But the inward sor- 
row rises only the more distinct : all is re- 
membered, not a pang is spared ; and the very 
rest given to the body only renders its sense 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



57 



of suffering more acute. Misery has many 
bitter moments ; but, I believe, the first 
awakening after any great sorrow is the one 
of its most utter agony. How will it ever be 
possible to get through the long, the coming 
day ? I envy those who have never asked the 
question. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

AN EVENING ALONE. 

The steps of Fate are dark and terrible ; 
And not here may we trace them to the coal. 

If I could douU the heaven in which I'hope, 
The doubt would vanish, gazing upon life, 
And seeing what it needs of peace and rest. 

Life is but like a journey during night. 
We toil through gloomy paths of the unknown; 
Heavy the fooisteps are with pitfalls round ; 
And few and faint the stars that guide our way: 
But, at the last, comes morning; glorious 
Shines forth the light of day, and so will shine 
The heaven which is our future and our home. 

Sir Jasper watched from his windoAV the 
light form of Ethel, as she ran hastily along 
the little winding path, soon lost in the cop- 
pice beside. " Poor child !" muttered he, re- 
suming his seat, and gazing on the wood em- 
bers, whose flames were gathering into all 
sorts of fantastic shrpes, which only ask the 
imagination to give them what form it will. 
I marvel at none of the wild beliefs in the 
Hartz mountains : fire is the element of the 
spiritual, and who can tell what strange visit- 
ings there may be during the midnight hours 
that the charcoal-burner sits watching the fit- 
ful and subtle m) T stery of flame ? 

Sir Jasper gazed on these grotesque combi- 
nations till their shadows seemed almost pal- 
pable upon his wearied spirits. He felt him- 
self growing fanciful and superstitious ; a pale, 
sad face, wearing first the likeness of Ethel, 
and then changing to that of Henrietta, but 
fixed and distorted, appeared distinct in the 
obscurity. The large eyes sought his own, 
as if asking for help, and yet unable to do 
more than look their mute asking. Funeral 
pageants floated on the air, dark, vague, but 
terrible, with that white face predominant in 
all. 

Sir Jasper started from his chair, ashamed 
of the sick fancies that had, for the moment, 
overmastered him. He approached the win- 
dow to dissipate them in the fair face of hea- 
ven : the evening had closed in during his re- 
very, and the sweet and silver night had 
stolen, with her noiseless steps, upon the air. 
The scene was usuaHy bare and desolate, but 
it was now softened by the united influence 
of summer and of moonlight. There was not 
a cloud on the sky, save a few light vapours 
that congregated near the moon; but even 
they were lustrous with her presence. The 
herbage shone with silver dews, like a sheet 
of water tremulous with the passing wind, and 
not a leaf on the surrounding trees but seemed 
the mirror of a ray; all around was silent as 
Bleep, and as soft. It seemed a world on 
which shadow had never rested, and tumult 

Vol. II.— 8 



had never disturbed ; crime, rage, and grief 
had no part in elements so lovingly blended ; 
the earth was at rest, and the still bright air 
slept on her bosom. 

But there was something in the tranquillity 
that mocked Sir Jasper's unrest: the contrast 
was too forcible between the outward and in- 
ward world : the one so serene, so spiritual ; 
the other so troubled, and so actual. He turned 
from the window ; and, ringing the bell hasti- 
ly, ordered the servants to close the curtains 

"If," muttered he to himself, "everyplace 
bore record of the wretchedness that they had 
witnessed, they could not thus mock us with 
their bright and serene aspect. Folly, of that 
dreaming creed of old, to believe that the calm, 
far stars, governed the base destinies of earth ! 
But the world was young then — warm with 
the celestial fire that called it into being. 
Imagination walked its fresh paths even as a 
god, and shed around glorious beliefs and di- 
vine aspirings : its presence made beautiful 
the planet that it redeemed with its heavenly 
essence : but the imagination has exhausted 
its poetry ; we are given over, wornout, and 
yet struggling to the cold and the real. We 
know more than we did, but we love less ; 
and what knowledge is to be acquired on our 
weary soil but the knowledge of evil ? I look 
around, and see nothing but suffering : man- 
kind is divided into two classes, in which all 
alternately take their place — the tyrant and 
the victim. How we torture each other ! Not 
content with our inevitable portion, with sick- 
ness, toil, and death, we must create and in- 
flict sorrow !" 

At this moment his eye fell upon some 
roses that Miss Churchill had brought him : 
in the confusion they had been thrown upon 
the floor, and trampled upon. 

"Just emblems of herself, poor girl," said 
the kind old man,: " a passing wind from the 
south, a transitory gleam of sunshine, and, lo ! 
those flowers opened to their short and sweet 
existence ! Now, there they lie, carelessly 
crushed; the little period allotted to their 
loveliness and fragrance recklessly shortened : 
and such is the history of that poor child. 
Her young heart has been awakened to its 
short summer of hope and love : and how 
dreary a winter remains behind ! She has lost 
much more than her lover: she has lost con- 
fidence in affection, and belief in excellence. 
Alas for the heart which iias surrendered it- 
self to an idol unworthy of its faith ! — it has 
no future. 

"And yet," continued he, after a pause, 
" it matters little in what shape our sorrow 
overtakes us. In all this wide world there is 
nothing but suffering: the child cries in its 
cradle ; it but begins as it will continue. In 
all ranks there is the same overpowering mi- 
sery : the poor man has all the higher facul- 
ties of his being absorbed in a perpetual strug- 
gle with cold and hunger: a step higher, and 
pretence comes to aggravate poverty; dig we 
cannot, and to beg we are ashamed. Go on 
into what are called the higher classes, and 
there we find ambition the fever of the soul, 



58 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



and jealousy its canker. There are pleasures ; 
but there is no relish for them ; and luxuries 
which have become wearisome as wants. The 
feelings are either dull in selfish apathy, that 
excludes enjoyment; or unduly keen, till a 
look or word is torture. Then your philoso- 
phers, your poets, your men of science — what 
do they do but spend breathing- and healthful 
life on wasting pursuits, in which the very 
success only shows how worthless it is to suc- 
ceed ? The mind feeds upon the body : pale 
sickness, and early decrepitude, overmaster 
even its spiritual essence. Too late it dis- 
covers that this earth is its prison, and not its 
v iome : the heart beats, and its pulses are the 
ilockwork of wretchedness : the head ex- 
amines only to find that all is void and worth- 
less. We feel, and all we feel is misery ; we 
know, and the whole of our knowledge is evil. 
In one thing has Fate been merciful, — it has 
placed at the end of our pilgrimage a grave." 

Sir Jasper was right ; in a few short years 
we learn that the "valley of the shadow of 
death" does but lead to a place of peace, 
"where the wicked cease from troubling, and 
the weary are at rest." Rest ! — how strongly, 
day by day, does the desire for rest grow upon 
the human heart ! We begin life — how buoy- 
ant, how hopeful ! difficulties but bring out a 
healthful exertion, and obstacles stimulate by 
the resources they call into action. This can- 
not, and does not last : it is not lassitude so 
much as discouragement that gains upon us : 
we feel how little we have done of all we once 
thought that we could do ; and still more, how 
little that we have done has answered its in- 
tention. This I believe to be experienced in 
every career ; but more especially in a literary 
one. Necessarily dependent on imagination, 
feeling, and opinion, of how exhausting a na- 
ture is both the work and the appeal of litera- 
ture ! Let the successful writer look back a 
few years, and what an utter sense of desola- 
tion there will be in the retrospect ! Not a 
volume but has been the burial-place of many 
hopes, and the graven record of feelings never 
to be known again. 

How constantly has mortification accompa- 
nied triumph ! With what secret, sorrow has 
that praise been received from strangers, de- 
nied to us by our friends ! Nothing astonishes 
me more than the envy which attends literary 
fame, and the unkindly depreciation which 
waits upon the writer : of every species of 
fame, it is the most ideal and apart ; it w T ould 
seem to interfere with no one. It is bought 
by a life of labour ; generally, also, of seclu- 
sion and privation. It asks its honour only 
from all that is most touching, and most ele- 
vated in humanity. What is the reward that 
it craves ? — to lighten many a solitary hour,* 
and to spiritualize a world, that were else too 
material. What is the requital that the Athe- 
nians of the earth give to those who have 
struggled through the stormy water, and 
the dark night, for their applause ? — both 
reproach and scorn. If the author have — and 
why should he be exempt from ? — the faults 
pf his kind, with what greedy readiness are 



they seized upon and exaggerateu '. How 
ready is the sneer against his weakness or his 
error ! What hours of feverish misery have 
been past ! What bitter tears have been shed 
over the unjust censure, and the personal sap 
casm! 

The imaginative feel such wrong far beyond 
what those of less sensitive temperament can 
dream. The very essence of a poetical mind 
is irritable, passionate, and yet tender, sus- 
ceptible, and keenly alive to that opinic.ii 
which is the element of its- existence. These 
may be faults ; but they are faults by which 
themselves suffer most, and without which 
they could not produce their creations. Can 
you bid the leopard leave his spots, and yet 
be beautiful ? 

Perhaps, — for the divine purpose runs 
through every aim of our being, — the disap- 
pointment and the endurance are but sent to 
raise those hopes above, which else might 
cling too fondly to their fruition below. Sooner 
or later dawns upon us the conviction, that 
the gifts we hold most glorious were given for 
a higher object than personal enjoyment, or 
the praise which is of man. We learn to 
look at the future result, to acknowledge our 
moral responsibility, and to hope that our 
thoughts, destined to become part of the hu- 
man mind, will worthily fulfil the lofty duty 
assigned to their exercise. 

I agree with Sir Jasper in looking forward 
with a desire that would fain " take the wings 
of the morning, and flee away, and be at rest." 
Worn, weary, and discouraged, the image of 
death seems like a pleasant sleep — solemn, 
but soothing ; when all that now makes the 
fevered heart beat with unquiet pain will be 
no more. But I, also, gaze beyond, in all 
the earnest humility of hope. I believe that 
the mind is imperishable ; and is also the 
worthiest offering to the Creator. Whatever 
of thought, of feeling, or of faculties, I may 
ever have possessed, look to the grave as to 
an altar, from whence they will arise purified 
and exalted unto heaven. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE CORONATION. 

What memories haunt the venerable pile 
It is the mighty treasury of the past, 
Where England garners up her glorious dead. 
Trie- ancient chivalry are sleeping there — 
Men who sought out the Turk in Palestine, 
And laid the crescent low before the cross. 

The sea has sent her victories : those aisles 
Wave with the banners of a thousand fights. 
There, too, are the mind's triumphs— in those tomb 
Sleep poets and philosophers, whose light 
Is on the heaven of our intellect 
The very names inscribed on those old walls 
Make the place sacred. 

LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH. 

I suppose, my dear uncle, that we shall all 
now come to our senses — that is, those who 
have any senses to which they could come — 
for the coronation is ever. We have talked of 
nothing during the last six weeks, but ermint 






ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



59 



and purple velvet. The day has been devoted 
to walking up and down the room, practising 
the stately pace with which we were to enter 
the abbey ; and all night to dreaming that 
none looked so well as ourselves. Peers 
have been at a premium — that is, the unmar- 
ried ones ; not an heiress but would have 
waved settlements altogether for the sake of 
walking in the procession. I can assure you 
I felt quite glad that I was married — glad for 
the first and last time, peut-eire. 

Will you believe me, dearest uncle, when I 
say, that there are times when I could almost 
wish that I loved my husband ? I often feel, 
in spite of the perpetual gayety in which I 
live, so lonely and so unvalued. One cannot 
always be amused, one would wish sometimes 
to be interested. How often have I feelings 
that crave for sympathy, and thoughts eager 
for communication ! Lord Marchmont would 
enter as little into the feeling as he could un- 
derstand the thought. Every day shows me 
more forcibly the narrowness of his mind, and 
the coldness of his heart. I do not believe 
that, in the whole course of his life, he had 
ever one lofty aspiration, or one warm and 
generous emotion. He is selfish, but it is 
selfishness on a singularly small scale: he is 
scarcely to be called ambitious ; for his de- 
sires extend no further than a riband and a 
title — the wish to influence or to control his 
fellow-men by talent and by exertion, would 
never enter the vacant space called his mind. 
He loves money, because it is the only shape 
that power takes, which he can comprehend. 
Moreover, he delights in its small miserable 
enjoyments ; he likes a fine house, fine dresses, 
and fine dinners ; they are the material plea- 
sures of which alone he is capable. 

I am like a plant brought from the kind and 
genial air of your affection, into a cold and 
bright atmosphere — a frosty day in winter is 
for ever around me ; while the chill hardens 
my nature, and I shall soon become a very 
icicle. What would Lord Marchmont do 
with the passionate and devoted love that is in 
my heart ? Well, better that it should there 
waste itself away in unbroken slumber, than 
waken into the bitter and burning life which is 
its inevitable heritage. I do not forget your 
lessons. What has love been to our gentle 
Ethel ? But, how I have wandered from my 
subject! At all events the external world is 
bright enough ; and why should we gaze on 
the dark and troubled depths of that which is 
within ? 

The spectacle was magnificent — worthy of 
the history that I recalled. As I looked round 
the noble old abbey — the most glorious tomb 
in which ever were enshrined the honours of 
vhe past — I marvelled at the indifference with 
which the ordinary hours of life treat all that 
makes its greatness and its poetry. I could 
not believe that I had never had the resolution 
to see our most beautiful and most national 
Duilding before. 

It was a strange inconsistency, but never 
till then had 1 been so much struck with the 
Worthless and frivolous life of society. Never 



till then did I feel the deep and eternal debt 
of gratitude that human nature owes to those 
who assert its higher influence; who feel 
their generous activity stirred by a thrice 
noble emulation ; who appeal from the present 
to the future, and redeem their kind, by show 
in<r of how much that is good and great, am 
bition and genius are capable. But, I am 
wandering again, — perhaps from very con- 
sciousness that I can give you no idea of the 
splendid scene, which yet floats before my 
eyes. No person can have a greater respect 
for words than myself; they can do eve:y 
thing but what is impossible : and there is an 
extraordinary excitement in a crowd, which 
lives in no description that I ever yet read. It is 
strange the influence we exercise over each 
other. What is tame and cold with the few, 
becomes passion shared with the many. 

When " God save the king!" resounded 
through the stately abbey, the banners vibrating 
with the mighty music, I felt quite enthusiastic 
in my loyalty. I hear that the procession of the 
peeresses, as each after each stepped through 
the arch, was quite charming. We ourselves 
knew the least about it ; for we were too much 
taken up with cur own appearance to think 
about others. After myself, to whom, of 
course, in my secret heart, I gave the first vote 
— the beauties of the day were the Dutchess 
of Queensberry and Lady Mary Wortley Mon- 
tague. It is, after all, full dress that is the 
test of the gentlewoman. Common people 
are frightened at an unusual toilette : they 
think that finer clothes deserve finer manners, 
forgetting that any manner, to be good, must 
be that of every day. 

But you should have seen my beauties, — so 
stately, yet so easy, as if the ermine mantle 
were familiar as the white and spreading 
wings are to the swan. Then the fine features 
were lighted up with a consciousness of look- 
ing well, which is one of beauty's most be- 
coming moods. The Dutchess of Queensberry 
is accustomed to that grace with which poetry 
invests flattery ; but she is fitted to inspire it. 
Odd, very often rude, setting all common 
rules at defiance, I yet like her better than 
most jf those with whom I come in contact. 
The fact is, she is more sincere. Now, let 
us alter and improve as much as we can ; yet 
nature will have what nothing else can, a hold 
upon the heart. You will think that I am 
grown "philosophical, very;" but the fact is, 
I am quite worn out with yesterday's fatigue. 
I can do nothing but lie on the couch and 
write to you. I always grow thoughtful when 
I am very tired. 

We are going next week to a fete at Marble 
Hill, which is given to their majesties by 
Mrs. Howard. I am very desirous of going, 
not for the sake of the fete, for I am already 
beginning to look with an elegant indifference 
on pleasure ; but I want to see the bride. Mr. 
and Mrs. Norbourne Courtenaye will then 
make their first appearance in public. The 
seclusion has been very long of thenar honey- 
moon ; I wonder there was no wish for dis- 
play before, as the bride is one of our richest 



60 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



heiresses. Norbourne has only changed suit, 
and taken the queen of diamonds instead of 
hearts. I hear that the lady is both ugly and 
deformed. I wish I could prevail on Ethel to 
come up to London, if it were but for the sake 
of eclipsing her arrival. I will stand god- 
mother to the town's admiration, and promise 
and vow three things in its name : — first, that 
she will forget her faithless swain in the mul- 
titude of new ones ; secondly, that she will 
be universally ran after; and, thirdly, that 
she will be brilliantly married. 

And now adieu, dearest uncle, my eyes are 
closing with a rich confusion of banners, 
velvet and jewels. I must g6 to sleep for a 
while, and dream of them. 

Your affectionate 

Henrietta. 



CHAPTER XXX VII. 

PUBLISHING. 

Life's smallest miseries are, perhaps, its worst: 
Great sufferings have great strength : there is a pride 
In the bold energy that braves the worst, 
And bears proud "in the bearing; but the heart 
Consumes with those small sorrows, and small shames, 
Which crave, yet cannot ask for sympathy. 
They blush that they exist, and yet how keen 
The pang that they inflict ! 

It was one of those bright days in spring, 
which are very spendthrifts of sunshine, when 
the darkest alley in London wins a golden 
glimpse, and the eternal mist around St. Paul's 
turns to a glittering haze : but the young 
man, who was hurrying along some of the 
crowded streets, seemed insensible of the 
genial atmosphere ; he would have been 
equally insensible of the reverse. 

Walter Maynard, for he was the hurried 
walker, appeared much changed ; he was thin 
and pale, and his cheek had that worn look 
which tells of bodily suffering. His dress 
was shabby, and arranged with little of his 
former attention to appearance : the eyes were 
larger and darker than of old, while there 
was an unnatural lustre, which bespoke both 
mental and physical fever. As he passed 
along, nothing seemed to catch his glance. 
He hurried on; and yet, more than once, he 
came to almost a full stop, as if reluctant, al- 
though impatient. 

It was with sIoav and languid steps that, at 
last, he entered a bookseller's shop : he gave 
in his name, and the young man, behind the 
counter, very civilly asked him to wait. He 
sat down, and mechanically, turned over some 
volumes that lay beside him ; but their con- 
tents swam before him. The lover may trem- 
ble while waiting for the mistress on whose 
lip iiangs the heart's doom, but I doubt whe- 
ther he feels equal anxiety with the young 
author waiting the fiat of his publisher. One 
figure after another emerged from the room 
behind, and at each step Walter Maynard felt 
a, cold shudder steal over him ; and then he 
started and coloured, lest his agitation should 
have bten observed ; but the shopboy was too 



used to such scenes to heed them. He never 
looked at the white lip, tremulous with hope, 
which was rather fear; he noticed not the 
drops that started on the forehead ; what little 
attention he could spare from his business was 
given to the window ; there, at least, he had 
the satisfaction of seeing the people passing. 
At last Walter Maynard's turn came : he en- 
tered a low, dark back-parlour, whose close 
and murky atmosphere seemed ominous ; a 
little man was seated on a very high stool, 
writing at a desk before him. 

" Take a seat, Mr. Maynard," said he, in a 
low mysterious whisper, as if the fate of na 
tions depended on not being overheard. He 
went on writing, and Walter took his seat, 
glad of even a momentary respite. 

Curl was of very small stature, with good 
but restless features, and a singularly unde- 
cided mouth. He might have sat for a per- 
sonification of fear : if he moved he seemed 
rather afraid of his own shadow following him 
too closely ; if he laughed, he soon checked 
himself, quite alarmed at the sound. He 
began a conversation at your elbow ; butj 
before it was finished, he had gradually 
backed his chair to the other end of the room. 
He always contrived to sit next the door, to 
which he paid more attention than to his 
hearer; his eye always wandering to it as if 
he meditated an escape, and yet this man was 
the most audacious libeller of his time. Re- 
putation, feelings, or even chastisement, were 
as nothing in the balance weighed against his 
interest; life was to him only a long sum ; his 
ledger was his Bible, and his religion, profit. 
For a little while he went on writing : this he 
did on principle. 

"Authors," he was wont to say, "come in 
a direct line from Reuben ; they are unstable 
as water, and never know exactly what it is 
they really do want. I always give them a 
little waiting, just to show I don't care much 
about them, and so grow something rational 
in their demands." 

At last Curl descended from his stool, and 
drew a chair towards Walter. Dividing his 
looks between him and the door, he began : — 

" I have been looking at your pamphlet, and 
showing it, but I mention no names. I don't 
see the use of names, for my part, unless it be 
to put in asterisks. It is — yes — very, in- 
deed." 

"What!" exclaimed Walter. 

" Yes, extremely so," replied Curl. 

"You think it, then, clever," returned the 
anxious listener. 

" Why, my good young friend," exclaimed 
the publisher, glancing suspiciously at the 
door, "you would not have me tell an authoi 
to his face that his works were not clever ? 
You are too irritable a race for that !" 

" But do you think that it will suit you ?" 
asked Maynard. 

" Why, no — no — yes, perhaps ; but we 
must talk a little about it. You reason too 
much ; all young people are so fond of rea- 
sons, as if reasons were of any use." 

" Why," cried his companion, " mine is a 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



61 



Jispassionate appeal to the reason of the pub- 
lic : my object is to convince." 

" As if you ever convinced people by rea- 
son !" 

" But I feel it is a duty I owe to the public," 
said the author. 

" Good Lord ! O, Lord ! Why, my dear 
sir, what duty do you owe to the public ? 
The only duty you owe is to me, your pub- 
lisher ! It is your duty to write what will 
sell, and I tell you reasons are unmarketable 
commodities." 

"What would you have me do?" sighed 
Maynard, in a desponding tone. 

" Why, pepper and salt your reasons !" 
cried Curl, forgetting to look at the door for a 
moment : " your pamphlet has talent ; but 
talent is like a cucumber, nothing without the 
dressing. You must be more personal." 

" I detest personalities," said Walter. 

"And I detest nonsense," said the other ; 
"and I also detest works that won't sell. 
You mean to make scribbling your business ?" 

"lam," replied our young poet, "anxious 
to devote my feeble services to the cause of 
literature." 

"A very well turned sentence," said the 
bookseller: "I don't, myself, dislike a fine 
phrase now and then; but fine words, like 
fine clothes, don't do to wear every day : you 
would soon find yourself without any to 
wear." 

" Very true," thought Maynard, glanc- 
ing unconsciously at his own threadbare ap- 
parel. 

" Now, my dear young friend," continued 
the bookseller, "you seem fond of reason; let 
me talk a little reason to you. Here, take 
your pamphlet again : there is good material 
in it, but it requires the making up. Leave 
out some of your arguments, and throw in a 
few sentiments, — something about freeborn 
Britons and wooden shoes ! Englishmen like 
to h^ve a few sentiments ready for after-dinner 
use y in case of a speech. You must, also, add 
a dozen cr so sarcasms, and say a little more 
about bribery and corruption. Above all, be 
sure that your jokes are obvious ones, and I 
know the thing will be a hit !" 

W T alter took up his manuscript with an em- 
barrassed and mortified air. He had written 
with all the enthusiasm of d, patriot of one- 
and-twenty, who believes, and who hopes ; 
suddenly, his high professbn of faith, his 
earnest appeal to the noblest principles, was 
changed into a mere question of business. 
Moreover, in his secret soul he despised the 
plan proposed ; but what cuuld he do ? his 
forlorn garret rose visibly before him, he could 
not even pay its rent for the coming week. It 
was the first conflict between the expedient 
and the ideal. For the first time, a bitter 
«ense of how little consequence his speculative 
opinions could possibly be, rushed across him, 
and he held his papers with a hesitating 
grasp. Curl's quick eye caught the struggle 
which he yet affected not to notice. 

" I must have the pamphlet by the day after 

o-morrow," said he, as if considering the 
Vol. II. 



affair altogether settled ; " and to show yov. 
that I have a good hope of its success, here — . 
here are ten guineas for you !" and he counted 
the money out upon the table. 

There was something in the ring of the coin 
that jarred upon Walter's ear ; he was ashamed 
of being paid, — a false shame, and yet how 
natural to one both proud and sensitive ! 

" Time enough," said he, colouring, " to 
pay me when my work is done !" 

"No, no!" interrupted Curl, "it will en- 
courage you as a beginner. If you were an 
old hand at this sort of work, I could not trust, 
you ; you would spend the money, and I 
should see you and your pamphlets no more ; 
but you young ones are so eager to see your 
selves in print!" 

" In print !" there was a charm in that 
phrase that decided Walter. He took up the 
papers, and assured- Curl that he should have 
sentiment and sarcasm enough by the follow- 
mg night. 

" Good Lord ! — O, Lord !" cried the 
astonished publisher : " you are a young hand 
at your work. Why, you are walking off, 
and have left your money behind you !" 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 



ALTERATION. 

My heart hath turn'd aside 
From its early dreams; 

To me their course has been 
Like mountain streams. 



Bright and pure they left 

Their place of birth ; 
Soon on every wave 

Came taints of earih. 

Weeds grew upon the banks, 
And, as the waters swept, 

A bad or useless part 
Of all they kept. 

Till it reach'd the plain below, 

An alter'd thing 
Bearing gloomy trace — 

Of its wandering. 



Walter again pursued his way, lost In a 
very mixed revery; sometimes writhing under 
an idea of degradation, in thus making a trade 
of his talents ; and then, again, somewhat 
consoled by the pride of art ; for how many 
felicitous and stinging epigrams arose in his 
mind ! " It is," thought he, " a political 
warfare that I am carrying on, and ridicule is 
as good a weapon as any other." 

Lost in meditated satire, he arrived at the 
shop of Mr. Lintot. It was larger, cleaner, 
and lighter, than the one that he had just left, 
and a strong smell of roast meat came from 
the regions below. He was not kept waiting 
an instant: "Mr. Lintot is expecting you," 
said the shopboy, who looked just fresh from 
the countr) 7 ; and he was shown into his room. 
It was wonderfully airy for that part of town : 
and two nicely clean windows, with flower- 
pots on the sill, looked into a garden : at one 
of these was seated Mr. Lintot. Like al! 



62 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



cockneys, he had rural tastes; and he al- 
ways intended, when he had made a certain 
sum, that he would buy a small farm, and live 
in the country. He never, however, even to 
himself specified what the sum was to be. 

Mr. Lintot was a large, and rather good- 
looking man — what would be called comfort- 
able looking, in his appearance. He had a 
large arm chair, and his very substantial rai- 
ment did not appear at all likely to inconve- 
nience him by any restraining tightness. He 
obviously liked being at his ease : as to mean- 
ing, his face had as little as a face could posi- 
tively have. It was not till animated by some 
discussion, based upon the multiplication 
table, that you saw how keen and shrewd 
those large, dull, gray eyes could become. 
His welcome to his visiter was more than 
friendly — it was paternal : he shook him by 
both hands, and asked so anxiously how the 
air of London agreed with him. 

" Terrible fog, sir ! — terrible fog ! You did 
not write your pastoral poems here ? Very 
pretty they are : I wish everybody had my 
taste for green fields and sheep, poetry would 
sell then!" 

" One portion of my volume, at all events, 
finds favour with you ?" said Walter, very 
much encouraged by his reception. 

" The whole, sir — the whole ! It is a charm- 
ing volume : the love verses, too, — pity that 
people don't care about love ; nobody's in love 
now-a-days !" 

"But what do you say to the satires?" 
asked the author, not quite so elated. 

"Dangerous things,. sir — dangerous 
things !" exclaimed Mr. Lintot, drawing a 
deep breath of air from the open window: "do 
you know, sir, Curl published a lampoon on 
Lord Hervey the other day, who said that he 
would have horsewhipped him if he could 
have found his way into the city. Only think, 
sir, of horsewhipping a publisher!" and Mr. 
Lintot grew pale with excess of horror. 

"To think of only horsewhipping one," 
muttered Walter to himself; and then added 
aloud, " but there is nothing personal in my 
satire." 

" So much the worse !" exclaimed Mr. Lin- 
tot : " what is the use of denouncing a vice ? — 
denounce the individual ! What woman thanks 
.you for a compliment addressed to the sex 
in general ? No, no, pay one to herself! And 
the same with sneers ; always take care that 
your- sneer suits some well-known individual ; 
all his friends will have such pleasure in ap- 
plying it; and you know, sir, our object is to 
give as much satisfaction as we can to the 
public." 

"And now, do you think," asked Walter, 
" that the volume I left with you is likely to 
give satisfaction ?" 

"It is a charming book — very charming 
boolt ! and I see that you are a clever young 
maji. You were punctual to your appoint- 
ment : punctuality is the first of virtues, and a 
sign of pretty behaviour in a young man. I 
foresee that you will succeed !" 



" But about my volume of poems ?" inter 
rupted its author. 

" Why, sir, it is hard to say," replied the 
cautious publisher : " poetry is net worth 
much at present; indeed, I never heard that it 
was. Homer begged his bread : you will ex- 
cuse my little joke !" 

"I am to understand, then," replied May- 
nard, " that it does not suit you ?" 

" Never draw a hasty conclusion," answer- 
ed Mr. Lintot; "I mean to do my best for 
you !" 

"Do you mean to publish my poems ?" 
cried Walter. 

" Why, you see, sir, the times are bad, and 
I am no speculator. I have a wife and family, 
and a man with a wife and family must be 
just before he is generous. Besides, my two 
youngest children have just had the hooping- 
cough, and they must have a little country 
air : all these things are expensive. I appeal 
to your feelings, sir, whether you would drive 
a hard bargain with a man in my situation ?" 

" I leave it entirely to yourself," replied 
Maynard, despondingly. 

" Sir, I will run the riskof publishing your 
volume. Paper and printing are terrible 
things : I wish books could do without them : 
but I will venture. I heard you highly spoken 
of yesterday : we will share what profits there 
are, and your list of subscribers will insure 
us against loss." 

It did far more, by-the-by, to say nothing 
of Sir Jasper Meredith's secret guarantee. 

" And now business being over," said Lin- 
tot, " will you dine with me ? I am a plain 
man, only a joint and a pudding, which is just 
ready : I like to encourage young men in be- 
ing punctual." 

Walter declined the invitation, precisely 
because he wanted a dinner. He was, also, 
conscious that he had made a very bad bar- 
gain ; but how could he chaffer and dispute 
about things so precious as the contents of 
those pages which were the very outpourings 
of his heart ? There were recorded dreams 
glorious with the future, and feelings soft and 
musical with the past. He fancied Ethel 
Churchill's soft blue eyes filled with tears, as 
she turned the haunted leaves of which she 
had been the inspiration, and he was consoled 
for every mortification. He walked along 
those crowded streets alive but to one deli- 
cious hope ; and amid poverty, labour, and, 
discouragement, still steeped to the lip in 
poetry. 

The fanciful fables of fairy land are but al- 
legories of the young poet's mind when the 
sweet spell is upon him. Some slight thing 
calls up the visionary world, and all the out- 
ward and actual is for the time forgotten. It 
is ethereal and lovely ; but, like all other fe- 
vers, leaving behind weakness and exhaus- 
tion. I believe there is nothing that causes 
so strong a sensation of physical fatigue as 
the exercise of the imagination. The pulses 
beat too rapidly; and how cold, how depress- 
ed, is the reaction ! 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



63 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE FETE. 

Many were lovely there; but, of that many, 
Was one who look'd the loveliest of any— ' 
The youthful countess. On her cheek the dies 
Were crimson with the morning's exercise ; 
The laugh upon her full red lip yet hung; 
And, arrowlike, light words flash : d from her tongue. 
She had more loveliness than beauty— hers 
Was that enchantment which the heart confers. 
A mouth, sweet from its smiles; a large dark eye, 
That had o'er all expression mastery, 
Laughing the orb, but yet the long lash made 
'"■omewhat of sadness with its twilight shade; 
-tnd suiting well the upcast look that seem'd, 
At times, as it of melancholy dream'd : 
Her cheek was as a rainbow, it so changed 
At each emotion o'er its surface ranged— 
Her face was full of feeling. 

Mrs. Howard's fete at Marble Hill more 
than realized all expectations. The very 
spring put itself forward to please her; or, 
rather borrowed a day from summer. The 
king and queen were in the last extremities 
of royal condescension. It was enough to make 
domestic felicity the fashion from one end of 
the British empire to the other, just to see the 
august couple walking arm in arm through the 
gardens ; Mrs. Howard a little in advance, 
pointing out the beauties, and the favourites 
of the suite close behind. The king was fond 
of walking; and it is a singular instance of 
that feminine courage, endurance, how the 
queen contrived, subject as she was to the 
gout, to accompany him. 

Queen Caroline must have been a very 
handsome woman; her eyes were still fine, 
and her smile peculiarly sweet. No one un- 
derstood the science of temporizing better than 
she did, or of 

" If she rule him. not to show she rules." 

Give a strong mind the advantage of habit, 
and its dominion over the weak one is abso- 
lute. It is a strong proof of Sir Robert Wal- 
pole's sagacity that he never for a moment 
mistook the real source of power. Others 
might court the royal Favourite ; he saw at 
once that Mrs. Howard was but the shadow 
flung, by the queen's own good pleasure, be- 
fore her. There can be no doubt but that 
Queen Caroline secretly enjoyed the know- 
ledge of her influence. To a strong-minded 
woman, shut out from the natural sphere of 
the affections, what remains but the enjoyment 
of consciousness of power ? 

Amid the brilliant crowd, that gathered on 
the lawns, or loitered through the saloons, no 
one looked more lovely than Lady March- 
mont; and it was obvious, that she enjoyed 
the homage by which she was surrounded. 
Tired of seeing one cavalier desert her after 
another, Lady Mary Wortley Montague joined 
the gay circle, of which her brilliant rival was 
the centre. By so doing, it also appeared her 
own — at least she was where all assembled ; 
none could say that she was deserted. 

" What a change !" exclaimed she, glancing 
round the room, — " since Mrs. Howard was 
obliged to cut off her beautiful hair, and sell 



it, in order to pay for her own and her hvjB 
band's dinner." 

"What a dreadful sacrifice!" exclaimed 
Lady Marchmont, with mock-tragedy air — 
"Though, as Chloe would say, it was devoted 
to the noblest duty of humanity." 

"It is a pity, Lady Mary, that Pope now 
'disdains the shrine he once adored,'" said 
Lord Harvey, " or what a subject you might 
suggest to him in the locks of the modern 
Berenice. But I believe ' Sappho's eye, quick 
glancing round the park,' has lost its ancient 
influence." 

" 1 am glad to find," retorted her ladyship, 
annoyed at his allusion to lines any thing but 
complimentary, and too well known to need 
more than allusion, — "I am glad to find that 
Lord Harvey has, at length, found a virtue to 
suit him," retorted Lady Mary ; " there is 
candour, at least, in borrowing from the wit 
of others, it frankly- admits that we have none 
of our own." 

"It is, then, a virtue," said Lady March- 
mont, good-naturedly, " that Ave are all likely 
to practise in your presence. But I go a step 
beyond ; I candidly admit, instead of bor- 
rowing, I would very gladly steal your wit." 

"Ah!" whispered Lord Harvey, "Lady 
Marchmont is resolved that her very sins 
should be innocent. Now that she has begun 
to covet, it is something not worth having." 

" Are you talking," interrupted Lady Mary, 
" of Lord Harvey's head or heart 1 as I hear 
you speaking of things not worth having." 

At this juncture, their attention was at- 
tracted to a lady who passed, finely, rather 
than richly dressed. 

"What a splendid pair of ear-rings!" ex 
claimed Lady Marchmont. 

" Well, really," said Lord Harvey, " Lady 
S.'s conduct is too audacious. Why, every 
body knows those ear-rings were given her 
by that man for whom she procured the place 
in the custom-house, through the queen's in- 
terest." 

" Well," replied Lady Mary, " who is to 
know where good wine is sold, unless you 
hang out the bush." 

The announcement that the banqueting-room 
was thrown open, occasioned a general rush. 
Lady Marchmont had not yet attained that ele- 
gant audacity which forces its way through 
trains, ruffles, elbows, &c. ; and, with the ex- 
ception of Lord Harvey, who was handing her 
forward, she completely lost her party. Her 
attention was engrossed by a young female, 
who, only accompanied by an elderly gentle- 
man, was quite incapable of either advancing, 
or even extricating herself from the crowd. 
Henrietta saw at once that the youthful 
stranger was unaccustomed to such a scene, 
and that she was even more embarrassed than 
fatigued. They were so close that they 
touched each other, till the lady leant for sup- 
port against Lady Marchmont. It was but 
for a moment; and, recovering herself, she 
apologized in a voice so sweet, and so timid, 
that Henrietta felt a sudden and voluntary in • 



64 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



terest, — one of those attractions for which we 
can as little account as we can resist. She 
drew the arm of the trembling 1 girl within her 
own, and said, — " Suppose we try and make 
tvay to the window, we can sit there ; and I 
dare say that you care as little for the banquet 
as I do." 

They easily reached the window, to the no 
small joy of the elderly gentleman, who, now 
that he was rid of his troublesome charge, 
thought that he himself could reach the royal 
presence ; and to lose his chance of a smile 
from the king or queen was a dreadful thing. 
Lord Harvey, after seeing them securely seat- 
ed, volunteered his services in procuring some 
sort of refreshment, so that Lady Marchmont 
was left alone Avith her new acquaintance. 
She was scarcely pretty, but looked so young, 
so delicate, and the soft colour came and went 
in her cheek with such sweet shyness, that 
Henrietta found herself every moment more 
and more interested. At first she had great 
difficulty in bringing about a conversation, the 
stranger was ignorant of the topics of the day, 
and very timid. But Lady Marchmont had a 
fascination about her it was impossible to re- 
sist, and they soon began talking with both 
ease and pleasure. Suddenly the stranger 
broke off abruptly in what she was saying, 
her eyes grew almost brilliant with delight, 
and a rich crimson animated her whole coun- 
tenance. 

" There is my husband !" exclaimed she, in 
a voice trembling with emotion. 

Lady Marchmont was astonished that one 
so young and so shy, should be married ; but 
she was still more astonished when she saw 
her husband — it was Norbourne Courtenaye.. 



CHAPTER XL. 

THE FIRST DOUBT. 

y~outh, love, and rank, and wealth— all these combined, 
Can these be wretched ? Mystery of the mind, 
Whose happiness is in itself; but still 
Has not that happiness at its own will. 
She felt, too wretched with the sudden fear- 
Had she such lovely "rival, and so near? 
Ay, bitterest of the bitter this worst pain, 
To know love's offering has been in vain ; 
Rejected, scorn'd, and trampled under foot, 
Its bloom and leaves destroy'd, but not its root. 
" He loves me not !"— no other words nor sound 
An echo in the lady's bosom found : 
It was wretchedness too great to bear, 
She sank before the presence of despair ! 

Mr. Courtenaye was accompanied by his 
uncle, whom business had detained till this 
late hour in town. Henrietta knew and liked 
Lord Norbourne, but now she had only just 
sufficient self-control to receive his greeting 
with due politeness. Mrs. Courtenaye having 
no feeling but that of gratitude for Henrietta's 
kindness, was eager to express it. 

" I am so glad you know her !" whispered 
she to her father : " do thank her for me." 

" My little rustic," said Lord Norbourne, 
" is most fortunate. Will Lady Marchmont 
allow her the honour of a farther acquaintance? 
Permit me to present my daughter, Mrs. 
Courtenaye " 



" And my husband," said Constance 
timidly. 

" I have already the honour of Mr. Courte- 
naye's acquaintance," replied Lady March- 
mont, with a coldness that she did not even 
attempt to conceal ; for the image of Ethel — 
pale, sad, and wasting her youth in unavailing 
regret — arose too distinctly before her; and 
if it was present to her, how forcibly did she 
not recall it to Norbourne Courtenaye. 

Ethel, his still too much, beloved Ethel, 
seemed actually present. What, at that mo- 
ment, were her feelings ? Did she hate, did 
she despise him ? Was she — but that he 
shuddered to contemplate ! — w T as she un- 
happy ? How he longed to asked Lady 
Marchmont about her: though deeply morti- 
fied at the cold manner in which she received 
him, it showed plainly enough what was her 
opinion of his conduct. Lord Norbourne saw 
that there was something wrong, though even 
his penetration was at a loss to divine what ; 
and he therefore, exerted himself to talk it 
awa3>-. In this he was- seconded by Lady 
Marchmont ; and between them, the conversa- 
tion was sufficiently sustained. 

Constance, encouraged by the presence of 
her father and husband, and shut out from the 
crowd, felt less timid than usual : still she 
could not but perceive that Norbourne's man- 
ner lacked its ordinary grace in speaking to 
her new friend ; and yet she had never felt so 
anxious that he should please. Taking her 
earliest opportunity, she whispered, 

" Only think, Norbourne, of your knowing 
Lady Marchmont ! do talk to her ; she is so 
kind, so charming." 

But her words fell on unheeded ears. 
Courtenaye's thoughts were far away ; and 
Constance, shrinking into herself at the least 
repulse, did not attempt to speak to him 
again. 

There is nothing in this world so sensitive 
as affection. It feels its own happiness too 
much not to tremble for its reality ; and starts, 
ever and anon, from its own delicious con- 
sciousness, to ask, Is it not, indeed, a dream ? 
A word and a look are enough either to re- 
press or to encourage. Nothing is a trifle in 
love, for all is seen through an exaggerated 
medium; and Constance's attachment to her 
husband was of the most imaginative order — 
shy, fearful, little demonstrative, but how 
utterly devoted ! It never came into her head 
to blame Norbourne for any thing. She did 
not even venture on making excuses for him : 
all he did appeared best, and most natural to 
do. She took it for granted that he was pre- 
occupied ; and, after a moment or two of dis- 
appointment, she resumed her own peculiarly 
sweet and pleading smile, a smile that seemed 
to implore your kindness. Indeed, almost hei 
whole attention was soon engrossed by her 
brilliant companion, whose circle was increas- 
ed by some three or four friends, who had but 
just discovered her. Till then she had never 
formed an idea of one so gifted and so charm- 
ing. She listened with astonishment to her 
companion's gay sallies, and answers, as 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



65 



piquant as they were ready. She was as- 
tonished that any one could talk so easily to 
her father, that father to whom she never 
spoke without awe; and gazed, with en- 
thusiastic admiration, on the beautiful face, 
which gave every word and smile such a 
charm. Such is the power of novelty, that 
Lady Marchmont was more flattered at the 
impression she produced on the unpractised 
stranger, than with all the homage of the 
courtly train that followed her. 

Constance felt too pleased and too much 
excited for her usual silence ; and she took 
the opportunity of the first pause in conversa- 
tion to whisper to Lady Marchmont, — " How 
happy Norbourne is to have the pleasure of 
knowing you ! Has he known you long ? I 
wonder that he never talked about you !" 

" Happy !" replied Henrietta, with a sneer, 
a little more marked than she meant it to be. 
" I knew him before his marriage in the coun- 
try." Then, turning to Lord Norbourne, 
added, — " It is odd how much older one grows 
in London than anywhere else. I was going 
to have said, years ago." 

It is a strange thing, the instinct of jealousy 
in a woman; a sudden light seemed to burst 
in upon Constance. Lady Marchmont's cold- 
ness, Norbourne's embarrassment and cold- 
ness, led alike to one terrible conclusion. 
They had met before his marriage ; and surely 
to meet Lady Marchmont must have been to 
love her. A mist gathered over her eyes : she 
felt cold and giddy. Scarcely conscious, she 
strove to reach her father, and fainted away in 
his arms ! 

Poor Constance was carried to, a room in 
the house ; and, when, at length, she recovered, 
she was glad to accede to her husband's wish 
of leaving the fete. Norbourne was almost 
thankful for any excuse that enabled him to 
avoid seeing Lady Marchmont. In vain he 
sought to rally his spirits, and to conceal his 
depression ; but the idea of Ethel mocked his 
efforts to forget. He remembered her solitary 
life, and with what delight he had once 
thought on her first introduction into society. 
Now he was joining in all its gayeties, and 
where was she ? Still in the same seclusion, 
with nothing to disturb one sad remembrance : 
she was lonely ; he dared not add, even to 
himself, wretched. 



CHAPTER XLI. 



GAYETIES AND ABSURDITIES. 

LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH. 

What Shakspeare said oflovers, might apply 
To all the world—" 'Tis well thpy do not see 
The pretty follies that themselves commit." 
Could we but turn upon ourselves the eyes 
With which we look on others, life would pass 
In one perpetual blush and smile. 
The smile, how bitter !— for 'tis scorn's worst task 
To scorn ourselves; and yet we could not choose 
But mock our actions, all we say or do, 
If we but saw them as we others see. 
Life's best repose is blindness to itself. 

My Dearest Uncle, — So, at last, I have 
met poor Ethel's rival ; and, as is always the 
Vol II— 9 



case when one forms an idea to one's self, 
she is as different as possible from what 1 
anticipated. Pale, and delicate almost to 
prettiness, she is timid to a painful degree ; 
and very much in love with her husband. 

Mr. Courtenaye's embarrassment, on meet- 
ing me, was too much to conceal. Ethel was 
plainly in his thoughts ; and, if it be any con- 
solation to her, he looks very much altered 
and depressed. I suppose the family estate 
must have been heavily burdened ; and, be- 
tween pride and poverty, love quitted the field, 
banished, if not subdued. I have seen him 
once or twice since, either in low or highly 
excited spirits. I have not met Mrs. Courte- 
naye again ; for, twice that I called, she was 
too ill to see me, and she appears in public 
but little, owing to her health. 

We g^ next week on a visit to Cliveden, so 
that I am not likely to see any thing more of 
them for some time ; and yet I cannot help 
being interested in her. On my return, my 
first visit shall be to her. 

Lady Orkney's history, to whose house we 
are going, is a curious one. As Miss Eliza- 
beth Villiers, by her charms she pierced the 
cuirass that enveloped the well-disciplined 
heart of William III. But the conquest over 
his affection was not half so extraordinary as 
the conquest over his economy : he actually 
conferred upon her all the private estates in 
Ireland of his father-in-law, King James, worth 
some five-and-twenty thousand a year. This 
magnificent donation had, however, a most 
curious drawback. Out of the proceeds were 
to be paid two annuities ; one to Lady Susan 
Bellasye, and one to Mrs. Godfrey, both mis- 
tresses to the former monarch. It seems to 
me a most practical piece of sarcasm. How- 
ever, parliament interfered, and an act passed, 
resuming all grants since the revolution. Her 
royal and careful lover nevertheless found 
some other substantial method of showing his 
favour ; for the lady was very rich when she 
married Lord George Hamilton, afterwards 
created Earl of Orkney. 

I must say, that, at the coronation, there 
was little vestige left as possible " of the 
charms that pleased a king." " She looked," 
Lady Mary Wortley said, " like an Egyptian 
mummy, wrought with hieroglyphics of gold." 
Lady Orkney has the reputation of being very 
clever : I do not see much proof in a letter 
that she wrote to Mrs. Howard, on the occa- 
sion of the late/e/e at Clifden. It began thus : 
— " Madame, I give you this trouble out of 
the anguish of my mind." This anguish ■ 
consists in some stools being placed insteac 
of chairs, and Lord Grantham's directing that 
there should be two tablecloths instead of ont , 
"which innovation," as she pathetically ob- 
serves, " turned all the servants' heads." 
Moreover, " they kept back the dinner too 
long for her majesty after it was dished, and 
it was set before the fire." She winds up by 
saying, — " I thought I had turned my mind 
in a philosophical way of having done with 
the w T orld ; but I find I have deceived myself " 
Poor Lady Orknev ! it is just what we *11 do 
*2 



GG 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



However, I confess, the fete appeared to me 
most splendid ; and the royal guests as much 
pleased as the rest of the company. 

The last jeu cf esprit circulating among us, 
s " A Characteristic Catalogue of Pictures." 
Characteristic enough some of them certainly 
are ! for Mr. Onslow has contributed "A 
Flower-Piece ;" and if ever man talked pop- 
pies and tulips, it is our worthy and flowery 
speaker. " A Head Unfinished" is by Lord 
Townshend, of whom his colleague said, 
" that his brains wanted nothing but ballast !" 
Mr. Booth obliges us with " A Mist." He 
ought to be able to paint it most accurately, 
for he always seems in one." 

Next week we go to Lord Burlington, a 
nobleman to whose taste for building the 
world is indebted for one of its chief pleasures ; 
namely, that of finding fault. Two noble 
friends dined with him in his new house in 
Piccadilly, and next day circulated the follow- 
ing epigram : — 

" Possess'd of one great hall for state, 
Without a room to sleep or eat ; 
How well you build, let flattery tell, 
And all the world how ill you dwell." 

We, however, are going to the villa at 
Chiswick, of which Dr. Arbuthnot says, that 
" it is fitted up with a cold in every corner, 
and a consumption by way of perspective. 
Lord Harvey's remark is, that " it is too 
small to live in, and too large to hang to one's 
watch !" 

I must leave off abruptly, for I hear the 
carriage announced ; and Lord Marchmont as 
much objects to being kept waiting as if his 
time were of the least value. 

Ever your most affectionate child, 

Henrietta. 



CHAPTER XLII. 

AN ALLUSION TO THE PAST. 

Ah ! there are memories that will not vanish ; 
Thoughts of thB past we have no power to banish; 
To show the heart how powerless mere will. 
For we may suffer, and yet struggle still. 
It is not at our choice that we forget, 
That is a power no science teaches yet : 
The heart may be a dark and closed up tomb ; 
But memory stands a ghost amid the gloom ! 

" I am sorry," said Lord Norbourne, " that 
your protege, Walter Maynard, should be, 
what I suppose he would call, so patriotic. 
Young men think it such an easy thing to set 
the world to rights. Why do you not talk 
him into more rational notions ?" 

" Truly, my dear uncle," replied Courte- 
naye, "it is no such easy matter reasoning 
with one at once firm and enthusiastic in his 
opinions." 

" Well, well !" replied his uncle, drawing 
his arm-chair closer to the hearth, and stirring 
the fire into a cheerful blaze. " Time does 
work wonderful changes, and in nothing so 
•xiuch as in opinion. In youth we encore the 
sentiment, 

O, bless my country, Heaven! he said and died ;' " 



but, as we advance in life, we think, 

" How weak it is to pity Cato's case, 
Who might have lived, and had a handsome place '" 

" Your views of human nature are any 
thing but encouraging," exclaimed Nor- 
bourne. 

" I have heard much," returned his compa- 
nion, " of the beauty of truth ; but it is a 
beauty no one likes to look upon. To find it 
out, is only to find that you have been duped 
in every possible manner ; and to hear it, is 
only to have a friend give way to his temper, 
and say something disagreeable to you." 

" But what," asked Courtenaye, "is to be- 
come of us, when the freshness of pleasure is 
gone with the freshness of youth, and one 
illusion has faded after anothe) ?" 

" Wliy," replied Lord Norbourne, "there 
remain avarice and business. I exceedingly 
regret that I do not, cannot iorce myself to 
love money. It is the most secure source of 
enjoyment of which our nature is capable. It 
is tangible and present; it is subject to no 
imaginary miseries ; it goes on increasing; it 
is a joy forever. It exercises both bodily and 
mental faculties in its acquisition ; it is satis- 
faction to the past, and encouragement to the 
future." 

" For mercy's sake, stop !" cried Nor- 
bourne ; " if you go on much further with this 
eulogium, you will send me away a confirmed 
miser." 

" No such good luck," replied Lord Nor- 
bourne, smiling ; " the miser, like the poet, 
must be born. It is not to be acquired with- 
out an original vocation. In the mean time, 
I advise you to amuse yourself as much as 
you can ; and, talking of amusement, do you 
go to Lady Marchmont's to-night ?" 

Courtenaye started at the name; and was 
too much absorbed in all it called up, to no- 
tice that his uncle's quick, dark eye was fixed 
on his face, with a glance that seemed desirous 
of reading his inmost thoughts. 

" No," said he, " Constance did not seem 
well enough to go out; and, as I am not 
wanted, I mean to keep my promise with 
Walter Maynard, and accompany him to wit- 
ness the fate of his new play, which comes 
out to-night." 

" Constance has not been well," observed 
her father, " since the fete at Marble Hill : we 
must not let her go into scenes of such fa- 
tigue." 

" And yet," said Norbourne, " it is a dull 
life she often leads. Why, my dear uncle, 
when I come home late I always find her up 
in the library, copying your letters- — an exam • 
pie, I am sure, to your other secretaries." 

" Constance is a creature only fitted to live 
in the quiet sphere of the affections. She is 
happier at home than in the midst of gayety, 
which is too much for her : but her recent in- 
disposition seems to me rather in the mind." 

The open and anxious manner in which 
Norbourne looked up, was sufficient answer; 
but having made the allusion, his uncle feJt 
he was bound to proceed. 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



67 



" I know I may speak to you, my dear child, 
with perfect confidence ; but I see clearly that 
Constance is suffering from an undefined jea- 
lousy of Lady Marchmont." 

" Lady Marchmont !" exclaimed his ne- 
phew, with the most unfeigned surprise. 

" Why, coupling your previous acquaint- 
ance with your obvious embarrassment at 
meeting, can you wonder that Constance 
should fear the renewed influence of one so 
beautiful, and so fascinating ? All I know of 
Lady Marchmont is charming ; but she likes 
admiration — who does not ? and pique is an 
absolute passion with a woman. She may 
like to charm a truant lover, were it but to 
show him what he has lost." 

" My dear uncle," replied Norbourne, after 
a pause of mingled embarrassment and emo- 
tion, "you are completely mistaken. I will 
tell you the whole truth, and then let the sub- 
ject be dropped forever. I was making a 
summer tour through our country last year, 
and called on a Mrs. Churchill, an old friend, 
and distant connexion of our family. I was 
received witli great hospitality ; and, liking 
the neighbourhood, accepted her invitation for 
a more lengthened visit. I soon lingered 
there from another motive. I became attached 
to her grandaughter ; and Lady Marchmont, 
just then married, was the intimate friend of 
Miss Churchill, and was aware of my affec- 
tion even before its object. I left, bound by 
no engagement, as I wished to consult my 
mother. Lady Marchmont considers my con- 
duct most unjust, what, alas ! it was to Ethel 
— Miss Churchill, I mean — and resents it for 
her friend's sake. I have made no inquiries — 
I never shall. The very sorrow I may have 
inflicted on one woman, will make me doubty 
anxious to guard it from another. The happi- 
ness of Constance is to me the most sacred 
thing in the world. What, in this case, 
would you advise me to do ? 

Lord Norbourne was silent, for he was 
touched to the heart : at last his voice became 
sufficiently steady to reply. " To do nothing ; 
leave it to Constance's own good sense to dis- 
cover how groundless are her apprehensions. 
No good ever comes of speaking on such a 
subject. A woman always exaggerates to 
herself as she talks. Silence is the first step 
to forgetfulness. One word about Mrs. Church- 
ill : I know that her name is down in Sir Ro- 
bert's list of confirmed Jacobites. There is a 
suspicion of a correspondence carried on by 
her means with the Court of St. Germains. 
Whatever happens, she shall find a friend in 
me. Let me give you the satisfaction of con- 
tributing to her security." 

Norbourne pressed his uncle's- hand, and 
they parted in silence. The latter remained 
for a few minutes lost in thought. 

" I did it for the best," exclaimed he, half 
aloud ; and, after all, what is love ? I only 
hope that making an attachment an unhappy 
me, will not turn out the only receipt for se- 
curing its continuance." 

He then drew towards the table, and was 



soon completely absorbed m the perusal of a 
memorial. 

After all, there is nothing like business foi 
enabling us to get through our weary exist- 
ence. The intellect cannot sustain its sun- 
shine flight long ; the flagging wing drops to 
the earth. Pleasure palls, and idleness is 

"Many gatlier'd miseries in one name ;" 

but business gets over the hours without 
counting them. It may be very tired at the 
end, still it has brought the day to a close 
sooner than any thing else. 



CHAPTER XLIII. 

DOUBTS. 

Ask me not, love, what may be in my heart 
When, gazing on thee, sudden teardrops start; 
When only joy should come where'er thou art. 

The human heart is compass'd with fears ; 

And joy is tremulous, for it enspheres 

An earth-burn star, which melts away in tears. 

I am too happy for a careless mirth — 

Hence anxious thoughts, and sorrowful, have birth ; 

Who looks from heaven, is half return'd to earth. 

How powerless is my fond anxiety ! 
I feel I could lay down my life for thee, 
Yet feel how va'in such sacrifice might be. 

Hence do I tremble in my happiness; 
Hurried and dim the unknown hours press: 
I question of a past I dare not guess. 

Lord Norbourne was right in supposing 
that the illness of his daughter arose from the 
mind, or rather from the heart. If any thing, 
she exaggerated her own deficiencies ; the 
very intensity of her affection for her husband 
made her feel as if he deserved even her ideal 
of perfection. Her introduction into the world 
had brought its usual bitter fruit — experience. 
With all the simplicity of seclusion, and a 
neglected education, Constance had natural 
talents, and that fine sense which originates 
in fine feeling. She shrank from talking her- 
self; but she listened with an attention the 
more keen, as it was undisturbed by most of 
the usual distractions. Chiefly accustomed to 
the society of her father and her husband, her 
mind, unconsciously, both to herself and to 
them, was every day acquiring new powers, 
only restrained by her naturally timid temper. 

But was she happier for her knowledge ? 
Alas, no ! she learnt to doubt and fear. The 
sneers she now so often heard pointed at 
others, she took for granted would, also, not 
spare herself ; and what effect might they not 
have on Norbourne ? She had overheard mci© 
than one cruel sarcasm on her personal ap- 
pearance ; she heard beauty so vaunted, th& 
it appeared to her necessary to love. 

Her delicate frame was utterly incapable 01 
supporting the fatigue and late hours of the 
society in which she so suddenly found her- 
self placed ; and the exertion to please, and to 
appear pleased, produced that usual reaction 
which is so oppressive to the spirit?. She 



G8 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



had no female friend or relative in whom she 
could confide ; and the greater portion of her 
time was necessarily passed alone. To catch 
the last sound of Norbourne's footstep ; to 
spring- forward delighted on his return ; to 
watch his every look, and treasure every 
word ; to surround him with a thousand tender 
cares which have only existence in feminine 
solicitude — so was her whole existence em- 
ployed. She would have made any sacrifice 
to gratify even his slightest wish ; or, rather, 
she would not have made any : for, nothing 
to her could have appeared a sacrifice, if for 
him. 

Her husband was not — could any man be ? 
— insensible to a devotion so meek and so 
entire. To hear her express a wish, and to 
gratify it, was the same thing. His kindness 
was almost womanly in its anxiety and deli- 
cacy ; he gave up amusements and engage- 
ments, to sit, evening after evening, by her 
languid couch : but one thing was wanting — 
love alone can answer love ; and, kind as he 
was, attentive as he was, the seeking heart 
of Constance pined with a perpetual want. 

Her meeting with Lady Marchmont gave a 
sudden clue to an unhappiness, I should rather 
say« a want of happiness, unacknowledged 
even to herself. A terrible fear, which, the 
more she thought it over, grew more like 
truth, took possession of her mind. Courte- 
naye had loved the brilliant stranger whom he 
now met with such obvious reluctance. What 
could have separated them ? To Constance 
it appeared impossible that Courtenaye could 
ever have been rejected ; but, whatever the 
cause had been, to her it mattered not : she 
looked only to the hopelessness of ever in- 
spiring love in one who had loved Lady 
Marchmont. She tortured herself by recall- 
ing every word and look of hex too gifted 
rival ; she remembered her as she sat in the 
window-seat, gleams of sunshine reflected on 
her glossy, black hair, black with that glancing 
purple bloom as it is only seen elsewhere in 
nature on the neck of the raven. The bright 
face, yet brighter with animation — Constance 
remembered its effect on herself, as well as 
the circle of which the lovely countess was 
the idol. She hid her face on her arm, as if 
by so doing she could shut out the image 
which pursued her. Just then Norbourne 
entered the chamber ; and, fancying from her 
attitude that his wife was asleep, he ap- 
proached softly, and drew a large shawl 
around her. This little act completely over- 
came Constance ; the tears rushed into her 
eyes, and, rising up, she hastily leant her 
head on his shoulder to conceal them. 

"You must not sit up for me to-night," 
aaid he, " for I shall be late ; and, dearest, you 
are not strong enough for our London hours." 

There was that in this little speech that 
curdled the blood at her heart. 

" Lady Marchmont's dinners are very gay, I 
believe ?" replied she, in a low and constrain- 
ed voice. 

" So I hear," answered Courtenaye ; " but, 
as you are not well enough to go, I do not feel 



bound to go either. My engagement is at the 
Haymarket theatre, to witness the fate of a 
new play by Walter Maynard, whose poems 
we have so often read together." 

" 0, how I hope it will succeed !" exclaim- 
ed she ; her sudden feeling of relief giving 
unusual energy to her words. 

" I hope so, indeed !" replied her husband : 
"but now, Constance, be a good child, and 
go to bed ; for, I forewarn you, I will tell you 
nothing about it till to-morrow, at the hour 

' When lapdogs give themselves the rousing shake, 
And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake.' " 

He then left her, and Constance held her 
breath to catch the last sound of his receding 
steps. 

" He is, at least, not gone to Lady March- 
mont's," murmured she ; but, a moment after, 
she reproached herself for her joy. What! 
could she wish him to give up an amusement ? 
Perhaps he had seen her dislike, and had 
yielded to it : she could not bear to think that 
he had made the least sacrifice to her. She 
rose from her seat, and began to pace the room 
with hurried and agitated steps ; suddenly she 
stopped, and earnestly contemplated a picture 
of her husband, that hung opposite. 

" How handsome he is !" exclaimed she, 
despondingly " how well he looks his noble 
and ancient race !" 

She then turned to a mirror beside, and 
gazed on her own countenance : she could not 
see its sweet expression, she only saw features 
contracted with anxiety, a cheek pale as death, 
and eyes filled with tears. The contrast was 
too painful ; and, sinking back on the couch, 
gave way to a passionate burst of tears. 
Again she rose, but it was to drop on her 
knees, her hands clasped in earnest prayer. 

" My God," she whispered, " I am but what 
thou hast willed I should be ! Forgive the 
sorrow that questions of thy righteous plea- 
sure ; forgive the human and sinful nature that 
murmurs when it should submit : let me not 
be punished in him. Father of mercies ! 
pardon the prayer that asks, how humbly, 
how fervently, for his — for my husband's hap- 
piness !" 



CHAPTER XLIV. 

A FIRST NIGHT. 

It is a fearful stake the poet casts, 
When he comes forth from his sweet solitude 
Of hopes, and songs, and visionary things, 
To ask the iron verdict of the world. 
Till then his home has been in fairyland, 
Shelter'd in the sweet depths of his own heart ; 
But the strong need of praise impels him forth ; 
For never was there poet but he craved 
The golden sunshine of secure renown. 
That sympathy which is the life of fame, 
It is full dearly bought : henceforth he lives 
Feverish and anxious, in an unkind world, 
That only gives the laurel to the grave. 

Norbourne was glad when he found him- 
self in the open air, and with an object before 
him in which he was keenly interested. It ia 
the mind ill at ease that seeks for excitement 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



69 



and Courtenaye found in himself a craving 
for any amusement that, even for a short time, 
carried him away from the bitter and busy 
world within. But now he had a better mo- 
tive than the mere desire of amusement — he 
was most anxious for Maynard's success. 
One of the first things he had done in London, 
was to find Walter — not a very easy task. 
Walter shrank from his society with the sen- 
sitiveness that belongs to pride and poverty. 
But Courtenaye would not allow his advances 
to be rejected ; he interested himself in the 
other's pursuits, and foresaw their future fame. 
No poet could reject a friend who was also a 
prophet, and of his own success. 

Norbourne was punctual to his appointment ; 
but Maynard was there before him. He found 
him pacing the little sanded parlour of the 
tavern appointed for the place of meeting, with 
irregular and hasty steps : his slight frame 
quivered with uncontrollable emotion, and his 
face was absolutely white with agitatign. He 
took Norbourne's hand in silence, and they 
had walked the length of several streets be- 
fore he found voice to thank him for coming. 
When he arrived at the door of the theatre he 
made a pause, and then, reminding his com- 
panion of his promise to join him, he ran in 
as if life aria" death were on his speed. Nor- 
bourne went round to the front of the house, 
where every thing promised well. There was 
a brilliant audience — rank, beauty, and wit — 
while he went from box to box, doing his ut- 
most to predispose his listeners in the author's 
favour. As he looked round the house, he 
could not but feel that the triumph was well 
worth the risk : the mastery over human emo- 
tion had never before appeared to him so 
glorious. In another hour the hopes and the 
recollections, the thoughts and the feelings, 
the most generous aspirations and the tender- 
est sympathies of our nature, would be stirred, 
and by what ? The noble creation of one 
gifted and inspired mind ! 

The overture was almost at a close ; and 
silence being now more effective than any 
thing that he could urge in favour of the play, 
Courtenaye went behind the scenes : never 
had the contrast struck him so forcibly. Be- 
fore the curtain all was light and brilliancy ; 
beautiful faces appeared with every advantage 
of dress and situation ; placed at their side 
was the graceful and perfumed cavalier, with 
flatteries as light as the wave of the fan, that 
half chided, half encouraged them. Scattered 
amid the glittering crowd were men whose 
empire was that at which the youthful author 
aimed — the empire of the mind. All before 
the curtain was poetry in its most brilliant, 
and yet most tangible shape; but behind 
came the reality — cold, dark, and forbidding. 
Norbourne felt his enthusiasm suddenly ex- 
tinguished ; he looked with absolute loathing 
on the scene around him ; so gloomy, and yet 
so common. Actors and actresses appeared 
alike exaggerated and tawdry, and he mar- 
velled what could be the attraction of an exist- 
ence which seemed divested as much of com- 
fort as of dignity. 



Just as these thoughts were passing befor 
him, his attention was drawn to Booth, who, 
to solve a trifling disagreement between him 
and the author as to the effect which was to 
be given to a particular passage, began to de- 
claim the speech in question. Courtenaye 
w T as at once carried out of himself; he caught 
the fire of the actor ; the splendid voice, the 
noble gesture, the exalted sentiment, aided by 
the pomp of the verse, mastered his inmost 
soul. He was again under the influence of 
genius, — that influence so subtle and so in- 
tense, conquering alike time, place, and cir- 
cumstance. 

He was next struck by the alteration in 
W alter. His cheek was flushed crimson, his 
eyes flashed, and he seemed in the wildest 
spirits ; for every actor he had his jest, and 
for every actress his compliment. He scarcely 
appeared to heed what was doing on the stage ; 
perhaps Norbourne was the only one who 
noticed the convulsive movement of the bitten 
lip, or the slight shudder which shook him at 
any unexpected sound. As to Norbourne him- 
self, he tried in vain to speak ; leant against 
one of the side scenes ; all he could do was to 
watch intently the progress, till he almost felt 
inclined to spring forward and implore the au- 
dience to admire. To him it seemed the most 
dreadful ordeal to which the human mind 
could be subjected : all its most precious 
thoughts brought forward for public scrutiny, 
perhaps to be misjudged and ridiculed ; the 
labour of months, the hope of a life, to be the 
sacrifice of a single night; and even he knew 
not the extent of to-night's importance to the 
author. 

Walter Maynard's fortunes wholly depend- 
ed on the success of his play. Lintot refused 
to bring out his poems till the fate of the 
tragedy was decided ; and he well knew that 
if it failed, the cautious bookseller would de- 
cline the publication altogether. A few shil- 
lings were all he possessed in the world ; and 
yet there he stood, the light word on his lip, 
and seemingly far less anxious than his friend. 
The subject of his 'play was the fate of Agis, 
the young and heroic King of Sparta : it gave 
the ideal of patriotism, relieved by the ten- 
derness of sorrow, and the fidelity of love. It 
is curious to note how much an author throws 
himself into his creations: there are his pas- 
sions, his feelings, and his thoughts. He 
only models his hero by imagining what him- 
self would do in a similar situation. Agis 
was Walter Maynard ; brave, high-minded, 
devoted, and full of the noblest plans for his 
country and his kind ; and yet with a certain 
vein of irresolution growing out of theories 
too fine for reducing into practice. But, in 
considering an author and his works as one, 
a sufficient distinction is not drawn between 
the ideal and the real : the last is only given 
by being past through the crucible of the first. 
He does not give the events of his life ; but 
the deductions that have been drawn from 
those events. It is not that he has been 
placed in the circumstances that he paints ' 
but a* quick intuition born of quick feel'ng 



70 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



and that power of observation, which is the 
first requisite in a poet, enable him to bestow 
actual life to his breathing- pictures : while 
this life is necessarily coloured by the senti- 
ments and the emotions of the giver. 

Every thing now depended on the death of 
Agis, whether it would take due hold on the 
sympathies of the audience. Courtenaye au- 
gured well from the profound silence ; sud- 
denly a burst of applause shook the house, the 
curtain had fallen, and Booth sprang to Wal- 
ter's side, who was still engaged in an animat- 
ed flirtation with an actress who was to play 
in the afterpiece. " We have carried every 
thing before us !" exclaimed he : "I died in 
splendid style. And now, for supper; I will 
drink to the liberties of Sparta in nothing less 
than champagne to-night ! I have done won- 
ders for you : I am sure that no one who saw 
Agis to-night could say that ' Sparta has many 
a worthier son than he !' I was firstrate !" 

"I congratulate you!" was what Courte- 
naye, as he shook hands with the successful 
author, tried to say; but he felt that his 
words were inaudible. At first he could only 
look his joy ; but he was singularly struck 
with Walter's appearance : the flush of forced 
spirits had sunk in the presence of his great 
emotion, and his face was as the face of death. 

A dark presentiment sprang up in Nor- 
bourne's mind, and a sad pity mingled with 
his rejoicing. He seemed fascinated by the 
large lustrous eyes, whose light was not of 
this world — so unearthly, so wild, was at that 
moment the expression of Walter's coun- 
tenance. "He is dying!" sounded like a 
voice in Norbourne's ears: he tried to shake 
off what he termed a vain and foolish fear, but 
it clung to him like an omen. He looked 
again, and the colour had returned to May- 
nard's lips, the shadow of the grave had 
passed away ; but Courtenaye still seemed to 
hear within himself a solemn and fated voice 
repeat, " He is dying !" 



CHAPTER XLV. 

SUCCESS. 

All things are symbols ; and we find 

In morning's lovely prime, 
The actual history of the mind 

In its own early time: 
So, to the youthful poet's gaze, 

A thousand colours rise,— 
The beautiful which soon decays, 

The buoyant which soon dies. 

So does not die their influence, 

The spirit owns the spell ; 
Memory to him is music— hence 

The magic of his shell. 
3e sings of general hopes and fears— 

A universal tone; 
111 weep with him, for in his tears 

They recognise their own. 

¥et many a one, whose lute hangs now 

High on the laurel tree, 
Feels that the cypress' dark bough 

A fitter meed would be : 
And still with weariness and wo 

The fatal gift is won ; 
Many a radiant head lies low, 

Ere half its race be run. 

The group of Maynard's friends that gather- 
ed round him, only waited till Booth had 



changed his dress to adjourn to a neighbour 
ing tavern for supper. The excitement needed 
wine and mirth to carry it off. Suppers were 
the ne phis ultra of human invention ; it could 
go no further, and was obliged to degenerate; 
dinner is too much matter of business, it is a 
necessity : now, a necessity is too like a duty 
ever to be pleasant. Besides, it divides the 
day instead of winding it up. I do not think, 
moreover, that people were ever meant to 
enjoy themselves in the daytime. Day be- 
longs to the earthlier deities — the stern, the 
harsh, and the cold. Gnomes are the spirits 
of daily hours. Toil, thought, and strife, beset 
us : we have to work, to quarrel, and to 
struggle : we have to take our neighbours in ; 
or, at least, to avoid their doing so by us. We 
are false, designing, and cautious ; for, after 
all, the doom of Ishmael is the doom of the 
whole race of men. His hand against every 
one, and every one's hand against him. Talk 
of general benevolence and philanthropy — 
nonsense ! We all in our hearts hate each 
other ; and good cause have we for so doing. 
But night comes in with a more genial spirit : 
we have done our worst and our bitterest ; 
and we need a small space to indulge any 
little bit of cordiality that may he left in us. 
A thousand gay phantasms float in on the 
sunny south, which has left the far-off vine- 
yards of its birth. The taverns of our ancestors 
would ill bear contrasting with the clubs of 
to-day ; but many a gay midnight was past in 
the former: — midnights, whose mirth has de- 
scended even to us ; half the jests, whose 
gayety is still contagious; half the epigrams, 
whose point is yet felt, were born of those 
brief and brilliant hours. Such a supper, and 
such a party, were now waiting to adjourn to 
a tavern near the theatre. 

While they loitered till Booth doffed his 
theatrical costume, Norbourne's attent^n was 
attracted by the young actress to whom May- 
nard had been talking ; she was looking earn- 
estly at him, and he felt sure that he had 
seen her face before. Catching his eye, she 
smiled ; and, approaching him, said, — 

" So, Mr. Norbourne does not choose to re- 
member an old friend." 

He started, for the voice was as familiar as 
the face. 

"Lavinia Fenton !" exclaimed he, — "im- 
possible !" 

"Not at all impossible," replied the girl; 
" you know I never liked the country. I had 
a soul above plaiting cap borders, and picking 
out false stitches in my lady's embroidery ; so, 
finding that there was no chance of coming to 
London — you false-hearted man ! — with you 
and my young lady, in a coach- and four, I tried 
if a cart would not do as well." 

There was something in this abrupt allusion 
to the treasured and hidden past, that at once 
shocked and silenced Norbourne. He was 
annoyed to find that his heart's sweetest secret 
was in the possession of one so little likely to 
keep it; and who, from the very position in 
which he found her, would, probably, only 
consider it as matter for a coarse jest. 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



71 



** How, in the name of all that is wonderful, 
do 1 find you here ?" asked he, less from 
any curiosity, than feeling it a necessity to 
say something. 

" Why, luck's all in this world," replied 
she. " A company of strolling players asked 
leave to play in our barn ; I learnt more of the 
world in a week than T had in all my life be- 
fore. At the week's end the barn was vacant, 
and my place also. The Romeo of the com- 
pany told me that I had the finest eyes in the 
world. I had myself long suspected the fact ; 
and, after thinking Friday, Saturda}^, and 
Sunday, I set ofT on the Monday to see what 
they would do for me here ; and, I must say, 
they have done their duty. At present I have 
only a soubrette's part, with an apron and 
pockets, and a ballad ; but, as I said before, 
luck's all in this world, and I have every re- 

?|uisite for being lucky. I have a handsome 
ace, a good voice, I care for nothing and no- 
body ; and when I am a dutchess, which I 
have quite set my mind on being, I will be 
very grateful to you for having patronised my 
first benefit, which I shall rely upon your 
doing." 

Half of this voluble discourse was lost upon 
Norbourne ; it seemed as if, within the last 
few days, he was fated to be haunted by the 
image of Ethel Churchill : he could not resist 
making an inquiry. He glanced around, no 
one was attending; and, in a hurried and agi- 
tated tone, he whispered, — "For God's sake, 
do tell me something of Ethel — Miss Church- 
ill, I mean ?" 

The girl looked at him earnestly and grave- 
ly, — even reproachfully ; but there was some- 
thing in the true emotion of his manner that 
apparently touched her. 

" Mr. Courtena3'e," answered she, in a 
voice even more guarded than his own, " I can 
tell you nothing that will, that ought to give 
you any satisfaction. It is a miserable vanity 
which delights in the affection it only sought 
to betray. I know how you sought to win 
that of my young mistress. Heaven is my 
witness, that I would not have left her could 
my stay have been either benefit or comfort. 
But Ethel Churchill's is no temper to soothe 
itself with words. She suffers in silence ; 
and light and darkness are not more opposed 
than our natures, — there never was sympathy 
between us ; but I do pity her. You would 
scarcely know her again, she is so altered ; 
there she mopes about the house, she who used 
to be the life of us all. When with her grand- 
mother, she does try and get up ber spirits a 
little ; but when out of her sight, she will sit, 
and not speak a word for hours. This, Mr. 
Courtenaye, is your doing." 

The loud ringing of the prompter's bell 
made her spring suddenly away ; and two of 
his companions, each taking an arm, hurried 
him away also. How glad would he have 
been to have left the party : his thoughts were 
in a tumult ; duties and inclinations warred 
together — nay, his very sense of right was 
confounded. To see Ethel once more, to kneel 
at her feet, to accuse himself, and to implore 



her pardon, mingled indistinctly in his re- 
solves. The scene before him seemed strange- 
ly confused ; he heard nothing of what was 
going on, he was either silent, or his answers 
were wide of the mark. All at once his mood 
changed : he sought in his champagne glass 
for forgetfulness, — for that he was too excited ; 
but it brought a wild and desperate gayety, — 
his laugh was the loudest, his jest the readiest, 
and none did such deep justice to every toast : 
but within was the quick, aching sense of 
misery. 

It is a strange thing, but so it is, that very 
brilliant spirits are almost always the result 
of mental suffering, like the fever produced 
by a wound. I sometimes doubt tears, I 
oftener doubt lamentations ; but I never yet 
doubt the existence of that misery which 
flushes the cheek and kindles the eye, and 
which makes the lip mock, with sparkling 
words, the dark and hidden world within. 

There is something in intense suffering that 
seeks concealment, something that is fain to 
belie itself. In Cooper's novel of the "Bravo," 
Jacques conceals himself and his boat, by 
lying where the moonlight fell dazzling on 
the water. We do the same with any great 
despair, we shroud it in a glittering atmos- 
phere of smiles and jests ; but the smiles are 
sneers, and the jests are sarcasms. There is 
always a vein of bitterness runs through these 
feverish spirits, they are the very delirium of 
sorrow seeking to escape from itself, and which 
cannot. Suspense and agony are hidden by 
the moonshine. 



CHAPTER XLVI. 

THE PAST. 

r 
Weep for the love that fate forbids 

Yet loves, unhopinsr, on, 
Though every light that once illumed 

Its early path be gone. 

Weep for the love that must resign 

The soul's enchanted dream, 
And float, like some neglected bark, 

Adown life's lonely stream ! 

Weep for the love that cannot change 

Like some unholy spell, 
It hangs upon the life that loved 

So vainly and so well. 

Weep for the weary heart condemned 

To one long, lonely sigh, 
Whose lot has been in this cold world 

To dream, despair and die ! 

It is a mystery how fate sometimes an- 
swers to our secret wishes. All night one 
thought made Norboume's pillow restless, 
and formed part of every troubled dream. He 
rose, and it was easy to carry it into execu- 
tion. The day before, his departure from 
London would have excited the greatest sur- 
prise. This morning, the first thing he saw 
was a letter from his mother, urging his im- 
mediate presence at Courtenaye Hall, on 
account of some pressing business, owing to 
a lawsuit having just terminated in then 
favour. 



72 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



In his journey down, he must pass within 
rwenty miles of Ethel Churchill's home. He 
at once resolved that he would see her ; it was 
but. to implore her forgiveness, and even Con- 
stance might forgive the wish. " He hurried 
off, allowing himself no time to think ; and 
the rapid motion and violent exercise pro- 
duced their usual effect. The fever of the 
body triumphed over that of the mind ; if not 
forgotten, it w r as, at least, lulled. 

Late at night, he arrived at a little village 
about two miles from Mrs. Churchill's house. 
It required all the influence of his handsome 
face with the landlady, and his handsome 
purse with the landlord, to procure those three 
great requisites for a traveller — admittance, 
supper, and a bed. Completely wearied out, 
he retired to rest, and did not waken the fol- 
lowing morning till later than he intended. 
Remembering Ethel's habit of walking before 
breakfast in the little plantation adjoining the 
house, he hurried his toilet, in a hope, which 
he scarcely acknowledged to himself, of meet- 
ing her there. He amazed the pretty hostess 
by refusing breakfast ; however, flinging down 
double the amount of her already unconscion- 
able bill, consoled her for his want of appe- 
tite. This done, he sprung on his horse, 
which he urged to the utmost speed till he 
came to the once well-known gate, which was 
the side entrance to the plantation. There he 
fastened his horse, and, flinging his cloak 
over the panting creature, entered the little 
wood. 

It was just the beginning of spring ; only a 
few of the trees had as yet ventured to put 
forth the scarce unfolded leaves ; there was 
the promise of green, rather than the green 
itself, and that soft yellow, which has the 
bloom of a flower before the flowers them- 
selves. The gay boughs of the oak were still 
bare ; and the hollies were fresh and bright, 
though their scarlet berries and Christmas had 
passed away together. As yet, the banks 
were uncovered by the various creeping plants, 
which in June were so luxurious ; but the 
maiden's hair flung down its long, green 
tresses, and every sunny nook had its group 
of primroses — the primrose, which is spring's 
second herald. 

It is curious to note how gradually the 
flowers warm into the rich colours and aroma- 
tic breath of summer. First, comes the snow- 
drop, formed from the snows which give it 
name ; fair, but cold and scentless : then comes 
the primrose, with its faint, soft hues, and its 
faint, soft perfume — an allegory of actual ex- 
istence, where the tenderest and most fragile 
natures are often those selected to bear the 
coldest weather, and the most bleak exposure. 
This is fanciful ; but the whole place was 
thronged with " fast coming fancies," so fairy- 
ike were the shadows that fell from the pen- 
ile branches, so changeful the golden lights 
that glimmered on the scarcely budding 
boughs. 

Morbourne felt the influence of the lovely 
hour and scene. Every step he took brought 
with it some gentle recollection ; for a few 



moments he wandered on, lost in a delicious 
revery. But the past only brought the pre- 
sent more vividly before him — he started ! for 
the first time, the folly and the error he was 
committing seemed to strike forcibly upon his 
mind. He turned pale, and leant, breathless, 
against an oak beside. What could he say to 
Ethel when he saw her ? — he had no excuse 
that he might offer for his falsehood : Avhat 
could he say ? — nothing ! What right had he, 
the husband of another, to offer Miss Church- 
ill vain regrets, which to her were only in- 
sults ? and Constance, his sweet, his devoted 
Constance, she who had not a wish nor a 
thought, but what were his own — how could 
he justify his conduct to her ? That she 
might never know, was nothing. To his own 
heart he could not answer his meditated 
treachery ;. for treachery it was to tell another 
how much he grieved over a union in which 
she, at least, was wholly blameless. The 
tumult and excitement of his soul softened in 
the sacred presence of nature. He felt that 
he owed it alike both to Ethel and to Con- 
stance, to abandon his intended purpose. 

"Yet once again," exclaimed he, passion- 
ately, " let me gaze on that beautiful and be- 
loved face ! let me see if sorrow has cast a 
shadow on its surpassing loveliness ! I will 
not let her know how near I am, and how 
wretched ! No, in secret and in silence will 
I look upon her once more ; and then, farewell 
forever !" 

Only those who know what it is to give up 
some cherished wish just on its very verge of 
fulfilment, and give up from that sense of 
right which it is hard to deny, and yet harder 
to execute — only they can tell what it cost 
Norbourne to give up his purpose -of seeing 
Ethel : yet he did give it up ; and advanced 
only with the hope of one distant look, rely 
ing on his knowledge of the various little 
paths to escape through the wood if any one 
came too near. At length, he stopped within 
the shelter of a large spreading arbutus, it wa* 
too near the house to advance further ; but, 
though sheltered himself, he could see all the 
once° familiar objects. There was the little* 
fountain, the grassplot, and the summer-house. 
There they were as of old — they, at least, 
were the same. He welcomed them as old 
familiar friends ; but, when he glanced around, 
the symptoms of change were on them as 
well. Then the pale hues of autumn were 
around ; now, every thing was colouring with 
spring. He looked, but in vain, for the blue 
harebells beside the little fountain ; they were 
gone, and with them, how much of hope and 
of affection had gone too ! His heart beat, till 
he leant breathless on one of the spreading 
boughs. At that moment, he saw a figure 
move in the summer-house : it came towards 
the door : it was Ethel. At first he only saw 
the face — it was pale, sad ; but there was a 
change even beyond that unwonted paleness. 
Gradually his eye took in her whole appear- 
ance. Early as it Avas, she was splendidly 
dressed. Her golden hair glittered with 
gems in the light of the morning ; her robe 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



73 



«vas of white damask, flowered with silver ; 
and a long white veil was half folded round 
ipr- 

Norbourne had not courage to even think 
the surmise that, in spite of himself, would 
arise. At that moment he saw Mrs. Church- 
ill, attended by a gentleman, both richly at- 
tired, come from the house. They advanced 
to the summer-house, and the cavalier ap- 
proached Ethel, who still stood in her pensive 
and abstracted attitude, as if to lead her away. 
Slowly and reluctantly as it seemed, she let 
him take her hand ; slowly and reluctantly, 
but she let him take it. The three returned 
to the house ; and Norbourne could see that 
there were many guests assembled. 

" Let me know the worst !" exclaimed he, 
rushing with frantic violence from the spot. 
He hurried, through the wood, and sprang 
upon his horse, intending to gallop to the vil- 
lage, and ask about the family. He had not 
far to go ; for he had scarcely gained the road 
before he met a party of peasants, dressed in 
their Sunday attire. One question was enough : 
an elderly woman answered him ; " Yes, 
please your honour, we are going to see Miss 
Ethel married to a grand gentleman from fo- 
reign parts." Norbourne asked no more ; but, 
putting spurs to the horse, he galloped across 
the common, as if life and death had been 
upon his speed. 



CHAPTER XLVII. 

GOSSIPPING. 

These are the spiders of society ; 

They weave their pretty webs of lies and sneers, 

And lie themselves in ambush for the spoil. 

The web seems fair, and glitters in the sun, 

And the poor victim winds him in the toil 

Before lie dreams of danger, or of death. 

Alas, the misery that such inflict ! 

A word, a look, have power to wring the heart, 

And leave it struggling hopeless in the net 

Spread by the false and cruel, who delight 

In the ingenious torment they contrive. 

A woman's character is developed by the 
affections : when once they come into action, 
how rapidly are the latent qualities called 
forth, and in how brief a time what a wonder- 
ful change is wrought ! This process, rapid 
m all her sex, was unusually rapid in Con- 
stance. The bitter fruit of her experience 
had, like the bean plant in the fairy tale, 
grown up in a single night. Guileless, con- 
fiding, and affectionate, she was a child in 
every thing but years when she married her 
cousin. Till then she knew naught of the 
world but from books, books that teach so 
much, and yet so little. A few weeks sufficed 
to work an amazing alteration : timid and sub- 
dued, the difference appeared little on the 
surface, but it worked not less certainly below. 
With all her advantages of birth, station, and 
wealth, it was impossible but that she must 
excite some degree of envy ; and, alas ! for 
human nature, envy will always delight in 
inflicting mortification. 

Many were the disparaging remarks that 

Vol. II.— 10 



reached, as they were intended to do, the ear 
of their victim. On one less sensitive, and 
more accustomed to the malice which, of all 
others, seems the vice society peculiarly en- 
genders, they would havefaHen comparatively 
harmless ; but with Constance they struck to 
the heart. She had been so happy in the idea 
of Norbourne's attachment, that the doubt was 
dreadful. This disposition was encouraged 
by many casual expressions respecting Lady 
Marchmont, and by some, also, that were in- 
tentional. Among others, there was a Lady 
Dudley, a family connexion of her own, who 
having perceived Mrs. Courtenaye's jealousy 
(for poor Constance was but little accustomed 
to dissemble,) did her very best to encou- 
rage it. 

Lady Dudley was just such a being as is 
formed by an entire existence amid those 

" Thick solitudes, 
Called social, where all vice and hatred are." 

Her youth had passed in intrigues and vani- 
ties, and she still lived among them at second- 
hand : she now talked what she formerly did. 
Lady Marchmont was an object of her espe- 
cial dislike ; she feared her wit, and could not 
forgive her youth and beauty. Moreover 
there was an interest in any on dit about one 
so much the rage ; her looks, laces, and say- 
ings, were equally invaluable as matters of 
gossip. Moreover, Lady Dudley flattered 
herself with filling the next best part to the 
principal, that of confidante with Mrs. Courte- 
naye. Constance, had, however, too much 
good taste, as well as good feeling, for this ; 
she had betrayed her jealousy, not confessed 
it. Still, this was enough for her soi-disant 
friend, who went on torturing her with stories 
about Lady Marchmont's powers of fascina- 
tion, and Lady Marchmont's coquetry. 

" You do not know," said she, after a long 
visit, which left Constance pale as a statue, 
her lip feverish with anxiety, and eyes filled 
with tears which she would not shed : " you 
do not know what a dangerous person Lady 
Marchmont is ! I should not, my sweet, young 
friend, warn you so-much against her, but that 
I take the deepest interest in your happiness !" 

" You are too kind !" sighed Constance. 

" You know your husband is a very young 
man, and a very handsome one — beauty is a 
dangerous gift !" 

" Would I could try its danger !" thought 
Mrs. Courtenaye, as she caught her own wan 
and languid countenance in the opposite 
glance. 

" Now, all men are vain, quite as vain as 
we are ; indeed, I always say much more so," 
continued her tormentor; "and Mr. Courte- 
naye's vanity must be flattered by Lady 
Marchmont's admiration !" 

" Do you think she admires him, then ?" 
asked his wife, in a startled tone. 

" O, I say nothing," replied Lady Dudley, 
with a sneer ; " but we all know that Lady 
Marchmont would fain lead captive every man 
about town worth looking at. They say thai 
she aDPlied to her conquests the answer of th 
G 



74 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



French actress, who, being- asked if she could 
reckon up her lovers, replied, ' Oui, qui ne 
sgait compter jusqu'au mille? " 

" She is very lovely !" said Constance, 
mournfully. 

" O, there are others as handsome as she 
is!" interrupted her ladyship; "but she is 
such a coquette — quite heartless ; and, there- 
fore, the more dangerous. Her passion is 
universal admiration; and she cares for no- 
thing, so long as her vanity is but gratified : 
of course, I speak to you in complete confi- 
dence. Good-by, my dearest Mrs. Courte- 
naye ; I say to you what I would not say to 
any one else for the world !" 

So saying, she hurried off, impatient to say 
precisely the same thing to some fifty or more 
dearest friends. Just as she left the room, 
but in time to receive the warmest reception, 
and a " How charming, my love, you look to- 
day !" Lady Marchmont made her appear- 
ance. 

"Ah!" exclaimed she, "I should know 
that Lady Dudley had been your visiter, you 
look so weary. There, I will be very good, 
and allow you five minutes to recover your- 
self" 

" I am not very well to-day," said Con- 
stance, rising to receive her ; " I have a head- 
ach." What would women do, if headachs 
were abolished ? They are the universal 
feminine resource. 



CHAPTER XL VIII. 

CONFIDENCE. 

She had that charming laugh which, like a song, 
The song of a sprin? bird, wakes suddenly 

When we least look for it. It lingered long 
Upon the ear, one of the sweet things we 

Treasure unconsciously. As steals along 
A stream in sunshine, stole its melody, 

As musical as it was light and wild, 

The buoyant spirit of some fairy child ; 

Yet mingled with soft sighs, that might express 

The depth and truth of earnest tenderness. 

Henrietta took a seat, and soon began a 
lively conversation ; but it is impossible to go 
on talking, if your listener either cannot or 
will not answer. Suddenly it struck her 
visiter that Mrs. Courtenaye had a lurking 
remembrance of her cold manner to Norbourne 
on the day of Mrs. Howard's/efe. 

"It was foolish of me," thought she, "I 
had no right to mark resentment." 

With the view of doing this away, she 
began to make inquiries after Mr. Courtenaye. 

"I see that you are too good a wife to be 
tempted into gayety during your husband's 
absence ; but when he returns, I must persuade 
you to come and dine with. us. 

Constance rose from her seat; and, after 
two or three hurried turns up and down the 
room, came and sat down by Lady March- 
mont, who noted her obvious agitation with 
both surprise and sympathy. 



" You must forgive me," exclaimed she, in 
a hurried and distressed manner, unable longer 
to suppress the tears that fell in large, slow 
drops, still half kept back ; " but I cannot look 
upon you and not feel my own wretched- 
ness. I do not wonder that Norbourne loved 
you!" 

" Loved me !" exclaimed Henrietta, too 
much astonished to say more. 

" I know not," continued Constance, pas- 
sionately, "what parted you, but you cannot 
blame me ; I knew it not. I thought, O, vain 
folly ! that it was me he loved. Why else 
did he marry me ? But I feel now, O, how 
bitterly ! that I was not worthy of him. I, 
without beauty, grace — with nothing but 
a heart, whose deep love he will never 
know !" 

She hid her face m her hands ; the hysteri- 
cal passion of tears, long subdued, now burst 
forth, and she wept bitterly, while Henrietta 
exhausted every effort to soothe her. 

" You pity me !" at last exclaimed Con- 
stance ; " will you not then leave to me the 
little that my unwearied affection may gain of 
his heart ? You, so beautiful, so flattered, 
cannot know what it is not to have a hope or 
a fear but what is bound up in one beloved 
object! Tell me," and she knelt at Henri- 
etta's feet, " that you will not seek to win him 
again from me ?" 

" There is some strange mistake here," said 
Lady Marchmont, deeply touched at the emo- 
tion she witnessed : " you speak as if some 
affection existed between Mr. Courtenaye and 
myself; I am sure that we are equally igno- 
rant of it : but I hate mysteries, they are often 
miserable, and always mischievous ; do tell 
me what you mean ? Believe me that your 
present unhappiness originates in some mis- 
apprehension !" 

" W T ere you never," faltered Constance, 
" engaged, or attached to Norbourne ?" 

" Me !" cried Lady Marchmont ; " I never 
knew him till after my own marriage, and 
then very slightly. I know not how this 
strange fancy originated,' but it has not the 
shadow of a foundation. Come, tell me can- 
didly, what could have put it in your head ?" 

"I will," said Constance, who felt intui- 
tively that Lady Marchmont spoke the truth : 
"I thought that there was something very 
peculiar in your manner at Mrs. Howard's 
fete,- and Lady Dudley — " 

" Say no more," interrupted Henrietta; 
" the very mention of that inveterate gossip 
accounts for every thing. Do let me, my dear 
Mrs. Courtenaye," and she took her hand 
with a kindness that was irresistible, "let me 
warn you against allowing your happiness to 
be the sport of a woman like that ; one who 
would not care what misery she caused, if it 
gave her one moment's importance, or one 
moment's amusement. Use your own judg- 
ment with reference to what she is !" 

"I own," replied Constance, "that I cer- 
tainly neither like nor respect her." 

" Why then allow her to influence you ?" 
asked her companion. 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



75 



"I was wrong, rery wrong-," returned the 
other; "but she seemed kind to me, and — 
and I sometimes feel so lonely. I am not 
strong enough to go out much, and the days 
are very long here : in the country I had my 
birds, and my flowers, and there were many 
who loved me. They were not, it is true, com- 
panions, but I returned home happier after 
visiting our cottages, where so many faces 
grew brighter to welcome mine ; but in this 
vast place every thing is so strange and so 
cold, and I pass very many long and lonely 
hours, and pass them, perhaps, in nursing 
foolish fancies." 

There was something in this picture that 
keenly touched Lady Marchmont; she, too, 
brilliant as her lot appeared, had many long 
and lonely hours — hours that craved for confi- 
dence and affection. 

" Let us be friends," exclaimed she, with a 
sweet earnestness ; "we shall do each other 
good. I grow too selfish, living only among 
the cold, the vain, and the flattering; while 
you grow too sensitive, living too much amid 
your fancies and feelings." 

Constance answered by taking the hands so 
frankly offered, and pressing them in her own, 
while Lady Marchmont continued : — 

" I will tell } T ou all my faults frankly before- 
hand. I am very vain, for I cultivate my 
vanity on a principle, and cannot understand 
why we should neglect such a source of grati- 
fication. I take all the admiration I can on 
the same principle that kings takes taxes : I 
look upon it as my right. They will tell} r ou 
that I am a coquette, but it is not true ; I do 
not care enough about people ; besides, I am 
too impetuous, and too frank. Moreover, my 
opinions on love are romantic and peculiar ; I 
never talk about them. I am a bad temper, 
but you will like me all the better from hav- 
ing occasionally to make up a quarrel with 
me : — And now, shall we be friends ?" 

" I shall only love you too much," said 
Constance. 

" O, that is a fault I shall readily overlook !" 
replied Henrietta, laughing, as she rose to de- 
part : and fast friends they were from that 
time. Constance found a resource in the 
gayety of Lady Marchmont, and learnt from 
her something of more self-reliance, and a 
more accurate idea of the world in which she 
was to live. She daily became more attached 
to her : she saw her faults, though of a differ- 
ent kind to those Lady Marchmont herself 
confessed ; but she loved her in despite of 
them ; nor did the young countess attach her- 
self less to her gentle friend. Henrietta was 
of a much more affectionate temper than she 
would have confessed even to herself: she 
delighted in the pleasure which she gave ; 
and, evening after evening would she sit with 
Constance, who was quite incapable of further 
exertion, 



CHAPTER XLIX. 

UNAVAILING REGRET. 

Farewell ! and when the charm of change 
Has sunk, as all must sink, in shade ; 

When joy, a wearied bird, begins 
The wing to droop, the plume to fade ; 

When thou thyself, at length, has felt 
What thou hast made awhiher feel— 

The hope that sickens to despair, 

The wound that time may sear, not heal ; 

When thou shalt pine for some fond heart 
To beat in answering thine again ;— 

Then, false one, think once more on me, 
And sigh to think it is in vain. 

It was Ethel Churchill, dressed as a bride, 
and on her wedding morning, that Norbourne 
had seen. She had sought the summer-house 
for a few moments of quiet and solitude. 
There was a dead weight on her spirits, which 
she rather sought to indulge than to shake off. 
The torpor had succeeded to the violence of 
grief; nothing now seemed to interest her. 
All that constitutes youth had suddenly pass- 
ed away ; she looked forward to nothing, be- 
cause it appeared to her experience, that to 
hope and to trust was to insure disappoint- 
ment and deceit. Ethel actually shrank from 
the idea of happiness : she had been so happy 
once ; and how dearly had that happiness 
avenged its brief and sweet presence ! Gra- 
dually she had sunk into that worst state of 
misery, and one which in a woman it so fre- 
quently assumes ; namely, a state of lanquid 
and listless dejection. Every thing was a 
trouble, and nothing a pleasure ; while one 
day passed on into another — dull, monotonous, 
without an effort to rouse from her utter de- 
pression. 

One evening she was startled from the 
gloomy revery in which it had groAvn her 
habit to indulge during the family histories, 
which were perpetual subjects of her grand- 
mother's discourse, by the announcement that 
a visiter was expected the following day : — . 
" One, Ethel," said the old lady, with a very 
significant look; " in whom I expect you to 
take a most peculiar interest." 

Ethel shook her head, but said nothing; 
but her grandmother, who wished to be ques- 
tioned, went on, as if it were a token c.f 
assent. 

" And a very handsome young man he is. 
Perhaps, child, I ought not to say any thing 
about it; but I have never kept you back like 
most young women." 

Ethel, by-the-by, had never, in the whole 
course of her life, ventured on offering an 
opinion in her grandmother's presence. 

"Besides, as I wish you to look your best, 
I may as well- tell you, that Mr. Trevanion is 
coming here to fulfil his part in the contract of 
marriage which passed between your parent* 
when you were both children." 

Certainly Mrs. Churchill's j /an, for he 



76 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



grandau ghter to look the best, was any thing 
but efficacious, in the first instance ; for Ethel 
sank back, pale, and almost fainting. 

" Why, what is the matter with the child ?" 
3xclaimed the old lady ; " there is nothing- so 
very dreadful in a lover; but I shall leave 
you to find that out when he comes." 

"You do not mean," cried Ethel, frighten- 
ed into speaking-, " to insist on my fulfilling a 
contract of which I never heard. Only let me 
live on quietly with you — I never mean to 
marry." 

" Very proper to say so," returned Mrs. 
Churchill, with an air of calm approval ; 
" young ladies ought never to consent till they 
are asked." 

" But when I am asked," said Ethel, more 
impetuously than she had ever said anything in 
her life before, " I have only a refusal to give." 

" Very right that you should say so now," 
replied her grandmother; "but let me caution 
you against taking any foolish fancies into 
your head, as if you could be allowed the 
same choice in a husband that you are in a 
riband." 

"I cannot, will not marry him!" sobbed 
fithel. 

•"Do not, my dear child, talk nonsense. 
You are not aware of the important interests 
involved in your marriage. Our wealth and 
our connexions are of importance to our party. 
In a few months, I hope that Mr. Trevanion 
will be able to assume the title so long in his 
family, of the Earl of Lanriggon. I tell you, 
in strict confidence, that King James has al- 
ready affixed his royal seal to the patent. But 
these are no matters for you : go and gather 
some roses for me, and try to bring in some 
on your cheek, as well as in your hand." 



CHAPTER L. 

Why, what a history is on the rose.' 

A history beyond all other flowers ; 

But nevermore, in garden or in grove 

Will the white queen reign paramount again. 

She must content her with remember'J things, 

When her pale leaves were badge for knight and earl ; 

Pledge of a loyalty which was as pure, 

As freo from stain, as those white depths her leaves 

Unfolded to the earliest breath of June. 

Mrs. Churchill belonged to a class now 
completely passed away. The material of the 
species still remains ; but the form under 
which it exhibits is different. She had the 
reputation of being learned ; and a little learn- 
ing went a great way in her time. Had she 
lived now, she would have talked of the last 
delightful lecture on gas, or the charming new 
treatise on carbonic acid; she would have 
studied German, and delighted in the society 
of " talented people." As it was, she knew 
some of the Latin names for plants in the 
herbal. She piqued herself on giving advice, 
and said very severe things; she also wrote 
very long letters, and was a warm partisan of 
the exiled Stuarts. Kind-hearted and well- 
meaning, she was narrow-minded and rigid, 



only because she thought it beneath the dig- 
nity of a sensible woman to change her mind. 
Ethel knew that, having once announced hei 
marriage, it would be impossible to alter hex 
grandmother's determination ; and it was an 
awful thing to venture on open opposition to 
one, whose will had been hitherto blindly 
obeyed. But Ethel was young and romantic : 
she resolved to throw herself on the generosity 
of the comma- lover; and felt entirely assured 
that he must think the heart valueless, .hat 
had been, that was but too much still, the 
property of another. This resolve once taken, 
she prepared to wait patiently the proper time 
for carrying it into execution ; and was again 
sad and fanguid as before. 

Mr. Trevanion arrived : he was a tall, slight, 
and, certainly, a handsome young man, and 
perfectly aware of whatever advantages he 
possessed. He had lived chiefly abroad ; and 
if any thing in England satisfied him, it was 
the satisfaction of abusing every thing. With 
Mrs. Churchill he soon became a firstrate fa- 
vourite. His head was quite turned with 
mysteries, secret correspondences, and plots : 
he met her on her own weak point. Both 
delighted to hear themselves talk, and both 
talking themselves out of all. rationality ;• for 
words, like wine, get up into the head : they 
passed hours in conversational conspiracies, 
till both the old woman and the young man 
believed that the house of Hanover only 
waited their impetus to tremble to its downfall. 

Ethel found that it was not so easy to make 
her intended disclosure ; for when she attempt- 
ed to speak to Mr. Trevanion, she was over- 
whelmed with such a flood of flowery elo- 
quence, that she was dismayed into silence. 
The time grew terribly near ; and courage has 
oftener despair for its mother than any other 
parent. She seized an opportunity when he 
was walking up and down the terrace — in his 
own mind the very personification of Shak- 
speare's comet, 

" Perplexing monarchs, with the fear of change," 

to walk also, and meet him. Of course, his 
political meditations were put to flight by her 
appearance. He requested permission to join 
her, and was soon eloquent in the description 
of the last fete that he had witnessed at Ver- 
sailles. 

Mr. Trevanion was one of those talkers, 
who are too much engrossed with their own 
subject matter to have much attention to be- 
stow elsewhere ; with them silence is atten- 
tion. Ethel's wandering eye, and lip, tremu- 
lous with its effort to speak, would never have 
attracted his notice. To his utter astonishment, 
she interrupted a parenthesis, as brilliant as 
the rocket which it depicted, by saying, — 

" Mr. Trevanion, I do not know what you 
will think of my boldness, but I must speak 
to you." 

" Speak," said the gentleman, with a thea 
trical air ; " and I will ask no other music." 

Agitated, blushing, and in a voice scarcely 
audible at first, she began her confession. 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



77 



Gradually the strong emotion prevailed over 
the weaker one, and timidity was merged in 
feelings that grew more powerful as she pro- 
ceeded. 

" I have now told you all ; forgive and pity 
me. I ask of yourself, how could I do other- 
wise than decline an engagement, when I 
have no heart to bestow ?" The tears rilled 
lier dark blue eyes; never had she felt the 
shame and wretchedness of her position so 
forcibly before. " May I ask of you," conti- 
nued she, in faltering tones, " to tell my 
grandmother, that our engagement is broken 
off?" 

"Well, certainly," exclaimed Mr. Trevan- 
ion, " this is the most charming piece ofber- 
gerie it has ever been my good fortune to, wit- 
ness." 

Ethel looked at him in blank amazement, 
while he went on. 

• " Indeed, my sweet Miss Churchill, I can- 
not be sufficiently grateful. Between our- 
selves, the country is rather triste, and you 
have given me positively a sensation ; yet my 
forte is not the Arcadian : however, I will do 
my petit possible to console you for the loss of 
le beau Lindor, who was my predecessor." 

""Sir," said Ethel, "I do not understand 
you." 

" Very probably not ! — charming igno- 
rance !" replied Mr. Trevanion, with a patron- 
izing expression. " A few weeks in Paris 
will soon give you a little knowledge of the 
world; but the effect of your first simplicity 
will be delicious. Ah, there is Mrs. Church- 
ill ! let us join her. I suppose, as I have 
been playing the part of confident, I must not 
make her laugh over our little romance." 

Ethel was silent from surprise : she had 
prepared herself for anger — even sorrow ; but 
ridicule left her without an answer. What 
could she say to a hearer, who only smiled, 
and to whom emotion was only a scene in * 
pastoral ? That night she made an appeal to 
her grandmother ; but in vain. Mrs. Church- 
ill would have thought that she had sacrificed 
the cause of the Stuarts to a girl's folly, had 
she for a moment entertained the idea of dis- 
solving an engagement with Mr. Trevanion. 
What could Ethel do, but submit ? It was 
not as if she had had any hope in the future 
to enable her to bear up against the present ; 
but hope she had none, and only hope can in- 
spirit resistance. 



CHAPTER LI. 

THE CHURCH. 

The altar, 'tis of death ! for there are laid 

The sacrifice of all youth's sweetest hopes. 

It is a dreadful thing for woman's lip 

To swear the heart away ; yet know that heart 

Annuls the vow while speaking, and shrinks back 

Fromthe dark future that it dares not face. 

The service read above the open grave 

Is far less terrible than that which seals 

The vow that binds the victim, not the will ; 

For in the grave is rest. 

Soon — how soon it appeared to come ! — the 
diy appointed for Miss Churchill's marriage 



arrived. With a faint shudder, she looked 
from her window. The whole garden was 
bathed in sunshine ; a light wind stirred the 
branches, which seemed filled with singing 
birds : she turned away ; the light and the 
music were painful to her. Who has not felt 
this exaggeration of the sick heart, which re- 
proaches inanimate nature with its lack of 
sympathy, which turns from the golden light 
of day, from the cheerful sights and sounds 
that fill the open air with rejoicing, as if the 
gladness only mocked their misery ! Pas- 
sively, she allowed her grandmother to hurry 
her toilet, who would not see how wan and 
ill she looked. When all was complete, she 
turned away from the glass as she had turned 
away from the window, with a deeper feeling 
of desolation. It was a relief to glide away 
unperceived ; and almost mechanically she 
sought the open air, and entered the summer- 
house, from the habit of turning her steps 
thither, rather than from any will on her own 
part. She was not permitted to remain there 
long; and Mr. Trevanion, accompanied by 
Mrs. Churchill, conducted her to the apart- 
ment where the guests were assembled. 

All the Jacobite gentry of that part of the 
country were collected together ; though, it 
must be confessed, their appearance and their 
usual after-dinner conversation were rather at 
variance. Now they looked calm and com- 
fortable, with as little the appearance of con- 
spirators as possible ; then they were (by their 
own account) the most oppressed of individu- 
als, and the most devoted of partisans, ready 
to die, so that their wrongs were redressed, 
and the rightful king restored. There was a 
great show of gayety ; for the neighbourhood 
being a dull and scattered one, any thing that 
wore the semblance of festival was doubly 
welcome. 

Again Ethel felt how little sympathy was 
there with her sadness. A thousand wild 
plans of escape even now flitted across her 
mind ; but they were vague and confused fan- 
cies, which she lacked the energy, even if she 
had had the power, to execute. A dull sense 
of suffering weighed upon her heart. She 
heard voices, she saw faces, but they produced 
no impression upon her ; and she allowed her- 
self to be handed into the carriage, almost 
without knowing what she did. The long 
and slow procession, at length, reached the 
church ; and it took up almost as much time to 
range the different friends in their appointed 
and proper places. An old gentleman, a dis- 
tant, and yet their nearest connexion, led 
Ethel forward, filled only with the idea of the 
important situation he himself held, in having 
to give away the bride. There she stood, hex 
large blue eyes dilated far beyond their usual 
size, fixed on vacancy. There was not a 
tinge of colour on a cheek usually so bloom- 
ing — nay, her very lip had lost its crimson : 
she looked as white as her dress. 

Mrs. Churchill watched her anxiously: 

perhaps, now that it was too late, she repented 

having urged the match so peremptorily, as 

more than one doubt crossed her mind of the 

g2 



;8 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



future happiness of her gentle and affectionate 
child. She saw her there — wan, wasted, 
broken in spirits, — a victim, rather than a 
bride ! but such misgivings were now in vain. 
The clergyman had taken his place at the 
altar, when the attention of the party assem- 
bled was attracted to loud and unusual sounds 
in the churchyard. There was the galloping 
of horses, the clang of heavy steps and spurs, 
and the jingle of swords. The suspense was 
brief; for the next moment an officer, accom- 
panied by a magistrate, with some half-dozen 
soldiers following, entered the church. In 
another instant the warrant was produced, and 
James Trevanion was arrested on a charge of 
high treason. All now was rage and confu- 
sion; and some of the younger among the 
bridal guests showed symptoms of resistance. 
" Gentlemen," said the magistrate, calmly, 
" the door is surrounded by troops : opposition 
to my disagreeable duty can only bring fatal 
consequences to yourselves. Remove the 
prisoner at once. Madam," continued he, ad- 
dressing Mrs. Churchill, "I am sorry to say 
that there are suspicious circumstances in 
which you are implicated. In consideration 
of your age and high respectability, I have 
ventured to take upon myself to answer for 
you ; but, at present, I must request that you 
will accept the hospitality of my house." 

Mr. Trevanion advanced forward ; but the 
magistrate interposed. 

" I can feel," said he, " for a gentleman in 
your circumstances ! but it is my duty to see 
that no communication takes place between 
yourself and the ladies involved in the suspi- 
cion of treasonable practices. Your farewells 
must be made in my presence." 

And how did Ethel feel ? — like a wretch, 
under sentence of death, who, at the very scaf- 
fold, receives a reprieve. She was only alive 
to the joy of her release : for a moment, she 
thought of nothing but her own escape. 

" Thank God !" exclaimed she, to the utter 
dismay of the two bridesmaids within hear- 
ing ; and, throwing herself on her knees, she 
bid her face in her hands, and uttered a hurried 
and passionate thanksgiving. 



CHAPTER LII. 



PRESENTIMENT. 

I feel the shadow on my brow, 

The sickness at my heart ; 
Alas ! I look on those I love, 

And am so sad to part. 

If I could leave my love behind, 

Or watch from yonder sky 
With holy and enduring care, 

I were not loath to die; 

But death is terrible to love: 

And yet a love like mine 
Trusts in the heaven from whence it came, 

And feels it is divine. 

Mrs. Courtenaye's house was, that night, 
• he gayest in London. Lord Norbourne wish- 
ed that the fete given by his daughter should 



be without a rival. He spared no expense 
and Lady Marchmont no taste. 

"I see clearly," said Constance to her, the 
very morning of her party, " that society is 
as much a science as astronomy ; and, also, 
that, like poetry, one must be born with a 
genius for it. What should I have done 
without you ? After once satisfying my 
anxiety that Norbourne would return in time 
(he looks sadly fagged with his journey,) 
there seemed to me nothing more to care 
about." 

" Why, dear child, of all the people that 
you expect, your husband is of the least im- 
portance !" replied Henrietta, laughing. 

Constance shook her head, and smiled, as 
she answered, — 

" Give me Norbourne, my father, and your- 
self, and I should be only too glad to see none 
beside. A crowd frightens me : I feel so 
keenly among strangers that there is nothing 
in me to attract or to please, that I shrink, 
with sudden fear, back into the little circle 
who, I hope, will love me for the deep and 
exceeding love that I bear to them." 

" I am sure," exclaimed Lady Marchmont, 
passing her arm caressingly round Constance's 
neck, " not to love you, would be to h&ve a 
heart of ice, or no heart at all. But you and 
I go through life on different principles : you 
ask of life its affections ; I ask its amuse- 
ments : I like to be admired ; you like to be 
loved : you would tremble at the idea of an 
enemy ; I should only think of one as giving 
me an opportunity of triumph : I should con- 
fide in my success, and feel quite grateful foi 
the victory over them, which, I am sure, I 
should have." 

" Ah !" exclaimed Mrs. Courtenaye, timidly, 
"beautiful as you are, gay as you always 
seem, I never think of you without a sensa- 
tion of fear — fear for your sake, dear Hen- 
rietta !" 

" Fear !" replied the other, her dark eyes 
kindling with a haughtier light; "I should 
like to know the sensation, it would be some- 
thing quite new !" 

" Nay," interrupted her friend, " so young, 
every thing must be new to you !" 

"I do not know," returned Lady March- 
mont, "whether I am young; I believe that I 
am, counting my years, — a most uncertain 
way of reckoning, by-the-by, — but I feel very 
old. I scarcely know any thing that really 
interests me, and I would give a great deal not 
to be so quicksighted as I am ; it would be 
so pleasant to believe only a tithe of the pro- 
fessions that are made me." 

" It is a dreadful thing to doubt !" returned 
Constance, sadly : "I do not know why, but 
there is something about you that discourages 
me almost as much as my fathers conversa- 
tion sometimes does. W'hat is there that na- 
ture has not done for you ? and yet you are 
not happy. I have watched you in your most 
brilliant moments : others went away saying, 
what charming spirits Lady Marchmont has ! 
but I saw that the}' were forced." 

"You are right!" exclaimed Henrietta: 






ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



79 



'I so often feel that I am not loved, and not 
valued as I deserve to be. I carry the cold- 
ness of my own hearth about with me ; and 
with the usual exaggeration of self-love, I 
fancy people must see the dejection under 
which I often labour : I disdain their pity, and 
nut on a vizor of smiles to ward it off." 

" Ours is a strange world," said Constance, 
in a sad and thoughtful tone ; " I see little 
enjoyment, and much misery ; for which, also, 
I see no remedy : I am often frightened and 
weary when I think of it. Every day more 
and more reconciles me to the idea of leaving 
it. I could lay my head down on my last 
pillow, and sleep gladly, like a tired child, 
but for my father." 

" My dearest Constance," cried Lady March- 
mont, " I will not let you talk in this dejected 
mood ; many, many happy years are before 
you!" 

"It is not a dejected mood, dearest friend," 
was the answer ; " It is one of faith and of 
hope. God has, for his own good purposes, 
weaned my heart from a world in which he 
means me to make but a brief sojourn. Only 
those destined for an early grave ever felt as I 
do : I speak not of my bodily health, though 
that grows weaker every day, but it is my 
own heart that foretells its doom. It craves 
for rest and for peace ; here it has beat too 
quickly, and too vainly." 

"You, my gentle and timid Constance!" 
interrupted Henrietta. 

" Ay, for years I lived in the wild worship 
of an earthly idol ! I loved my cousin as 
those love whom nothing distracts from the 
one cherished object ! I was solitary, neg- 
lected, debarred by my health from the ordi- 
nary pursuits of my age, but one image sup- 
plied the place of all others : I have passed 
hours thinking of Norboume, till his own 
presence was scarcely more actual than my 
waking dream. I married him; and, for a 
time, forgot that earth was not heaven ! I was 
too happy ; and, as if I were to owe all to 
him whom I loved so utterly, my marriage 
gave me a share I never before possessed in 
my father's affection ; and I found too, that 
he was happier for loving me. I forgot all 
but this life : it shut out eternity. I cannot 
tell you how I awakened from my dream, for 
dream it was — so gradual, but so sad was my 
awakening. Too soon the subtle instinct of 
love told me that I was not to Norboume what 
he was to me !" 

" No woman ever is to a man," interrupted 
Lady Marchmont : " your solitary education 
has led you to form ethereal fancies that can 
never be realized. It is impossible to be a 
more affectionate, or a kinder husband, than 
Mr.Courtenaye." 



"He is too kind," replied Constance, 
mournfully ; " he feels that he has to make 
up to me for the heart which I have not. I 
am punished for having worshipped too en- 
tirely an earthly idol : it has not been given 
to me to make that happiness which. I would 
purchase, ah ! how gladly, at the expense of 
my own ! But he loves me not, and he loves 
another. Why he married me, I know not." 

Lady Marchmont thought that Lord Nor- 
bourne's wealth was a too sufficient reason ; 
but, for worlds, she would not have said so, 
and Constance continued : — 

" Some might think that the riches of the 
heiress bought the hand, though it could not 
buy the heart; but it was not that which 
made me the wife of Norboume Courtenaye. 
I have known him from a boy, generous and 
disinterested : others may judge of him even 
as they themselves would have acted, but I 
judge him by old and perfect knowledge : but 
I fear that my father used undue influence ; 
perhaps he appealed to my cousin's pity. 
O, Henrietta! you talked of disdaining pity ; 
I am thankful even for that ; but it is a dread- 
ful requital for love !" 

She paused in agitated silence, and Hen- 
rietta felt that silence and caresses were at 
first her only answer; but, having soothed 
her companion into more of composure, she 
could not but add, "but you are married, and 
might both be happy yourself, and make your 
husband's happiness. It is not in any nature, 
more especially one kind and generous as his, 
to be insensible to your devotion, or to your 
many engaging qualities ; why dwell on these 
sad and vain imaginations ?" 

"They are sad, but not vain," replied Con- 
stance ; " but for them I should still cling too 
closely to a world I shall soon leave forever ! 
I have at last learned to say, 'Not my will, 
but thine, O Father ! be done.' I am content 
to think that he will remember me w r ith a 
tender grief; and how could I bear to dwell 
for a moment on the agony of sorrow that he 
must feel, did he love me with a love X&& 
mine own, and had to part ? It soothes me 
to feel that he will be spared that bitterest, 
that terrible despair." 

" Do not speak thus," exclaimed Henrietta, 
her eyes filling with tears as she gazed on the 
face now so lovely, with its sweet and inspir- 
ed expression. 

"It relieves me," replied Constance, "my 
spirits were overburdened. The weakness of 
our nature subdues us to the last; but the 
time may come, when, freed from all the bit- 
terness, all the selfishness that belongs unto 
mortal love, I shall watch over him even as 
an angel watches, and find my happiness in 
his, even in another and abetter world ! " 



so 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



CHAPTER LIII. 



THE FETE. 



There was a feast that night, 
And cdlour'd lamps sent forth their odorous light 
Over gold carvings, and the purple fall 
Of tapestry ; and'around each stately hall 
Were statues pale, and delicate, and fair, 
As all of beauty, save her blush, were there ; 
And, like light clouds floating around each room, 
The censers sent their breathings of perfume ; 
And scented waters mingled wfth the breath 
Of flowers that died as they rejoiced in death. 
The tulip, with iis globe of rainbow light ; 
The red rose, as it languished with clefight ; 
The bridelike hyacinth, drooping as with shame, 
And the anemone, whose cheek of flame 
Is golden, as it were the flower the sun, 
In his noon-hour, most loved to look upon. 
At first the pillar'd halls were still and lone, 
As if some fairy palace, all unknown 
To mortal eye or step :— this was not long — 
Waken'd the lutes, and rose the sound of song ; 
And the wide mirrors glitter'd with the crowd 
Of changing shapes: the young, the fair, the proud, 
Came thronging in. 

Midnight brought with it all the world to 
Lord Norboume's — at least that portion of it 
which calls itself the world, to the exclusion 
of all the rest. His usual good fortune at- 
tended him ; and the management of a fete 
requires as much good fortune as any thing 
else. How many were in that glittering 
crowd whose names are still familiar to us ! 
There was the Dutchess of Queensberry, who 
had not as yet cut the king and queen, looking 
strangely beautiful, and half tempting one to 
believe in the doctrine of transmigration; 
namely, that the soul of the Dutchess of New- 
castle had transmigrated into the body of the 
modern peeress. There she was, doing rude 
things, and saying ruder, which everybody 
bore with the best grace in the world : then, 
as now, it was perfectly astonishing what 
people in general will submit to in the way 
of insolence, provided the said insolence be 
attended by rank and riches. Near her 
was the young and beautiful Dutchess of 
Marlborough, wearing the diamond necklace 
she had recently purchased with Congreve's 
legacy — last memorial of the small vanity 
which had characterized him through life. 
The money now lavished on the ostentation of 
a splendid toy, what a blessing w T ould it have 
been to some one struggling with life's worst 
difficulties — poverty and pretence ! 

Lord Peterborough was talking to her, — a 
man sent into the world to skovV that the 
Amadis could have its protot}/pe in reality ; 
and yet all his heroic qualities dashed with a 
ridicule, as much as to say, the present age is 
quite unfit for them. Next came a crowd of 
young beauties, who shed their own brilliancy 
around ; and near were a group of cavaliers, 
" fine gentlemen about town," who, whatever 
else they might doubt, had not a doubt of their 
own irresistibility. And, crowning glory of 
the evening ! a conquest was made, a con- 
quest so sudden, so brilliant, and so obvious, 
that it was enough to give any fete at which 
it occurred the immortality of a season. 

At Lord Norboume's express petition, the 
beautiful Miss Walpole was allowed to emerge 
from the seclusion of Houghton, where she 
had been wasting; her sweetness on the desert 



air for the last two years. Very lovely, anu 
very simple-minded, she was allowed more of 
her own way than it is ever good for a woman 
to have. Engrossed in politics, her brother 
left her almost entirely to her own amuse- 
ments and fancies. Unfortunately, she was 
induced to accept an invitation to stay at Lord 
Wharton's, a man notorious for what are so 
strangely misnamed gallantries, and whose 
lady was as bad as himself. She had scarcely 
reached the place before, also, her intended 
visit reached Sir Robert's ears. With him a 
resolution always carried itself into action 
with all possible rapidity : he ordered post- 
horses to his carriage, and went himself as 
courier to precede it. Making no excuses, 
and listening to none, he insisted on his sis- 
ter's immediate appearance and departure, and 
sent her off next day into Norfolk. Fortune, 
however, to-night seemed resolved on making 
full amends to a beauty cut short in the first 
flush of success, and sent to waste two of her 
prettiest years in the dull seclusion of an old 
house in the country. 

" What blooming simplicity !" exclaimed 
Lord Townshend. 

"Positive milk of roses !" exclaimed Lady 
Mary W T ortley Montague ; but the sneer pass- 
ed unheeded ; and Lord Townshend, crossing 
the room, entreated Mrs. Courtenaye to pre- 
sent him to her lovely 3 r oung friend. 

Miss W^alpole was a soft, sleepy-looking 
beauty, with a pretty, startled, fawnlike look 
in her large eyes ; shy, silent, and with 
gathered blushes of two summers on hei 
cheek : but, if she had few words, she had a 
great many smiles, and of these Lord Town 
shend had the entire benefit. She was jusl 
one of those sweet and simple creatures whose 
attraction Talleyrand so well described, when 
he was asked what was the charm he found 

in Madame 's society : " Cest que cela me 

repose .'." 

Nothing could be more satisfactory than 
this conquest was to Lord Norbourne ; he 
saw how it would strengthen the connexion 
between Walpole and. Townshend, and he 
liked the eclat of its happening at his daughters 
house. No one in his secret soul more despis- 
ed the small vanities and successes of society, 
while he, also, well knew the advantage to 
which they might be turned; but he had to- 
night one deeper and dearer source of gratifi- 
cation — it was seeing his daughter look so 
well. Lady Marchmont had superintended 
her toilette, and it was the very triumph of 
exquisite taste ; every thing about it seemed 
as fragile and delicate as herself. The robe 
was the palest pink taffety, trimmed with the 
finest lace, and a magnificent set of emeralds 
served to contrast her soft fair hair. The ex- 
citement of the evening lighted up her eyes ; 
and warmed her cheek with a faint but lovely 
colour — 

" The crimson touch'd with pale." 

The royal party had just departed ; Queen 
Caroline having said all those flattering things 
which come with such a grace from royalty, 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



81 



rtiid which no one knew better how to apply 
than she did ; and the circle, sufficiently sa- 
tisfied with distinction, began to grow gayer 
than ever. 

" My dear Constance, your hand is very 
feverish," said Norbourne, approaching his 
wife ; " you are exerting yourself too much : 
come with me to the next room, it is much 
cooler there." 

She thanked him with the deeper colour of 
pleasure, for one kind word of his made her 
heart beat its quickest and sweetest time, and 
they turned to go into the adjoining room. 
At that moment there was a simultaneous 
rush towards the spot where a popular singer 
was commencing a favourite song of the 
time ; Norbourne felt the arm that was in his 
cling suddenly to him for support, and then 
relax its hold : he had scarcely time to prevent 
her sinking on the ground. He caught her 
up, and bore her to the first window near. 
The blood was rushing from her nose and 
mouth — she had broken a blood-vessel ! 



CHAPTER LIV. 

THE SICK-ROOM. 

If ever angels walk'd on weary earth 

In human likeness, thou wert one of them. 

Thy native heaven was with thee, but subdued 

By suffering life's inevitable lot; 

But the sweet spirit did assert its home 

By faith and hope, and only own'd its yoke 

In the strong love that bound it to its kind. 

The cold gray light of the morning was 
struggling through the closed windows, and 
making the mournful light of a sick-room yet 
more mournful ; around were signs of recent 
festivity, in strange contrast to the ghastly 
present. The wax lights were slowly burning 
down ; on the dressing-table, and before the 
mirror, were scattered a thousand gay toys 
and trifles. Flasks of precious scents, left 
open in the hurry, made the atmosphere heavy 
with perfume, while gems of immense value 
were laid carelessly among them. 

The dress of the preceding evening had 
been flung on a chair near, and on the floor 
was a bouquet of rare, but faded flowers, and 
a glittering fan ; but the glitter of the fan was 
stained with red blood-spots. What now 
were the graceful vanities of the night ? No- 
thing, or less than nothing ! Wrapped in a 
white dressing-gown, which had been hastily 
thrown round her, her hair loosened from its 
confinement, but with some of the neglected 
jewels yet shining in it, lay Constance Nor- 
bourne. Life was fast ebbing away, and the 
physician had said that there was no hope. 
There she lay, white as the pillow on which 
she rested for the last time ; a dull film had 
gathered over the eyes which yet dwelt lov- 
ingly on the friends beside her ; and her fallen 
mouth, with the faint purple circle around it, 
indicated the near approach of death. Lady 
Marchmont, still in the gay costume of the 
preceding nigrht, sat on the bed, and supported 

Vol. II.— 11 



the head of her dying fjiend ; while Norbourne 
knelt beside, holding the wan hand, whose 
pulsation grew feebler every moment. Lord 
Norbourne stood beside, and watched his last, 
his most beloved child, dying before him ; 
his last hope, his last sweet link of affection 
breaking. 

" It cannot be !" exclaimed he, in a burst of 
uncontrollable emotion : " so young, so very 
young, to die ! Tell me that your skill can 
save her, and take all I have in the world !" 

The physician took his hand, and strove to 
draw him aside; but the attempt caught the 
eye of the sufferer; she strove to raise her- 
self, and extend her hand to her father, but it 
dropped heavily on the coverlid. 

"Let him stay!" said she, faintly; and, 
looking towards the physician, continued : "I 
know I am dying, but death is not yet in my 
heart. Can you not give me a moment's 
strength ? any thing to dispel, for a little 
while, this faint sickness ? A few words are 
all I want to say, I cannot die without saying 
them !" 

" Let her have her own way," whispered 
the medical man ; and, pouring a few restora- 
tive drops into a glass of water, he held it to 
her lips, while Lady Marchmont bathed hei 
temples with essence. 

Either they revived her, or expiring nature 
felt the unconquerable strength of love might}/ 
even to the last. She sat half upright, sup- 
ported on Henrietta's shoulder ; and, taking 
her father's hand, she clasped it with her hus- 
band's. 

"He will be your child," said she ; "my 
remembrance will be the link to bind you to- 
gether. My beloved father, you owe him a 
debt only affection can repay. Think how 
kind he has always been to your wearied and 
suffering child : night after night he has 
watched over me ; day after day he has given 
up pleasures and occupations to yield me the 
only enjoyment of which I was capable — the 
conscious happiness of his presence. And 
you, dearest Norbourne, will you not cling to 
his old age like a dear and only son ? Love 
him, were it only for the great love that I have 
borne unto you !" 

Again her head dropped on the pillow, and 
her father and husband felt the hands that had 
clasped theirs relax their faint pressure, and 
again Henrietta wiped away the cold dews 
that stood on her forehead. She lay for some 
minutes motionless, save when the heavy 
eyelids were slowly raised, and her dim eyes 
yet dwelt fondly on those who watched her 
least movement. All at once her eyes kin- 
dled, and she again raised herself, with a lit- 
tle of Henrietta's instant assistance. Con* 
stance put her hand under the pillow, and 
drew from thence a small Bible. 

"Father !" exclaimed she, "this has been 
my constant companion, let it henceforth bo 
yours. May it teach you, even as it has 
taught me, the blessed hope in which I die : 
we shall meet again in a happier and a better 
world ! Henrietta, dear and kind friend, think 
sometimes of the peace and faith which sup 



82 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



port me even in death. Father, my beloved 
father ! could I leave you as I do, with words 
of comfort, but for that divine belief whose 
trust is immortal ! God bless you !" 

She sank back, fainting ; but this time it 
was Norbourne's arm that supported her : 
once again her eyes unclosed, and fixed on her 
husband's face with an expression of the most 
utter tenderness : from thence they never 
moved again. The eyelids closed wearily, 
and there was a convulsive movement of the 
hands ; then came a frightful stillness, broken 
by a low gurgling in the throat. The mouth 
fell ; the hand Lord Norbourne clasped grew 
still and rigid ; her husband bent over her, and 
touched her lips — they were ice — it was a 
corpse that he held in his arms. 



CHAPTER LV. 

The fountain's low singing is heard on the wind, 
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind ; 
Away in the distance is heard the far sound 
From the streets of the city that compass it round, 
Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep call : 
Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all. 

The turf and the terrace slope clown to the tide 

OGthe Thames, that sweeps onward a world at its side ; 

And dark the horizon with mast and with sail 

Of the thousand tall ships that have weather'd the gale; 

While beyond the arch'd bridge the old abbey appears, 

Where England has garner'd— the glories of years. 

There are lights in the casement— how weary the ray 

That a3ks from the night-time the toils of the day ! 

I fancy I see the brow bent o'er the page, 

Whose youth wears the paleness and wrinkles of age; 

What struggles, what hopes, what despair may have been, 

Where sweep those dark branches of shadowy green ! 

The last gleams of a summer sunset were 
reddening amid the topmost boughs of the 
Inner Temple garden, while the shadow fell, 
dark as the night it heralded, on the turf be- 
low. Though in the heart of a vast city, it 
was impossible to imagine a more perfect pic- 
ture of repose than was here presented. Not 
a creature was to be seen ; the birds rested on 
the boughs, undisturbed by a fluttering wing 
or a snatch of song. There were red and 
white roses growing around : but the rival 
flowers were unstirred by even a breath of 
wind ; they were still as the ashes of the once 
stirring spirits that gathered them as badges 
for their fatal warfare. Strange that the 
flower so peculiarly the lover's own, around 
which hung the daintiest conceits of poesy, on 
which the eye lingers, to dream of the cheek 
it holds loveliest on earth — strange that the 
rose should have been sign for the fiercest 
struggle ever urged by party strife — a strife 
that laid desolate the fair fields of England for 
so many years. And yet, how much chival- 
ric association has Shakspeare flung around 
their bloom ! But for him, the wars of the 
" rival houses" would be but obscure chroni- 
cles of inglorious wars — fighting for fighting 
sake ; no liberty to be defended or obtained, 
and no foreign enemy driven triumphantly 
from the frontier : but for him, " the aspiring 
blood of Lancaster" would long since have 
sunk in the ground. But Shakspeare has 



called life out of the past ; a thousand passions 
of humanity hang around those white and red 
flowers. He has given the lasting archive to 
the high-born house that boasted, — 

" Our aiery buildeth in the cedar's top, 
And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun." 

It is he who has given the life of memory to 
" the princely Edward," the subtle Richard, 
the brave-spirited Margaret, and the sad phi- 
losophy of the meek Henry, which comes to 
many weary of a bleak and troubled world ,* 
and never do we feel how completely Shak- 
speare was our national poet, till we tread his 
own locale. 

I confess I have a great disdain for the west 
end of the town. It belongs to the small, the 
petty, and the present. From Hyde Park 
Corner to Charing Cross, all is utterly unin- 
teresting : then history begins. We have the 
feudal state in the gloomy and Gothic gran- 
deur of Northumberland House ; we pass 
along the Strand, where Jack Cade pursued 
his brief triumph — the prototype of every 
popular insurrection unbased on any great 
principle — sudden, cruel, and useless! We 
have the last fine speech of Lord Scales in our 
ears, — 

"All, countrymen! if, when you make your prayers, 
God should be so obdurate as yourselves, 
How would it fare with your departed souls V 

and the green solitude of the Temple garden 
is the very place to muse upon his words. 
We leave the crowded street behind : we lin- 
ger for a moment beside the little fountain, the 
sweetest that 



Ever sang the sunny hours away, 

Or murmur'd to the moonlit hours of love. 



It is, I believe, our only fountain, and all the 
associations of a fountain are poetical. It 
carries us to the east, and the stately halls of 
the caliphs rise on the mind's eye ; and we 
think over the thousand and one stories which 
made our childhood so happy, and stored up a 
world of unconscious poetry for our future 
years : or else it conjures up the graceful old 
Italian histories of moonlight festivals, when 
the red wine was cooled, and the lute echoed 
by the soft sound of falling waters. We leave 
the world of reality behind us for that of ro- 
mance. The little fountain keeps, with its 
music, the entrance, as if to lull all more busy 
cares before we enter that quiet garden. Once 
entered in, how much lies around to subdue 
the troubled present with the mighty past! 
The river is below, with its banks haunted by 
memory. 

The whole history of England — and it is a 
glorious one — is called up at a glance. West- 
minster Abbey — the altar of the warrior, and 
the grave of the poet — sheds its own sanctity 
on the atmosphere ; and yet to look beneath 
the still shadow of those stately trees, in the 
spiritual presence of the departed, life is as 
troubled and as anxious as elsewhere ; the 
cares of to-day predominate, let the scenes 
around be what they may. 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



" I cannot help," said Walter Maynard, as 
he gazed, listlessly, from one of the upper 
windows, "reading 1 my fate in one of those 
little boats now rocking on the tide, only fast- 
ened by a rope, scarcely visible to the passer- 
by. So am I tossed on the ebbing tide of life 
i — now in sunshine, now in shade — seemingly 
free, yet, in reality, fettered by the strong, 
though slight chain of circumstance. For a 
small sum, any passenger may enter that boat 
and direct its course ; and here again is simili- 
tude. I am at the beck of others. I may 
scarcely think my own thoughts, they must 
run in whatever channel public taste may 
choose ; and that puts me in mind how I pro- 
mised Curl his pamphlet this very night. 
How weary I am of exhausting the resources 
of language in dressing up the vague common- 
places of party, or giving plausibility to so- 
phisms I feel to be untrue ! but it must be 
done :" and, muttering to himself, 

"For inspiration round his head, 
The goddess Want her pinions spread," 

lie drew his table towards him, and began to 
write. 

The scene of his labours, and his own ap- 
pearance, were much changed since his first 
lodging in London. Still, there was an air of 
careless discomfort in his room ; nothing was 
in its place; books, foils, papers, and clothes, 
were scattered together, and a female mask 
lay beside his inkstand. He was fashionably 
dressed ; but looked, as was really the case, 
as if he had not been in bed the previous night. 
His face was worn, and one red flush burnt on 
each cheek ; though even that could scarcely 
animate the sunk and heavy eye. After a 
few minutes passed, first in writing, then in 
erasing what he had written, " It is of no use," 
said he, flinging down the pen, " I am not 
worth a single phrase ; alas ! I want motive — 
the mere necessity of exertion is not enough. 
Would that I could dream as I once dreamed ! 
that I could still think fame the glorious rea- 
lity I once held whole life's labour would 
cheaply purchase ! But what does it matter, 
whether there be a name or no on the tombstone 
that weighs down our cold ashes ] Ah ! I pro- 
mised Marston his verses to-morrow : I sell my 
opinions, I may as well do the same with my 
sentiments ;" and again he drew the paper to- 
wards him. 

At first he wrote mechanically, and flung 
aside one sheet of paper, and then another ; 
it was no longer the eager and impassioned 
writer, who, in his early composition, forgot 
want, cold, and misery; no, the real had 
eaten, like dust, into his soul. Last night's 
excess had left him weary and feverish ; yet 
of all shapes that temptation can assume, 
surely that of social success is the most fas- 
cinating. 

The imaginative temperament is full of vivid 
creations, of fanciful imagery, and sudden 
thoughts, all of which are impelled by their 
nature to communication ; and to find that this 
communication interests or amuses, is a power- 
ful stimulus. The vanity is at once encou- 
raged and gratified ; while the present small 



triumph is too readily taken as earnest for a 
greater one. The vanity I speak of is vanity 
of the highest and best kind ; it belongs to 
the class of our most ethereal emotions ; it 
asks " golden opinions from all ranks of men," 
because it is keenly susceptible, and has an 
even feminine craving for sympathy ; it asks 
not so much praise as appreciation ; it is 
generous and self-devoted : still it is vanity. 

There is also in mental exertion an absolute 
necessity for reaction : how often do the 
thoughts, long confined to one subject, crave, 
as it were, to spring out of themselves, or to 
run off in any opposite direction ! To this 
may be ascribed the difference that often exists 
between the writings and the conversations 
of genius. In the first is imbodied the moral 
truth of their being, worked out by strong be- 
lief and deep feeling; the other contains all 
that is skeptical and careless, — it is the glitter 
of the waters when not at rest. The thousand 
paradoxes that spring up, are thrown off both 
for amusement and for relief; and recklessly 
flung aside by the utterer, who never means 
them to be taken as the creed of his real sen- 
timents, or of his more earnest thoughts. 

Walter Maynard was melancholy, impas- 
sioned, and sensitive ; his heart preyed upon 
itself when alone : but, in society, he was 
lively, witty, and easily carried away by the 
impetus of discourse. Last night, the ready 
answer, the quick ridicule, the quaint imagery, 
which clothed his ideas as some fantastic gar- 
ment, had made him the life of that gay meet- 
ing ; but to-day he was paying the penalty of 
over-excitement. Fatigued and depressed, he 
saw nothing but difficulties and labour before 
him. He took up the papers beside him, and 
more than one unpaid bill was mingled with 
them. Instead of forcing upon him the ne- 
cessity of exertion, they discouraged him from 
attempting it : of late, he had led a very gay 
life. 

Norboume Courtenaye had introduced him 
to several young men about town, who, rich 
and idle, were only too glad to fall in with so 
amusing a companion. Midnight after mid- 
night passed away in their society ; for Wal- 
ter was flattered and excited. But deep in 
his inmost soul he felt that this was not the 
fate he had purposed to achieve amid the 
green valleys of his youth. His early dreams 
haunted him like reproaches ; and every morn- 
ing he rose with the full purpose of pursuing 
some more settled plan : but he lacked mo- 
tive, he had no one dependent on his industry ; 
and every day he grew to care less and less 
for hopes, that he now overharshly held to 
be illusions. 

To see much of mankind sickens the phi 
losopher and the poet; only in solitude can 
he continue to work for their benefit, or tc 
crave for their sympathy. An expression that 
Pope had used while talking to Walter, had 
produced a far deeper impression than its ut- 
terer suspected, or, perhaps, intended. " If," 
said Pope, " I were to begin life over again 
knowing what I know now, I would not write 
a single verse." 



84 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Maynard could not help thinking, " Of what 
avail is toil, if such be the result ? Have I, 
then, devoted life to a shadow ? is its pursuit 
weary, and its possession worthless ? Yet 
this is what our greatest poet says of poetry." 



CHAPTER LVI. 

O, what a waste of feeling and of thought 

Have been the imprints on my roll of life ! 

What worthless hours ! to what use have T turn'd 

The golden sifts which are my hope and pride ! 

My pjwer of song, unto how base a use 

Has it been put ! with its pure ore I made 

An idol, living only on the breath 

Of idol worshippers. Alas! that ever 

Pra'se should have been what praise has been to me — 

The opiate of the mind ! 

The rosy shadows of evening had deepened 
into purple, and a soft, faint obscurity wrapped 
all surrounding objects ; but Walter Maynard 
still hung over the scroll, on which he had 
at last begun to write. Composition, like 
every thing else, feels the influence of time. 
At first, all is poetry with the young poet; 
his heart is full of emotions eagerly struggling 
for utterance : every thing suggests the exer- 
cise of his own sweet art. A leaf, a flower, 
the star far off in the serene midnight, a look, 
a word, are enough for a poem. Gradually 
this profusion exhausts itself, the mind grows 
less fanciful, and poetry is rather a power 
than a passion. Feelings have hardened into 
thoughts, and the sensations of others are no 
longer almost as if they had been matter of 
experience. The world has become real, and 
we have become real along with it. Our 
own knowledge is now the material where- 
with we work ; and we have gathered a stock 
of recollections, bitter and pleasant, which 
now furnish the subjects that we once created : 
but these do not come at the moment's notice, 
like our former fantasies : we must be in the 
mood ; and such mood comes but seldom to 
our worn and saddened spirits. Still, the 
"vision and the faculty divine" are never 
quite extinguished ; the spiritual fire rises 
when all around is night, and the sad and 
tender emotion finds its old accustomed re- 
source in music. 

Such was now the case with Walter. The 
softening influence of the quiet garden, and 
the dreamy evening, had gradually subdued 
him. Scenes, long since forgotten, had been 
peopling his solitude with one still cherished 
image paramount over all; one young fair 
face, whose sweet eyes seemed to look upon 
him reproachfully : but his own words best 
show the weary spirit now disquieted within 
him, — 

Faint and more faint amid the world of dreams, 
That which once my all, thy image seems, 
Pale as a star that in the morning gleams. 

Longtim° that sweet face was my guiding star, 

Bringing me visions of the fair and far, 

Remote from this world's toil and this world's jar. 

Around it was an atmosphere of light, 
Deep with the tranquil loveliness of night, 
Subdued and shadowy, yet serenely bright. 

Like to a spirit did it dwell apart, 
Hush'd in the sweetest silence of my heart, 
Lifting me to the heaven from whence thou art. 



Too soon the day broke on that haunted hour, 
Loosing its spell, and weakening its power, 
All that had been imagination's dower. 

The noontide quench'd that once enchanted ray ; 
Care, labour, sorrow, gather'd on the day, 
Toil was upon my steps, dust on my way. 

They melted down to earth my upward wings ; 
I half forgot the higher, better things— 
The hope which yet again thy image brings. 

Would I were worthier of thee ! I am fain, 

Amid my life of bitterness and pain, 

To dream once more my early dreams again. 

Walter was disturbed by a low rap at the 
door. It was so indistinct and hesitatmg, 
that, at first, he thought himself mistaken ; a 
second summons, however, led him to rise and 
open to his visiter. It was the very person 
that he foreboded — Mr. Curl. The gentleman 
stood for a moment, watching him close the 
door very reluctantly $ and then took refuge, 
rather than a seat, in the window, having 
most ingeniously contrived to place two chairs, 
as a sort of barrier, between himself and his 
host. AValter resumed his place, and each 
kept silence for a few moments : a silence 
broken by Walter himself. 

" I am afraid," said he. 

"Afraid of what ?" exclaimed Curl, look- 
ing round with an air of alarm. 

Maynard subdued a smile, and continued, — 
" I am afraid I have been a little too bitter 
about Sir Robert. Let me read to you one or 
two passages that I think would bear soften- 
ing." 

Curl's face lighted 'up ; a gleam of satis- 
faction kindled his keen eyes. " No, no !" 
cried he, " never soften down any thing; least 
of all, what you say of a political opponent. 
As to reading your pamphlet, I never let my 
authors read to me. What they say is no 
business of mine ; I only sell books : I neither 
have them read to me, nor do I read them. 
But give me your papers ; the press is wait- 
ing."' 

" Really, Mr. Curl," said Maynard, hesitat- 
ing, " there is so much that I wish to add — " 

"Very foolish," replied the publisher, "to 
add any thing; keep it for the next time. 
Why should you do more for me than I ask ? 
so give me the papers." 

" They are not quite ready," answered 
Maynard. 

" Not ready !" cried Curl. 

" But you shall have them by six o'clock 
to-morrow," interrupted Walter; "you could 
not begin printing before. The fact is, I was 
worried and out of spirits this morning." 

" The very time, of all others, to write," 
ejaculated his visiter; "being out of humour, 
which*is what is usually called out of spirits 
— being out of humour with the whole world 
gives such zest to your spleen against indivi 
duals." 

" I am sick of every thing and everybody !" 
exclaimed Walter. 

" Very likely," replied the other, calmly ; 
" so used I when I was young as you, and 
any thing went wrong with me. Now I 
know that it is of no use caring much, let 
what will happen." 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



85 



"I wish I could think the same," muttered 
flis listener. 

" I am very glad you do not," replied Curl ; 
" for then you would be worth nothing." 

"That is exactly what I am worth !" ex- 
claimed Walter, colouring-. "The truth is, 
Mr. Curl, I cannot write when I am plagued 
about trifles ; and a tiresome dun this morning- 
put to flight every idea that I had in the 
worl 

" Mr. Maynard," said the bookseller, in a 
solemn tone, " it is very wrong- to run in debt." 

"How can I help it?" returned Walter, 
pettishly. 

" Let me advise you," continued the other, 
with the same solemnity, " never to have any 
article for which you cannot pay a-' the time. 
Expectations are the worst paymasters in the 
world." 

" Well," cried Walter, " since you have 
taken upon yourself the office of advice. I hope 
you, also, mean to take that of assistance. 
Now do, like a good creature, pay me at once 
for the pamphlet, which, I give you my honour 
as a gentleman, shall be in }'our hands by six 
o'clock to-morrow. 

" Sir," said Curl, " what 3-ou ask is against 
my principles ; you are in the second stage of 
authorship." 

" What do you mean ?" asked his auditor. 

" I never object," was the answer, " to ad- 
vancing money to the j^oung writer commenc- 
ing; business; it encourages him, shows him 
what he may do; and, moreover, he is far the 
most anxious of the two to see himself in 
print. But when he publishes and succeeds, 
he fancies all money will be made as easily 
as he made the first ; he begins to think much 
of his trouble, and has used up his first stock 
of ideas. Then I decline advancing money, 
because it is only want that makes him work. 
You are in the second stage !" 

Walter coloured a yet deeper crimson; he 
was half inclined to throw papers and pub- 
lisher out of the window, which was tempt- 
ingly open. A moment passed, and he was 
pale as before; he felt that he had neither 
right nor cause for complaint, his own folly 
was alone to blame. "Well," said he, with 
a forced smile, " I. as a writer of mora] 
and pamphlets for the ' good of my country,' 
ought not to object to principles; they cer- 
tainly do turn a sentence admirably : but let 
us talk of something else. I am thinking of 
writing a comedy : 'The Lavinia,' of whom I 
predict great things, would turn everybody's 
head as the coquette." 

" The more like real life," replied Curl. 
" I always observe people's heads are turned, 
as they call it, by something that approaches 
as nearly to nothing as possible ; but I have 
two other visits to pay, and must wish you 
good eveni 

" Good evening," said Walter; and, bow- 
ing to his visiter, rose to open the door. 

Curl hesitated on the threshold; then, sud- 
denly turning round, he approached the table. 
" Mr. Maynard," said he, in a tone of voice 
very different to his usual hard and abruut 

Vrt. II. 



manner, " I do not see why I should keep ta 
my principles any more than others. It is a 
weakness to like anybody; but I like you — 
you are of a different order to those with Whom 
I general!}- come in contact. You are going 
all wrong ; you are pale and feverish ; mind 
and body cannot stand the hard exercise to 
which you put them both : don't kill yourself: 
you'll like life better the longer you live. 
There's the money for the pamphlet : I know 
you will let me have it soon. Go to bed to- 
night. 

The sound of the gold rang upon the table 
but before the echo ceased, Curl was gone 



CHAPTER LYII. 

A MATRIMONIAL TETE-A-TETE 

These are the things that fret away the heart- 
Cold, careless trifles ; but not felt the 
For mingling with the hourly acts of life. 
It is a crueUot for the fine mind. 
Full of emotions generous and true, 
To feel its light flung back upon itself; 
All its warm" impulses repellM and chill'd, 
Until it finds a refuge in disdain ! 
And woman, to whom sympaihy is life, 
The only atmosphere in which her soul 
Developes all it has of good and true : 
How must she feel the chill ! 

" How fond she was of flowers !" exclaimed 
Lady Marchmont, turning sadh* away from a 
stand of choice plants, which Mrs. Courtenaye 
had sent her, two days before her death ; 
" there was a likeness between them — so frail, 
so fair, and doomed so soon to perish. She 
was too good to last ; and I feel as if I had 
lost an angel from my side. I was always 
better when I had been with her." 

A rap at the door of her closet interrupted 
her soliloquy. 

" I thought," muttered she, " that I had 
give-n strict orders that no one should be ad- 
mitted — well, come in !" and Lord Marchmont 
made his appearance. "The very person I 
most wished to see !" exclaimed Henrietta, 
starting up eagerly to receive him. 

" My dear Lady Marchmont, your energy is 
positively startling," said he, slowly articu- 
lating his words, and deliberately seating him- 
self in an arm-chair, which lie moved twice ; 
once to avoid the air from an open window, 
and next to avoid the sun. 

His wife well knew that it was in vain to 
speak till he had finished his arrangements for 
his personal comfort ; and she solaced her im- 
patience by tearing a rose to pic. 5. 

Lord Marchmont was about thirty years of 
age, and what is generally called a fine look- 
ing man. His figure was good, as far as his 
height and proportion went; bus his move 
ments wanted ease, and. consequently, 
and there was something of self-importance in 
his air — the last thing- in the world to prepos- 
sess a beholder in his favour. We may ad- 
mit the superiority of another, but we very. 
much object to their assuming it as an unde- 
niable fact. His features were higrh and good, 
with a strongly marked aquiline nose ; butt «* 
H 



tto 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



mouth neither gave sweetness, nor the eye 
light, to his face. His eyes were of a cold, 
dim blue, that never seemed to vary ; they 
were unfamiliar with tears, and the pupil 
never brightened with laughter. His lips 
were thin, and, when they did smile, it was 
stiff, and made up like the embroidery on his 
coat. His dress was splendid ; his hands 
glittered with rings, his snuff-box was co- 
vered with diamonds, and his ruffles were of 
the finest Mechlin lace. The only fault was 
the want of harmony in colouring ; the one 
aue destroyed the effect of the other. I am 
persuaded, that where there is no eye for co- 
lours, something of that keen susceptibility is 
wanting, which constitutes the poetical and 
picturesque ; and, certainly, to neither of these 
qualities had his lordship the slightest claim. 
His style of conversation was made up of set 
sentences ; and his manner, what his inferiors 
called overbearing, and his equals tiresome. 
His mind was made up of lessons and exam- 
ples, he only reasoned by precedents ; every 
thing with him went by example, and it was 
a relief to him when he could quote an autho- 
rity. If he had a passion, it was love of 
money : he loved it both for its own sake — 
that close kind of attachment which money 
certainly does inspire — and also for the enjoy- 
ments that it could procure. He liked the 
pleasures of the table, and he liked attend- 
ance ; he was a sort of Sublime Porte to his 
valets. Generally speaking, his comprehen- 
sion was slow, and his ideas narrow ; but the 
moment his own interest was concerned, it 
was astonishing how his perception enlarged : 
he became cautious, if not enlightened ; and 
cunning, if not shrewd. In short, his charac- 
ter might be summed up in a word — Lord 
Marchmont was an intensely selfish man. 

Being, at length, comfortably settled in his 
r auteuil, one foot balanced on a chair, and the 
other reposed on a stool, his snuff-box opened, 
and his perfumed handkerchief ready, — Hen- 
rietta thought, that she might begin to speak. 

4 I wanted so much to see you," exclaimed 
she. 

" Very flattering," replied his lordship, w T ith 
a grave inclination. 

"I have so much," continued she, "to talk 
10 vou about." 

" Perhaps, madam," interrupted Lord 
Ma.?hmont, in a slow and solemn tone, "you 
will accord me my privilege of speaking first. 
I have also much to say to you." 

It was now Henrietta's turn to seek a com- 
fortable position; and, sinking back. on the 
sofa, she began to pick another rose to pieces. 
To this his Lordship paid no attention, he had 
a certain number of words to say, and the idea 
never crossed him but that they must be of 
paramount interest. He rarely looked at the 
person to whom he was talking ; his glance 
dwelt cither on his feet, or his hands or his 
snuff-box — something, in short, that was more 
peculiarly his own ; to say nothing of occa- 
sional glances at the looking-glass opposite. 
He talked as if he were reading aloud, and 
that in the most monotonous manner. 



"It is my duty, madam, to tell you," he 
began, in a solemn tone, " that I exceeding^ 
disapprove of your conduct." 

Henrietta's colour rose. "This is the first 
time I have heard of it," exclaimed she ; "if 
you — " 

" Pray, madam, do not interrupt me,?' said 
Lord Marchmont; "you may be quite sure 
that I never made an assertion which I am not 
prepared to prove. I again repeat, that I ex- 
ceedingly disapprove of your conduct, in 
which I am more surprised you should persist, 
as you are aware of my complete disapproba- 
tion." 

" What have I done ?" asked his listener. 

"Again, madam, am I under the necessity 
of requesting that you will abstain from inter- 
ruption. The petulance of your sex is espe- 
cially shown in trifles. As I heard his Grace, 
the Duke of Wharton, observe, only yesterday, 
— ' women never will listen.' This was his 
remark while we were walking in the Mall 
together ; and I could not but be struck by its 
profound truth. I am not above being instruct- 
ed, whatever, madam, ycu may think to the 
contrary." 

Henrietta bit her lip to prevent herself from 
saying, that the task of instruction appeared 
to her, in this instance, a very hopeless one ; 
and his lordship went on to observe, — 

" I am sorry to see that, this morning even, 
you persist in disobeying me. I repeat, that 
I entirely disapprove of your line of conduct." 

" Why, what am I doing now but listening 
to you ? Is that what you disapprove ?" 

" To listen to me, madam, is your duty : 
though," said he, in a voice growing every 
moment more solemn, " I regret to say, that 
you pay but little attention to it. Again I as- 
sert, that I have only too much reason to com- 
plain of your conduct." 



CHAPTER LVIII 

PRUDENCE IN POLITICS. 

How often, in this cold and bitter world, 
Is the warm heart thrown back upon itselt. 
Cold, careless, are we of another's grief; 
We wrap ourselves in sullen selfishness: 
Harsh-judging, narrow-minded, stern and chill 
In measuring every action but our own. 
How small are some men's motives, and how mean 
There are who never knew one generous thought ; 
Whose heart-pulse never quicken'd with the joy 
Of kind endeavour, or sweet sympathy- 
There are too many such ! 

It is rather alarming, in a conjugal iete-a- 
iete, when your husband tells you he only 
comes to complain of your conduct, and Lord 
Marchinont's severity of aspect was quite 
awful ; however, Henrietta only gave him a 
look of inquiry, and he went on : — 

"It was full three days ago that I told you 
how I hated the sight of black, yet you wore 
it yesterday evening, and I observe that your 
ribands are black this morning." 

Tears started in the countess's eyes, but she 
repressed them ; and, forcing a smile, said, 

" I am glad to rind that it is not my conduct . 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



87 



but my dress, that meets your disapproba- 
tion." 

" I thought," replied her husband, " and the 
event proves that I was right in so thinking, 
that you would only laugh at what I urge ; 
but women are incapable of a serious thought !" 

" Well !" returned Lady Marchmont, " at 
all events, you must allow me to be flattered 
at the interest you take in my personal ap- 
pearance !" 

"You are quite mistaken !" exclaimed Lord 
Marchmont ; " I know too well what I owe 
to my own dignity as a man, to interfere in 
such feminine trifles, unless peculiar circum- 
stances gave a temporary importance, which 
certainly does not belong to their ephemeral 
nature : I object to your wearing black on po- 
litical grounds." 

Henrietta looked at him with undisguised 
astonishment. 

" Pray, madam," asked he, " for whom are 
you in mourning ?" 

The tears with which Henrietta had long 
been struggling, could be checked no longer, 
and her voice faltered, as she answered, " For 
Mrs. Courtenaye : you know she was my kind, 
my dear friend !" 

" I know," returned her husband, " that she 
was Lord Norbourne's daughter. Are you 
aware that I have, for a week past, been in 
the opposition ? But I own it is too much to 
expect that women should understand these 
matters." 

" But what," asked Lady Marchmont, " has 
that to do with my wearing black ?" 

"I thought," replied his lordship, "that 
my reasons would be be}''ond your compre- 
hension ; I will, however, endeavour to adapt 
them to your understanding. Your wearing- 
mourning for Lord Norbourne's daughter, is 
an external evidence of alliance between us ; 
now, I am completely opposed to him. I hold 
his principles, which are those of the Walpole 
party, to be injurious to the rights which, as 
a freebom Briton, I am bound to maintain. I 
beg that 3 T ou will wear coloured ribands to- 
night!" 

" I am not going out," replied Henrietta. 

" I insist upon it that you do. The prince 
has sent us an invitation, and it was his royal 
highness who first drew my attention to your 
incongruous costume, by asking, ' for whom 
was Lady Marchmont in mourning ?' " 

"Your will, my Lord, shall be obeyed!" 
replied Henrietta, almost involuntarily mi- 
micking his solemn tone ; " but do you know 
that Prince Frederick makes very strong love 
to me ? Are you jealous ?" 

" I could not pay myself so bad a compli- 
ment," returned her husband, looking towards 
the mirror : " it is only acknowledging my 
taste, to admire my wife ; but Lady March- 
mont can never forget to whom she belongs !" 

"It would be very difficult," thought Hen- 
rietta; but she kept her thoughts to" herself, 
while his lordship, satisfied with this display 
of eloquent authority, was employed in per- 
fuming his handkerchief afresh. " I promise 
you," said she, after a pause of some minutes. 



" to wear the last new dress you gave me, it 
is a triumph of taste !" 

Lord Marchmont bowed, and appropriated 
the compliment as if the taste had been his 
own, not the milliner's. 

" And now," continued his wife, " I have 
a petition to offer." 

" ' When beauty pleads, how can she plead in vain.' " 

was his lordship's gallant reply. 

" You know Miss Churchill ? you used to 
admire her complexion so much. Well, her 
very foolish grandmother has mixed herself 
up in some nonsensical correspondence with 
the court of St. Germains ; or, rather, has let 
herself be made a tool by Mr. Trevanion, who, 
I am happy to say, is not Ethel's husband ; 
they arrested him just in time. However, the 
poor old lady is in great distress ; she and her 
grandaughter are coming up to London, and 
I wish to give them all possible countenance 
and assistance. May I ask them to stay here ? 
I am so glad that you are in the opposition !" 

" I always," replied Lord Marchmont, after 
a long pause, during which he vouchsafed not 
the slightest attention to the earnest and im- 
ploring looks of his wife, " have considered 
women to be superlatively foolish ; but so 
glaring an instance of their folly never before 
came under my own personal knowledge ! 
Because I am opposed to Sir Robert on some 
questions, is it immediately to be supposed 
that I am about to give up my country, my 
king, and my God ?" 

" Why, who ever asked you to do any thing 
of the sort ?" ejaculated Henrietta, in utter 
dismay. 

"You did, madam, when you ventured to 
suppose that I would make my house the ren- 
dezvous of conspirators and Jacobins!" 

"I did but ask your protection," returned 
Lady Marchmont, "for a weak old woman, 
and a friendless young one !" 

" Both very dangerous !" replied his lord- 
ship : " you may wish to see my head fall on 
a scaffold ! I cannot join in your desire, and I 
must point your attention to the extreme ingra- 
titude of your proceeding: I believe that you 
might go through London, and find your house 
and equipage unequalled; why you should, 
therefore, wish to engage me in plots and dan- 
gers, completely baffles even my penetration !" 

"These things never entered my head!" 
exclaimed Lady Marchmont. 

"You see how limited is your foresight: 
it is fortunate that you are connected with one 
who looks a little more into the consequences 
of actions than yourself!" replied he, with a 
self-complacent smile. 

"Well, well," returned she, "I withdraw 
my request: I was wrong in making it. 
Wrong," thought she to herself, "in hoping 
that you could have one kind and generous 
feeling!" 

" I rarely fail to convince !" said Lord 
Marchmont, rising : "I believe that we have 
no further occasion to trespass on each other's 
time. The morning is the most valuable por- 
tion of the day, properly applied. I wish 



68 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



However, to give you one piece of advice be- 
fore I leave : have I your permission ?" 

Henrietta bowed a polite assent. 

" Allow me," continued Lord Marchmont, 
" to enter my protest against your passion for 
forming female friendships. They are gene- 
rally useless — often inconvenient. Your 
friendship with Mrs. Courtenaye induced you 
to wear mourning, to the great hazard of my 
political consistency." 

" He has only been in the opposition a 
"^cek !" thought his wife. 

" Your friendship for Miss Churchill has 
induced you to wish that I should lend the 
sanction of my countenance to traitors and 
Jacobins. I beg that, for the future, you will 
follow my example — I have no intimate 
friends !" 

"I should very much wonder if you had !" 
muttered the countess, as the door closed on 
the slow and stately exit of her husband. 



CHAPTER LIX. 

AN ACT OF PARLIAMENT. 

Love is a thing of frail and delicate growth; 

Soon check'd, soon foster'd ! feeble, and yet strong. 

It will endure much, suffer long, and bear 

What would weigh down an angel's wing to earth, 

And yet mount heavenward; but not the less 

It dieth of a word, a look, a thought ; 

And when it dies, it dies without a sign 

To tell how fair it was in happier hours : 

It leaves behind reproaches and regrets, 

And bitterness within affection's well, 

For which there is no healing. 

Lady Marchmont rose from her seat, and 
unfastened the riband, less black than the hair 
that it bound. 

" So my poor Constance," said she, "I am 
not permitted even this memorial of her ; and 
even Ethel I cannot serve. Of what avail," 
and her eyes wandered mechanically round, 
''is all the luxury by which I am surrounded, 
if it serve only as a barrier to all kindly feel- 
ings ?" 

Never had Lady Marchmont felt so lonely. 
Disdain for her husband was mingled with the 
bitterness of restraint; restraint, too, where 
her own heart told her she was right. There 
never was a finer nor a higher nature than 
Henrietta's : she was completely carried away 
by impulse; but then her impulses were all 
generous and lofty. She was enthusiastic, 
and keenly susceptible ; a word, a look, would 
send the blush to her cheek, and the light to 
her eye : she was eager in whatever she un- 
dertook, and yet soon and easily discouraged : 
she was proud, and hence impatient of au- 
thority; but kindness could have done any 
thing with her. She needed to love, and to 
be beloved ; her heart was full of warmth and 
emotion, to which some object was a sweet 
necessity. The destiny of one like Henrietta is 
made by the affections ; these repressed or 
disgusted, checked the growth of all good, 
and the life that she was now leading was 



calculated to do any thing but foster any more 
lofty or kindly feeling. 

Unbroken worldly prosperity has a natural 
tendency to harden the sympathies : when life 
comes so easily to ourselves, it is difficult to 
fancy it going hardly with others. Without 
any permanent object for exertion of any kind, 
we are apt soon to sink into habits of indolent 
indulgence, and such are inevitably selfish. 
Vanity was Lady Marchmont's chief stimulus 
in the absence of a better one ; and vanity is 
like a creeping plant, which begins by turn- 
ing its lithe foliage round a single window, 
and ends by covering the whole edifice : but 
Henrietta was a difficult person to spoil, it 
would take many bitter lessons from experi- 
ence before her passionate feelings could be- 
come cold and hardened. Her discontent at 
this moment was of no selfish order, but her 
tears fell heavily as she dwelt on the unkind- 
ness of not offering the aid that could have 
been so easily extended to her first and earliest 
friend. . There is not a more bitter pang than 
that which accompanies the desire to befriend, 
and the inability of so doing. 

At this moment the door of the closet 
opened, and Lady Mary Wortley Montague 
was announced. Their first intimacy had 
more than slackened, still a very decent ap- 
pearance of civility was preserved. Henrietta 
had long since discovered that she had been 
much more grateful for Lady Mary's earlier 
attentions than was at all needed. This is 
one of the most unpleasant lessons that expe- 
rience gives ; and one, moreover, that it is 
perpetually giving ; namely, that what we fan- 
cied was liking for ourselves, was, in reality, 
the result of calculation, or of amusement. 
We fancied we were liked, when we were 
only useful or entertaining. Moreover, there 
was that in Lady Mary Wortley's mind, 
which effectually prevented all sympathy be- 
tween Henrietta and herself, and sympathy is 
the basis of all friendship. There was a 
coarseness in the one which revolted the al- 
most fastidious delicacy of the other ; and 
Lady Marchmont, full of poetry, touched with 
romance and sentiment, had nothing in com- 
mon with the harsh and hard worldliness of 
Lady Mary ; still, as they moved in the same 
circle, they met often, and were almost as 
polite as if they had never been friendly. 
Now, few friendships die a natural death, they 
generally come to a violent end ; and it showed 
no little tact in our rival beauties, that they 
allowed theirs to grow 

'■' Fine by degrees, and beautifully less." 

" I met Lord Marchmont on the staircase," 
said Lady Mary, " or else I should ask why 
you are looking so dull." 

" I am so disappointed," replied Henrietta, 
who was young enough in grievances, to be 
eager to talk about them : " I wanted to ask 
some friends, who are coming up to London 
under very disagreeable circumstances, to stay 
with us, and Lord Marchmont will not hear 
of it." 

" For once," exclaimed her companion, "I 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



SI) 



We the husband's side ; remember, that my 
l* doing, is not to be considered a precedent : 
when they are in unpleasant circumstances, 
the 1< - f our friends the better !" 

'•1 beg to differ with you," returned Hen- 
rietta, colouring. 

" You need not look so ann^y," returned 
[ary ; " at all events, not at me ; I am 
not responsible for the established principles 
of society ; I only stated what they are." 

" The more I see of society," interrupted 
Lady Marchmont, " the more disgusted I am 
with it !"' 

" Fortunately for 3*011, it does not return the 
compliment !" said Lady Mary : " but do send 
for Lord Marchmont again, if you want some- 
body to quarrel with : a husband is the only 
legitimate resource on such occasions!" 

" What do you say to a lover ?" asked 
Henrietta, laughing. 

" 0, you quarrel with your lover on his own 
account, he is not a resource ! A lover's 
up of jealousies, doubts, 
fears, and all sorts of fantastic fancies : 
a matrimonial dispute, on the contrary, is com- 
posed of familiar and ordinary matter, a sort 
of ventilator to the temper!" 

" But," said the ) T oung countess, " Lord 
Marchmont. and I never quarrel." 

" O ! returned her ladyship, with a sneer, 
" 3*ou are 

' Content to dwell in decencies forever ! l 

Well, for my part, I should prefer any thing 
to a perpetual calm." 

Henrietta only thought how completely she 
agreed with her. 

"It is very odd." continued her visiter, 
" that quarrels, which are so pleasant in love, 
should be so odi /riage. I believe 

it is. that, in the first instance, they m; 
consequences ; in the last, they have none : 
your lover may fear to lose you ; your husband 
can only hope, and hope in vain : the lover 
dreads that ever}- quarrel may be the last; the 
husband knows he may go on quarrelling to 
eternity !" 

"A pleasant prospect!" exclaimed Lady 
Marchmont. 

" Lawgivers were never more mistaken," 
said Lady Mary, " than when they ordained 
that the conjugal tie should last through life 
for better and worse ; the last injunction being 
strictly complied with. There should be sep- 
tennial marriages, as well as septennial par- 
liaments !" 

-•Why, my dear Lady Mary," exclaimed 
Henrietta, laughing, " do you not represent 
one of 3'our father's boroughs ?" 

" Why. indeed !" returned her companion. 
" I would bring in a bill every session ; people 
grant more favours from beinsr tired of refus- 
al from any other motive. In life it is 
the irrevocable that, is terrible : while there is 
ahan^e, there is hope. We should keep each 

Vol. II.— 10 



other in much better order, if, at the end of 
seven 3 T ears, there were to be a reckoning of 
grievances. It would be a good moral lesson 
to many a husband, to come down on the se- 
venth anniversary and find his tea not made, 
and his muffin not buttered. These are the 
things that come home to a man's feelings !" 
I what," asked Henrietta, " if it were 
the gentleman who was reported missing ?" 

"Upon my honour cried Lady Mary, "I 
cannot look on that in an3 T other point of view 
than as a relief!" 

Henrietta did not say how entirety she was 
of the same wa3* of thinking. 

"What is a woman's stronghold? Her 
coquetry ! Now, coquet^ cannot exist with- 
out uncertainty," continued the fair philoso- 
pher, " and a husband is so dreadfully secure ! 
I am myself a coquette on principles, and 
some of them — not needful now to enumerate 
— very scientific ones. We have no influence 
but by our influence over those called oui 
- ; how do we acquire that influence ? 
By flattering a man's vanity, and by playing 
on his hopes and fears ! These are all put 
kors de comhat in marriage. We have already 
flattered to the utmost by our choice, and 
what is there for a husband to hope or to fear ? 
Were my plan carried into execution, think 
of the delightful uncertainty of the seventh 
year !" 

" As 3 T ou cannot make a speech, you must," 
said Henrietta, "put it into a treatise." 

"It is more than half-finished," answered 
her ladyship, " and I have some thoughts of 
adding a few notes to m3 r own sex, ' On the 
best methods of acquiripg influence;' all 
might, however, be condensed into a single 
word — Love !" 

" Which has," exclaimed Lady Marchmont, 
" the greatest power over ourselves !" 

.". there lies our great mistake," replied 

[ary : "it is the greatest folly to care 

for a lover, but as the3" & xe J cn influence, 

and contribute to your vanity : for a woman 

to love, is turning her arrows on herself!" 

"All you say." answered Henrietta, " would 
true, if life were a game of chess, to 
be played I given rules; but think 

how we are governed by our feelings, and car- 
ried away by cur impulses. , I cannot, na3 T , 
would not, lower as you do, the divinity of 
.;. for ail the triumphs in the world ' I 
would rather have been Egeria, beloved in the 
sweet silence of her shadowy grotto, than the 
goddess of Beaut3 T , fresh risen from her native 
waters, with all the gods for her slaves !" 

" Good morning.'my dear," exclaimed Lady 
Marv, rising ; " 1 cannot endanger my morals 
ing; I ma3 T grow romantic too: 'evil 
communication corrupts good manners.' Well, 
well, I see Sir George Kingston is the only 
lover for 3-011, who pleads, as the excuse for 
his perpetual inconstanc3 T , that no woman ap« 
predates the poetry of his love !" 



90 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



CHAPTER LX. 

MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS. 

How much of change lies in a little space ! 
How soon the spirits leave their youth behind ! 
The early green forsakes the bough ; the flowers, 
Nature's more fairylike and fragile ones, 
Droop on the wayside, and the later leaves 
Have artifice and culture— so the heart: 
How soon its soft spring hours take darker hues ! 
And hopes, that were like rainbows, melt in shade; 
While the fair future, ah ! how fair it seem'd ! 
Grows dark and actual. 

It was a cold and rainy afternoon as Ethel 
Churchill sat at the window of their new 
abode, a house in one of the streets leading 
from the Strand to the river. It was the day- 
after their arrival, and nothing could well be 
more gloomy than the view : the pavement 
was wet, and a yellow mist obscured every 
object, the passers glided by like phantoms, 
and the Thames, at the end, seemed dusk and 
heavy, as if a ray of sunshine had never rested 
on its waters. The room itself was large and 
dark, and had that peculiar air of discomfort 
which belongs to "ready furnished apart- 
ments :" every thing looks as if it had been 
bought at a sale, and there is an equal want 
of harmony both in the proportions and colours. 
The idea involuntarily occurs of how the 
chairs had encircled other hearths ; of how, 
around the tables, had gathered family groups, 
broken up by the pressure of distress and of 
want. All the associations are those of po- 
verty ; and of all human evils, poverty is the 
one whose suffering is the most easily under- 
stood : even those who have never known it, 
can comprehend its wretchedness. Hunger, 
cold, and mortification, the disunion of fami- 
lies ; the separation of those the most fondly 
attached ; youth bowed by premature toil ; age 
wasting the little strength yet remaining : — 
these are the familiar objects which surround 
poverty. 

Ethel did not thus closely examine the 
causes of the weight upon her spirits ; she 
only knew that the weight was there : she 
was strange, lonely, unsettled, and she looked 
forward to nothing. Never had she before 
felt so forcibly the change that a few months 
had worked in her ; and she was sad when 
she remembered how young she was, and how 
little in life remained for her. How delighted 
she would have been but a very little while 
before, at the idea of a visit to London ! now 
lassitude and discouragement were her predo- 
minant sensations. Ethel found the time 
hang heavily on her hands, the more heavily 
for expectation. A note from Lady March- 
mont had reached her early in the morning, 
saying, that she would be with her young 
friend the very moment Lord Marchmont went 
out. 

" The fact is, my dearest Ethel," so ran the 
note, " his lordship is terribly afraid cf you. 
He sees the cause of the Stuarts triumphant 
in your ringlets, and the downfall of the House 
of Hanover in your complexion. However, 
as I make a point of having my own way, I 



cannot let you be the first exception to the 
rule; therefore, expect me sometime in the 
afternoon : I shall, if you please, pass the 
evening with you, delightful under any cir- 
cumstances, doubly delightful as an act of 
disobedience. Ever your affectionate 

" Henrietta." 

Ethel's heart clung to the writer, she was 
the only creature she knew in this vast city ; 
and, moreover, if ever there was a being 
formed to win and fascinate, it was Lady 
Marchmont: a fault in her, was more charm- 
ing than a merit in another. The very differ- 
ence in character drew the friends together; 
different, also, in their styles of beauty, there 
had never been the shadow of rivalry between 
them : besides, both were quite young enough 
to have warmth, confidence, and mirth, those 
three ingredients of friendship. 

The evening closed in, and Ethel began to 
make preparations for her visiter. She or 
dered lights, had the curtains closed, and 
stirred the fire till the room looked quite cheer- 
ful in the blaze. Tea was then brought in ; 
and Ethel had scarcely finished drawing twc 
ponderous arm-chairs to each side of the fire- 
place, when the stopping of a chair in the 
hall announced Lady Marchmont. Ethel flew 
to the top of the stairs to meet her ; and, in a 
few moments, each stood by the fire, in all the 
eagerness of welcome. 

Tea was poured out, and each began to tell 
the other the many events that had taken 
place since their parting. Much, indeed, had 
occured : they parted, girls ; they met, women. 
A deeper meaning was in the face of either 
than when they sat with the moonlight falling 
over them beside the little fountain. They 
looked eagerly on aach other, and felt that 
they were changed : there was as much, per- 
haps more beauty, but there was less bright- 
ness, The mind, more than the heart, gave 
its impression to the features. The blush 
came not at every second word; the cheek 
of either was paler; and Ethel's had an ap- 
pearance of delicate health, very different from 
the morning bloom that it formerly wore. 

There was an habitual sarcasm on Lady 
Marchmont's finely cut lip, and Ethel's smile 
had grown into a sad sweetness. On the brow 
was a deeper shadow — serious and thoughtful. 
The glad bursts of laughter, the gay fantasies, 
the buoyant hopes, which they used to meet 
and share together, were all gone by forever. 

The servants removed the tea-things, and 
they drew nearer to the fire, and to each other 
Both had a great deal to say, and yet the con- 
versation languished ; but we have all felt this 
after a long absence : confidence is a habit, 
and requires to be renewed. We have lost 
the custom of telling every thing; and we 
begin to fear that what we have to tell is 
scarcely worth being told. We have formed 
new acquaintances ; we have entered into 
other amusements ; we feel that our tastes are 
altered ; and we require a little while to see if 
the change be mutual. Moreover, the affec 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



91 



lions are always timid ; they require both 
encouragement and custom, before they can 
venture to communicate their regrets. 

It is a curious, but an undeniable fact, that 
the meeting, after absence, of old friends, is 
almost always constrained and silent at first ; 
they are surprised to find how little they have 
said of what they meant to say. It merely 
shows, after all, that affection is a habit. 



CHAPTER LXI. 

REMINISCENCES. 

All, tell me not that, memory 

Sheds gladness o'er the past, 
What is recall'd by faded flowers, 

Save that they did not last? 
Were it not better to forget, 
Than but remember and regret 1 

Look back upon your hours of youth— 

What were your early years, 
But scenes of childish cares and griefs? 

And say not childish tears 
Were nothing; at that time they were 
More than the young heart well could bear. 

Go on to riper years, and look 

Upon your sunny spring ; 
And from the wrecks of former years, 

What will your memory bring ?— 
Affections wasted, pleasures fled, 
And hopes now number'd with the dead ! 



Shut yourself up- 



no where !' 



claimed Lady Marchmont: "well, I cannot 
help your going mad ; but, at all events, I will 
not aid and abet you in so doing. You are 
now in town, and a town life you must 
lead." 

" I have," replied Ethel, leaning languidly 
back in her chair, " neither health nor spirits 
for gayety." 

" A girl of nineteen talking of health and 
spirits!" interrupted her visiter; "why, you 
have beauty enough to supply the place of 
both. However, I have no objection to your 
adopting le genre. Ianguissant, it will the less 
interfere with my own. If you were to come 
out starry and startling, we should not be 
friends a week." 

" O, Henrietta!" exclaimed Ethel, half re- 
proachfully. 

" Nay, don't look so serious ; or, rather, 
upon second thoughts, do; for it is singularly 
becoming to you. It is delightful to think 
how we shall set each other off. I am dark, 
classical, and have some thoughts of binding 
my black tresses with myrtle, and letting Sir 
Godfrey Kneller finish my portrait as Aspasia : 
you, on the contrary, are soft, fair, with the 
blue eyes and golden hair of a Madonna. We 
shall always be contrasts, and never be 
rivals." 

"At all events," answered Ethel, "we can 
never be the last." 

"I don't know," said Lady Marchmont; 
"but, at all events, we will be generous about 
our lovers." 

" I neither expect nor wish for any," said 
her companion. 

" Not wish for a lover !" cried Henrietta ; 
" I never heard any thing so absurd ! or, per- 



haps, you would prefer waiting till aftel you 
are married ?" 

" My dear Henrietta," exclaimed Ethel, co- 
louring ; and, after a moment's pause, added, 
" I never wish to hear the name even of a love' 
again." 

" What, my dear, frightened at the narrow 
escape you had of being married ?" replied 
Lady Marchmont, purposely alluding to the 
marriage ; for she felt that even hinting at 
Norbourne Courtenaye was treading on too 
delicate ground. No woman likes to dwell 
on a subject so mortifying as a faithless 
lover. 

" An escape you may well call it," replied 
her friend. "0, Henrietta ! you do not know 
what a dreadful thing it is to see yourself on 
the point of being married to a man you both 
dislike and despise." 

" But why did you consent to marry him?" 
asked Lady Marchmont, a little conscience- 
stricken. 

" Because I was utterly dispirited and ill : 
I had not strength to say ' No' to my grand- 
mother, whom I had always been in the habit 
of obeying." 

" They would not have found me so obe- 
dient," cried the countess. 

"I was rather passive than obedient," re- 
plied Ethel ; " but the interruption of the 
ceremony awakened me like a shock. The 
relief was what I cannot describe : I seemed 
to awake as if from a lethargy. Thought, 
resolution, and a belief in my own powers of 
resistance, appeared to revive suddenly within 
me. I have seen more, and reflected more, 
during the last month, than I ever did before 
in the whole course of my existence." 

"Suppose Mr. Trevanion should obtain his 
pardon, would you still think } T ourself com' 
pelled to marry him ?" 

" No ; though I should certainly not think 
myself justified in marrying another." 

" Well, then," exclaimed Lady Marchmont, 
" I shall use my utmost influence to get him 
beheaded, out of the way, as soon as possible. 
Dear, dear ! I am afraid that he would only 
be hanged ; at least, I can endeavour to have 
him complimented with the axe." 

"My dear Henrietta, how can you jest on 
such serious subjects ?" 

" On what others would you have me jest ?" 
replied her companion, her beautiful mouth 
curving with a bitter smile. " The serious 
things of life are its keenest mockeries. The 
things set apart for laughter are not half so 
absurd as those marked out. for tears. Ah ! if 
we did but look at life in its true point cf 
view — false, hollow, mocking, and weary as 
it is ! — we should just, walk down this very 
street,' and be found floating on the Thames 
to-morrow." 

Ethel watched the sudden change that pass- 
ed over her companion's face with silent sur- 
prise ; which when Henrietta observed, she 
at once resumed her former gayety. 

" It is not one of our least absurdities that 
we never do what we purpose doing. Hera 
we met to-night, on purpose to talk over the 



92 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



past, and we have done nothing but talk over 
the future. Ah, I believe that most of us may 
as well forget the past !" 

" Indeed we may," said Ethel ; and a 
deeper shade of sadness passed across her 
sweet face. 

" We have not only," added Lady March- 
mont, " forgotten the past, but also the pass- 
ing present. I hear my chair in the hall ; and 
to keep Lord Marehmont waiting, when he 
has announced his intention of supping at 
home, far exceeds my prerogative ; so good- 
night, dearest, you will either see or hear 
from me to-morrow." 

" She is right," murmured Ethel, as, after 
her guest's departure, she resumed her seat ; 
and, leaning her head on her hand, gave way 
to the indulgence of a melancholy revery. 
" Of what avail is it to dwell upon the past ? — 
I wish I could forget i" 



CHAPTER V. 

AN INTERVIEW. 

Why, life must, mock itself to mark how small 
Are the distinctions of its various pride. 
'Tis strange how we delight in the unreal ; 
The fanciful and the fantastic make 
One-half our triumphs. Not in mighty things — 
The glorious offerings of our mind to fate — 
Do we ask homage to our vanities, 
One-half so much as from the false and vain: 
The petty trifles that the social world 
Has fancied into grandeur. 

When a woman has once made up her mind 
to be imprudent, she is very imprudent in- 
deed ; she is quite ingenious in contriving 
occasions. Thanks to her age, and the inte- 
rest of old friends of the family, Mrs. Church- 
ill had escaped without punishment for her 
amateur treason ; and now, whether imb olden- 
ed by an impunity which she most untruly 
set down to the account of fear, or whether 
the late excitement made her present quiet in- 
sipid,- -it would be difficult to say; but she 
was in a fret and fever to further prove what 
she called, her devotion to the House of 
Stuart. 

Lord Marehmont would have expatiated for 
months to come on his own prudence in refus- 
ing admission into his house, could he have 
heard only a tithe of her daily discourse. For- 
tunately, two servants she had brought with 
her, were devotedly attached to their mistress ; 
and the others only entering her apartments at 
rare intervals, did not understand her mystic 
allusions ; and she now, more than ever, af- 
fected to veil her meaning under the mysteri- 
ous phraseology so much adopted by the 
lacobites. 

Or,-s morning Ethel was surprised by a 
summons, unusually early, to her grandmo- 
ther's room. She found her in the greatest 
bustle : two of the maids unpacking a multi- 
tude of trunks; while she walked up and 
down, now telling them where such a satin 
was to be found, and then reading a letter 
which she held in her hand. As soon as Ethel 



came in, she took her hand, and, without 
speaking, led her to the closet adjoining. 

" I have," said she, " most important in 
telligence to communicate." 

Her listener turned pale : could it be possi- 
ble that Mr Trevanion had com-e to London ? 

Mrs. Churchill, however, continued, with- 
out noticing her agitation : " I have this morn- 
ing received an answer from her Grace of 
Buckingham. She appoints to-day for a pri- 
vate interview. The daughter of a king duly 
appreciates my humble services to her house." 

" My dear madam !" exclaimed Ethel, " do 
you think it will be quite prudent, under youi 
present circumstances, to visit a person, 
whose Jacobite predilections are so well 
known as those of the Dutchess of Bucking- 
ham ?" 

" I am not aware," returned her grand- 
mother, drawing up herself to her full height, 
" what act you have ever observed in my 
whole life, that authorizes you to suppose I 
should allow prudence to interfere with duty ? 
You will be ready to accompany me by twelve 
o'clock to-day." 

Ethel knew that further remonstrance was 
useless; and, therefore, quietly offered her 
services to arrange the multitudinous ward- 
robe which was being unpacked. 

Mrs. Churchill, always particular about her 
dress, was this morning more so than ever. 
Still, it must be confessed, that when the sad- 
coloured satin was arranged in rich folds, and 
the Mechlin lace (it was a little fortune in it- 
self) hung to her satisfaction, she looked as 
perfect a specimen of an old lady as England 
could have produced. 

The chairs came at the appointed hour, and 
Ethel could not but be amused at the glimpses 
she had of the park along which they were 
carried ; although haunted by misgivings as 
to the judiciousness of their destination. They 
were set down in a hall of large dimensions, 
hung round with portraits, and filled with 
servants, who had more the air of guards. 
Two attendants marshalled them up-stairs, 
where they were received by two gentlemen 
ushers, who conducted them along a spacious 
gallery into an ante-chamber, where they were 
received by her grace's chamberlain. He sent 
in a page, richly dressed ; and, after a mes- 
sage, mysteriously whispered in his ear, an- 
nounced that her grace was ready to receive 
her guests. Two attendants, in court dresses, 
flung open the folding-doors of the room in 
which the dutchess awaited their arrival. It 
was a long, high chamber : on the one side 
there were a number of narrow windows, 
whose curtains of crimson damask swept the 
floor, and gave a rich and subdued colour to 
the light that struggled through their massive 
folds ; on the other side were pictures in huge 
gilded frames, each with a crown on the top ; 
for they were ail family portraits of the Stuarts. 
At the end of the room was a canopy, sur- 
mounted by a ducal coronet. Below was a 
full-length of James II., at whose feet was a 
sort of throne, on which the dutchess was 
placed. Six ladies, splendidly attired, were 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



93 



On either side, all standing' ; indeed, an arm- 
chair, placed near the throne, was the only 
seat to be seen in the room. 

The dutchess received them with a gracious 
inclination of the head ; and, after signing to 
Mrs. Churchill to take the arm-chair, she ex- 
tended her hand for Ethel to kiss. Silence 
was then broken by inquiring how Mrs. 
Churchill bore the fatigue of the journey ? 

" I never felt it," replied the old lady, who 
was elated with all the dignity of a martyr; 
" there are times when the mind forgets the 
body."' 

Ethel could not help smiling when she re- 
collected how her grandmother had slept or 
grumbled the whole journey in her very com- 
fortable carriage. 

" We are not ignorant of your devotion," 
returned the dutchess, with a very solemn air, 
suddenly checking herself, as if afraid of say- 
ing too much. But it is difficult to sustain 
conversation in such a high and forced tone, 
and neither party got further than a few stately 
sentences. 

Ethel emplo3*ed the time in observing the 
dutchess. She could trace no likeness to the 
portrait by which she was seated ; she was 
far handsomer, having retained, at least, the 
traces of her former beauty. She had fine 
high features : her eyes were rather small, and 
close to the nose, but bright and piercing ; and 
the general severity of her aspect vanished 
under the influence of a very pleasant smile. 
She wore black ; and, as the cumbrous drapery 
fell around her stately figure, contrasting with 
the dead paleness of her face (she had not 
worn rouge for years.) there was something 
about her which gave more the idea of a pic- 
ture than of a human being. 

Apparently both the hostess and guest grew 
tired of maintaining the dignity of conspi- 
racy ; for, suddenly, the dutchess rose and 
requested Mrs. Churchill's presence in her 
closet, and left Ethel, much longer than she 
liked, to be entertained by her ladies in wait- 
ing. 

The dutchess and Mrs. Churchill had known 
each other as girls ; and it may be doubted 
whether they had not found some subject of 
conversation more amusing than even the 
downfall of the House of Hanover. At last a 
little page made his appearance, and. stated, 
that Miss Churchill's company was requested 
by her grace. She followed her little guide 
through a number of galleries till she found 
herself in a large bed-chamber, by whose fire- 
place both Mrs. Churchill and the dutchess 
were seated. 

"I sent for you, my dear," said her grand- 
mother, " that you might be as favoured as 
myself." 

Both ladies rose with a mysterious air: and 
her grace, first carefully looking round, and 
then locking her door, touched a spring in the 
wall. The panel flew back, and discovered a 
small secret chamber, hung with purple velvet, 
and lighted by one large lamp. 



" It burns night and day," said her grace, 
entering, followed by her companions. The 
dutchess then drew a curtain aside, which 
concealed a portrait of the pretender. She 
dropped on her knee, and her example was 
followed by Mrs. Churchill, and also by Ethel, 
who consoled herself by thinking that if it 
was an act of treason, she could not help it. 
Perhaps there was most treason in the interest 
with which she gazed on the handsome and 
melancholy countenance of the prince, that 
wore the expression of sadness peculiar t ^ his 
fated race. 

" It is a hard fate," thought she, " to be 
exiled from so noble a heritage as England." 

On a little stand, in the middle, was a large 
basket, filled with white roses ; the dutchess 
took one and gave it to her young companion. 
They left the chamber in silence ; and, after 
seeing that the panel was properly secured, — 

" I have got another portrait to show you," 
said her grace, in a tone from which every 
thing but deep sadness had vanished : " alas ! 
ours is an ill-fated house !" 

They followed her into another chamber, 
hung with black ; and, beneath a sombre 
canopy, mocked by the ducal coronet above, 
was the portrait of her son — the young duke 
recently deceased. He was more like the 
Stuarts than his mother ; but it was a soft, 
fair likeness. The same sad and sombre ex- 
pression was united with almost feminine 
beauty. It was of a kind too fragile for last- 
ing. The large blue eyes seemed full of light; 
but the lips were feverish, and the rich colour 
on the cheek, hectic. 

" He was my only boy," said the dutchess : 
and Ethel saw that the curved mouth was 
tremulous with suppressed emotion ; and the 
eyes filled for a moment with unshed tears., 
After this, she had not even the inclination to 
smile at what her grace said was the occupa- 
tion of her leisure hours. She undrew a cur- 
tain, and there were two wax-work figures, 
arrayed in robes of state, glittering with 
tissue and cmbroide^. " They are destined, 
when finished, for Westminster Abbey," add- 
ed his mother, with all her former stateli- 
ness. 

They then adjourned to the reception-room : 
the dutchess resumed her seat under the cano- 
P3 T ; the damsels in waiting ranged themselves 
on either side ; and a page brought in a mas- 
sive gold salver, with chocolate, seedcake, 
and canary. The refreshments over, they took 
their leave, were ushered in great form to theii 
chairs, and arrived in safety at home ; Ethel, 
at all events, completely tired. 

But the events of the day were not over- 
News had arrived in London that Mr. Treva- 
nion had effected his escape. This, coupled 
with Mrs. Churchill's indiscreet visit, led to 
more severe measures. She was placed under 
confinement, though allowed to remain m her 
own house, on account of her age ; but men- 
aced with a fine, which would, if exacted 
bring beggary along with it. 



94 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



CHAPTER LXIII. 

A PROJECT. 

The sun was setting o'er the sea, 

A beautiful and summer sun ; 
Crimson and bright, as if not night, 

But rather day" had just begun : 
That lighted sky, that lighted sea, 
They spoke of Love and Hope to me. 

I thought how Love, I thought how Hope, 

O'er the horizon of my heart 
Had pour'd their light like yonder sun ; 

Like yon sun, only to depart: 
Alas ! that ever suns should set, 
Or Hope grow cold, or Love forget ! 

"I see no remedy!" exclaimed Henrietta, 
who had hurried to Ethel on the first intelli- 
gence of this new misfortune, "but a direct 
application to Sir Robert Walpole. I have 
tried every method to induce Lord Marchmont 
to exert himself, b at in vain. I have reasoned, 
flattered, even cried; but all of no use. But 
for a husband, one should never know how 
disagreeable people can be." 

" Hush, my dearest Henrietta !" exclaimed 
Ethel. 

" Ah ! it is of no use finding- fault with what 
I say ; it is the truth." 

"Which," interrupted her friend, "is not 
to be spoken at all times." 

"Well, well," replied Henrietta, half- 
laughing-, " have your own way ; which, by- 
tlie-b}^, is what you quiet people always con- 
trive to g-et in some way or other." 

" I have so much of my own way," replied 
Ethel, with a smile. 

" Only with me," returned the other, laugh- 
ing ; " and, as it is a luxury, you make the 
most of it. But I'll tell you what my plan is : 
I shall take you, to-morrow, to Chelsea, and 
see if we cannot obtain an interview with Sir 
Robert himself, and then you can plead your 
own cause." 

" But what could I say ?" exclaimed Ethel, 
turning pale at the bare mention of such a 
scheme. 

" Say ! why, my dear, you need only look !" 
cried Henrietta ; " not but what you may very 
well find plenty to say. You can tell him 
that your grandmother is just a silly old lady, 
who will never do any one any harm but her- 
self. You can also ask him to behead Mr. 
Trevanion if ever he sets foot in England 
again." 

" Will you never be serious ?" interrupted 
her listener. 

" I am too sad to be serious ?" replied Lady 
Marchmont : " do you know what that mood 
is when you would rather dwell upon any 
thing but your own thoughts ? I am always 
the most seemingly lively when I am the least 
so in reality; and I talk nonsense when I 
have not courage to talk sense. T make a 
noise, like children, because I am frightened 
at finding myself in the dark — that worst of 
darkness, the darkness of the heart." 

" This from you !" exclaimed Ethel ; " you, 
the brilliant, the flattered — " 

" All very true," interrupted Henrietta ; 
' but not the happy. Nature and fortune are 



at variance with me : the one meant me to ba 
much better than I actually am. Every day 
I see more clearly the worthlessness and the 
vacancy of the life that I lead : my heart is 
chilled and hardened, and my mind frets itself. 
It is a dreadful feeling that of knowing you 
are not loved as you could love, and as you 
deserve to be loved ; to know that all your 
highest and best qualities — " 

" It is a dreadful thing," replied Ethel, with 
a shudder that she could not repress : her heart 
had gone back to its own early dream, and 
dwelt the more heavily on its present desola- 
tion. 

Real feeling is shy of expression ; and nei- 
ther of the friends had courage to speak of 
what was nearest the heart of either. Henri- 
etta did not like to talk of Lord Marchmont, 
and to own how utterly she had been mistaken 
in believing that rank and wealth sufficed to 
make a happy marriage : she shamed to say 
how she craved for affection and sympathy. 
Ethel, on her part, was equally reluctant to 
speak of Norbourne Courtenaye ; and this si- 
lence was aided by Henrietta, who, from a 
feeling of delicacy, did not like to speak of 
Constance. How much, even in the most 
confidential intercourse, is kept back ! the 
dearest of friends know each other but little. 

" But," continued Lady Marchmont, " let 
us speak seriously of my project; believe me, 
it is a good one. There, you need not say we 
think all projects good that originate in our- 
selves, I have said it for you." 

" I really," exclaimed Ethel, " was not 
going to say any thing of the kind. 

" Well, it is something to be prepared : it 
is what you must be to-morrow." 

" But what possible influence can I have 
with Sir Robert ?" 

" 0, a pretty woman always has influence; 
and they say that the all-powerful minister is 
as open to the charms of a pair or beaux yeux 
as any one." 

" I shall feel so frightened, and so silly!" 

" Never mind the last ; only, instead of 
fear, have hope. Sir Robert is a widower, 
who knows what effect you may produce ?" 

" I have no ambition for such a conquest." 

"That is because you are not yet come to 
a full use of your understanding. Universal 
conquest should be the motto of our sex. 
Every woman should try to make every man 
she sees in love with her." 

" And what is she to do with all these lovers 
when she has them ?" 

" Why, not much ; it is not every person 
who can be made useful : still, there they are 
if you want them. To make a man in love 
with you gives an instant hold on his vanity ; 
and with that, you can do any thing. Vanity 
is the real lever with which Archimedes said 
he could move the earth ; so, try what you 
can effect with Sir Robert." 

"I fear that will not be much," replied 
Ethel, with a disconsolate air. 

" At all events, look your very best ; and I 
shall call for you about twelve. Remember, tha 
most perfect toilet; men do not understand 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



95 



the detail of dvcss, but they appreciate the 
result. I shall go to bed, and dream all 
night that I am prime minister instead of Sir 
Robert." 

She staid for no answer, but left Ethel all 
fear and hesitation ; which, however, merged 
in the conviction that, though she might not 
he able to do any thing for her grandmother, 
at least she ought to try her utmost ; and she 
had great confidence in her friend. Henrietta, 
like all persons of active mind and lively ima- 
gination, exercised great influence over all 
about her. It was difficult to resist both her 
warmth and her kindliness; the one carried 
vou along with her, the other made it quite 
ungrateful not to be so carried. 



CHAPTER LXIV. 

CHANGES IN LONDON. 

The presence of perpetual change 

Is ever on the earth; 
To-day is only as the soil 

That gives to-morrow birth. 

Where stood the tower, there grows the weed ; 

Where stood the weed, the tower: 
No present hour its likeness leaves 

To any future hour. 

Of each imperial city built 

Far on the eastern plains 
A desert waste of tomb and sand 

Is all that now remains. 

Our own fair city fill'd with life, 

Has yet a future day, 
When power, and might, and majesty, 

Will y-it have pass'd away. 

Nothing could be more bright than the fol- 
lowing morning, it was the first day of sun- 
shine that Ethel had seen since her arrival in 
London, and she was surprised to observe the 
change that it wrought. The river below her 
windows shone with that deep, dead clearness, 
which somewhat resembles molten lead ; the 
little boats glided rapidly past ; and more than 
one song, set to some popular old tune, came 
from the watermen as they rowed past. The 
sails of many a small vessel seemed like snow, 
and nothing could be more graceful than the 
way in which they glided through the arches 
of the distant bridge — disappeared — and then 
might again be recognised in the bend of the 
stream above. The noble dome of St. Paul's 
seemed bathed in the golden atmosphere, and 
the spires of the inferior churches glittered 
below. 

Ethel wondered what had become of the 
gloom which struck her so forcibly on her 
first arrival In the direction to which her 
own hopes pointed, the aspect was even more 
cheerful. The banks of the Thames had gar- 
dens intermixed with the buildings, and the 
architecture was of a lighter character, while 
the beautiful old abbey rose like a queen amid 
her court. Unless we except the Tiber, there 
is no river which has so much history about 
it as the Thames, and which is so strongly 
impressed with the characteristics of its na- 
tion. There are the signs of that commercial 



activity which has carried the flag of England 
round the world ; there is that cleaving to thst 
past, which has preserved those stately 
churches inviolate — the glorious receptacles 
of the dead — and there, too, is evidence of that 
domestic spirit which goes back upon itself 
for enjoyment, and garners up its best hopes 
in a little space. England may be deficient 
in public gardens, but where are there so many 
private ones, each the delight of their mas- 
ter, and the household that have planted their 
shrubs, and watered their flowers ? What 
little words of affection and comfort are bound- 
ed by the neat quickset hedge, quiet and still 
as the nest of some singing-bird ! 

Ethel was in that sensitive state of mind 
and body, which is especially subject to ex- 
ternal influences, and she began her toilet with 
a cheerfulness that had its origin in the sun 
shining in at the window. What children we 
are in trifles ! what slight things exercise an 
influence over us ! to how much that our rea- 
son would be ashamed to acknowledge ! 
nevertheless does it submit. Our whole nature 
must change ; we must be less susceptible, 
less dependent on il blind accident," before 
we can shake off hopes and fears, which are 
almost superstitions. 

For a wonder, two ladies were actually 
punctual to an appointment : Lady March- 
mont was to her time, and Ethel did not keep 
her waiting a moment. A woman's first look 
is at the dress of her friend, and her second 
word is of it. Each was exceedingly satisfied 
with the other : which is also saying, that they 
were exceedingly satisfied with themselves. 
Lady Marchrnont had on a rich flowered da- 
mask, and a Avhite chip hat tied down with a 
pink kerchief; and never had she looked hand- 
somer, for she was one whose variable com- 
plexion and mobile features were made to ex- 
press interest and excitement. Ethel was in 
mourning : they had judged it the most fitting 
habit for a petitioner ; it was certainly one 
most becoming to the wearer. The black set 
off the pure white skin and the gloss of the 
golden hair, and it suited the pensive and sub- 
dued expression that had become habitual to 
Ethel's sweet countenance. 

A drive to Chelsea was a very different 
thing in those days to what it is in ours ; it was 
then literally going out of town, and the huge 
coach-and-six made its stately way beneath 
old trees, and through green and shady lanes. 
I cannot say much for the cheerfulness of 
Chelsea now-a-days : it would seem as if past 
gayety always flung a deeper shadow over the 
places where it held sway. The large old 
houses, darkened with many years, have a 
gloomy appearance; and the chances of the 
present day are, that they have transmigrated 
into boarding-schools and mad-houses. No 
vestige remains of that luxuriant growth of 
almond-trees, for which it was formerly cele- 
brated. There is something peculiarly lovely 
in the almond blossom ; it brings the warmth 
of the rose on the last cold airs of winter, a 
rich and glowing wreath, when all beside is 
desolate : so frail, too, and so delicate, like a 



96 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



fairy emblem of those sweet and gentle virtues 
whose existence is first known in an hour of 
adversity. High brick walls stand where once 
stood that rosy and graceful tree ; and if there 
be one object more dreary than another, it is 
a high, blank brick wall ; as little vestige is 
there left of the wide-spread common. 

Small houses have sprung up as rapidly as 
the summer grasses used to spring in the Five 
Fields, so notorious for robbery and murder, 
that even Madame de Genlis, not usually very 
accurate in her English locale, is perfectly 
right in making them the scene of a robber's 
attack. 

" Tro}' now stands where grass once grew," 
to take the liberty of reversing a quotation, 
and Belgrave Square has effaced the terrors 
of " The Five Fields ;" but the road to Sir 
Robert Walpole's lay more to the right ; yet 
so much are places brought together, and dis- 
tances shortened now-a-days, that a visit to 
Chelsea was about what a visit to Richmond 
would be now. It was a very pleasant morn- 
ing, the clear blue sky was only broken by 
large white clouds, whose contrast deepened 
the azure into purple. The trees lay on one 
side the road in a rich depth of shadow ; on 
the other the golden light seemed to rain 
through the checkered bougbs : a subtle fra- 
grance floated on the air, and the carols of a 
thousand birds rose distinct above the deep 
murmur of the city that the^ had left behind. 

" I cannot help," said Ethel, " feeling in 
better spirits : it seems absolute ingratitude 
not to enjoy so lovely a morning !" 

" I shall consider them as an omen," replied 
Lady Marchmont : " it is very becoming to 
be in good spirits, and I want you to look your 
best. Really you ought to keep a relay of 
tenth cousins to die off, for black suits you re- 
markably well. We shall be such good con- 
trasts ; I am glad that I have left off my 
mourning !" 

" Your mourning !" exclaimed Ethel ; " I 
was not aware that you had been wearing it, 
Who was it for ?" 

Lady Marchmont coloured, both with em- 
barrassment and self-reproach. Embarrass- 
ment ; for, with an intuitive delicacy, she had 
shrank from ever naming Mrs. Courtenaye to 
Ethel ; and, with self-reproach, that, in a mo- 
ment's carelessness, she could have so lightly 
alluded to such a painful subject. Perhaps 
it was best to tell Ethel at once : if ever she 
went into society at all, she would inevitably 
hear of it, and her own concealment would 
have the appearance of a dissimulation, — the 
furthest from her thoughts. Yes, it was best 
to tell Ethel at once. 

" I have net," said Lady Marchmont, " told 
you, of the friendship that existed between 
Mrs. Courtenaye and myself, for I felt that the 
subject must be a painful one to you." 

How painful, the deadly paleness that over- 
spread Ethel's face, sufficiently told. Hen- 
rietta would not observe it, but went on with 
tier story, thus giving her friend time to re- 
cover; and, before it was done, both were 
mingling their tears together. 



"I have avoided the subject myself," said 
Ethel at last, in a faltering tone ; " even now 
it is most painful to say what I think of Mr. 
Norbourne's conduct : it was too cruel !" 

"Do not," interrupted Henrietta, "expect 
the shadow of an excuse from me. It was the 
resentment that I felt towards himself that, 
singularly enough, led 'to my acquaintance 
with his wife : and I say it, even to yourself, 
that if ever there was an angel upon earth, it 
was Constance Courtemrye." 

" What a strange thing it is for affection to 
change !" said Ethel : " even now I cannot 
comprehend inconstancy in love." 

" I do not think," returned Henrietta, "that 
there was any inconstancy in the case : we 
must look to more wordly motives. Constance 
was a creature that grew upon your love, but 
no rival to yourself. I take it for granted that 
the Courtenaye property was involved, and 
that its heir had no means of freeing himself 
but by a marriage with his cousin." 

" He must have known that before he knew 
me," said Ethel, coldly. 

" I am not," exclaimed Lady Marchmont, 
" seeking to defend conduct as heartless as it 
was cruel. Your youth, your ignorance of the 
world, your touching confidence in himself, 
should have made your happiness too sacred 
for a moment's trifling. But we live in a hard 
and unkind world, and every hour I see some 
new proof of how little we regard the feelings 
of each other; and strange it is, that the 
deepest injuries are those thai are the most 
lightly judged. The strong hand of the law is 
around your life and your wealth, but he who 
takes from you all that renders them valuable, 
the chances are, that his offence will find pal- 
liation and excuse ; nay, that the laughers will 
be on his side. The heart is left alone in its 
desolation !" 



CHAPTER LXV. 

SIR ROBERT WALPOLE AND HOUSE. 

This is the charm of poetry : it comes 

On sad perturbed moments ; and its thoughts, 

Like pearls amid the troubled waters, gleam. 

That which we garner d in our eager youth, 

Becomes a long delight in after ye-ars: 

The mind is strengthen^, and the heart refrcsh'd 

By some old memory of gifted words, 

That bring sweet feelings, answering to our own, 

Or dreams that waken some more lofty mood 

Than dwelleth with the commonplace of life. 

The two friends were roused from the sad 
and subdued mood into which they had gra- 
dually sank, by the sudden stoppage of the 
carriage at the entrance to Sir Robert Wal- 
pole's house. The arrival took them by sur- 
prise : Ethel, who had quite lost the passing 
cheerfulness of the morning, turned yet paler, 
but Lady Marchmont was at once aroused by 
the excitement of the coming interview ; as 
she afterwards said, laughing, she felt what 
her beauty owed to itself! 

" I have a friend at court," whispered she 
to her companion : " last night I singled out 
one of Sir Robert's secretaries, and a few 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



97 



6miles made him my devoted chevalier, and 
he promised to insure an interview." 

So saying, she gave a small billet to one of 
the servants ; and almost before they had time 
to look at each other, and to see that neither 
ringlet nor riband were displaced by their 
long drive, down came the young secretary. 
He handed them from the carriage with an 
air of devoted gallantry, and led them to a 
small breakfast-room, which overlooked the 
garden. 

" Here," said he, "I must leave you, while 
I ascertain whether Sir Robert will not be too 
proud to receive the loveliest lady in Eng- 
land !" 

" Now, honour and glory to la haute science 
de la coquetterie ! My rank, though I own 
that it is a very pretty thing to be a countess, 
would have done nothing for me in this case ; 
my wealth, no more ; for, despite of the oppo- 
sition, I do not think Sir Robert would have 
allowed me to offer a pair of diamond ear-rings, 
even with his favourite daughter in the back- 
ground ; but I flung myself on a woman's best 
prerogative, and mes leaux yeux have settled 
the matter at once for me. Ethel, why don't 
you thank me for having made such good use 
of them?" 

Pale and agitated, Ethel could scarcely force 
a smile ; and to divert her attention from the 
dreaded interview, Lady Marchmont began to 
notice the objects around them. The window 
opened towards a most lovely garden, whose 
smooth turf and gorgeous parterres swept 
down to the river. A peacock stood on the 
grass lawn, his brilliant plumage expanded in 
the sunshine, while every movement showed 
some change of colour. Beyond, as if to 
show the infinite variety of beauty, floated 
two swans ; they were coming to shore, in the 
full glory of their arching necks and snowy 
wings. No marvel that the ancient Greeks, 
who never lost an image of loveliness, linked 
them to the chariot of the Queen of Beauty ! 

" A swan," said Lady Marchmont, " al- 
ways gives the idea of a court-lady, — stately 
in her grace, ruffling in her bravery, and con- 
scious of the floating plumes that mark her 
pretensions. The peacock is a coquette; it 
turns in the sunshine, it looks round as if to 
ask the conscious air of its purple and gold; 
but the swan sails on in majestic tranquillit3^, 
it sees the fair image of its perfect grace on 
the waters below, and is content : 

' It seeks not the applause of vulgar eyes.' " 

"And which of these," asked Ethel, "do 
ymi consider to be your prototype ?" 

" 0, a happy mixture of both !" returned 
the young countess, laughing : " it is the 
greatest mistake possible, to be always the 
same ; I appeal to the high authority of Pope : — 

'Ladies, like tulips, in the sunshine show, 
; Tis to variety their charms they owe !' 

Vol. II.— 13 



The swan is a particularly well-bred bird, it 
has a proper court and reception manner ; but 
there are times when you may well permit 
yourself the airs and graces of the peacock. 
Indeed, I think a very pretty system of orni- 
thology might be got up for the use of our 
sex ; you, for example, have taken your les- 
sons of the dove !" 

"Thank you !" returned her companion. 

" You would say to your lover, 

'I disdain 
All pomp when thou art by: far be the noise 
Of kings and courts from us, whose gentle souls 
Our kindly stars have steer'd another way. 
Free as the forest-doves, we'll pair together, 
Flee to the arbours, grots, and flowery meads, 
And in soft murmurs interchange our souls; 
Together drink the crystal of the stream, 
Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn brings 
And when the golden evening calls ns home, 
Wing to our downy nest, and sleep till morn.' " 

" 1 do not believe I should say any thing," 
replied Ethel ; " I am naturally silent." 

" Well," exclaimed Lady Marchmont, 
" there is a great deal to be urged in favour 
of a woman's silence ; still, 

' Speech is morning to the mind ; 
It spreads the beauteous images abroad, 
Which else lie furl'd and clouded in the soul.' 

I do not know the reason," continued Henri- 
etta, " but whenever I am very anxious about 
any thing, and I am, indeed, anxious now, my 
memory, by way of passing the time, always 
seems to fill with what were its earliest de- 
lights. How well I remember the old dark- 
looking volumes, from which my uncle used 
to evoke such beautiful creation ! How real 
they then seemed to be ! How devoutly I 
believed in these ethereal creations ! Love, 
hope, and happiness, then appeared to me ac- 
tual existences. Alas ! as Lady Mary says, 
' To my extreme mortification, I grow wiser 
every day!' " 

" I do not know," said Ethel, with a deep 
sigh, " whether I am wiser, but I am not hap- 
pier than I used to be ; I am not so happy !" 

" The future owes you recompense," an- 
swered her companion ; " at all events, there 
is a great deal of pleasure before you, if you 
come out as a beauty and an heiress : I trust 
that Sir Robert will decree that you shall be 
set in gold !" 

" Let him give my poor old grandmother 
liberty, and I care for nothing else !" 

" Well," cried Henrietta, " do not look so 
pale and wo-begone about it, 

1 As some fair tulip, by a storm oppress'd, 

Shrinks up, and folds its silken arms to rest; 

And, bending to the blast all pale and dead, 
Hears from within the winds sing round its nest. 

So shrouded up, your beauty disappears; 

Unveil, my love"! and lay aside your fears.' " 

At that very moment the door opened, and 
the young secretary announced that Sir Ro- 
bert Walpole would be happy to receive 
them. 



98 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



CHAPTER LXVI. 

THE INTERVIEW. 

" Go see Sir Robert ! 
P.— See Sir Robert ! hum— 
And never laugh, for all my life to come ! 
Seen him I have, but in his happier hour 
01 social pleasure ill exchanged for power; 
Seen him encumber'd with a'venal tribe, 
Smile without art> and win without a bribe. 
Would he oblige me? Let me only find 
He does not think me what he thinks mankind. 
Come, come ! at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt ; 
The only difference is, I dare laugh out !" — Pope. 

It was a small, but luxurious room, the 
open windows of which looked to a garden 
sloping- down to the river, clear and sunny, as 
if the metropolis had been an hundred miles 
away. Pots, crowded with rare and fragrant 
exotics, were on the terrace, and filled the 
apartment with, their odours, and the walls 
around were hung with some of the choicest 
productions of the Italian school of art : the 
eye could not be raised but it must look on a 
flower or a picture. In the midst stood a table, 
covered with papers tied up with red tape, 
books of accounts, and open letters. At one 
end, that facing the window, sat England's 
all-powerful minister, wrapped in a loose 
morning-gown of purple cloth. He was a 
man of large size, in an indolent attitude, and 
with that flushed complexion which usually 
accompanies excess. At the first glance, you 
only saw one who appeared the idle and good- 
humoured voluptuary, whose chief attention 
was given to decide on the merit of rival 
clarets, and whose chief care was to ward off 
an attack of the gout. Not such was the im- 
pression produced by a second and more scru- 
tinizing look, or when the face before you 
was lighted by expression. There was deci- 
sion on the firmly compressed lip, whose 
subtle smile spoke a world of sarcasm; there 
was thought on the bold, high forehead, and 
the mind kindled the depths of those piercing 
gray eyes. 

Sir Robert Walpole was essentially the 
man of his time : no other minister could have 
maintained the House of Hanover on its then 
tottering throne. It was opposed to the prin- 
ciples of fate many, and entwined with the 
picturesque prejudices of none. The two 
first Georgia were not men to either dazzle or 
to interest a people. They were narrow- 
minded foreign soldiers, fettered by the small 
etiquettes of small courts ; and looked on their 
accession to the British throne rather as com- 
ing into a large property, than as entering on 
a high and responsible office. 

Sir Robert Walpole saw at once that loyalty 
and enthusiasm must be put out of the ques- 
tion; the appeal must be made to common 
sense, and to self-interest. A man with less 
worldly shrewdness would never have seen 
how tilings really stood ; a man with less pli- 
ability could never have adapted himself to 
them. It must always be remembered, that 
his whole administration was one long strug- 
gle: he had to maintain his master on the 



throne, and himself in the ministry ; and this 
was done by sheer force of talent. He had 
no alliance among the great nobility on the 
one hand ; and, at all events at first, was no 
personal favourite with the sovereign on the 
other; yet he kept his high post through one 
of the longest and most prosperous adminis- 
trations that England has ever known. His 
faults were those of his day, a day singularly 
deficient in all high moral attributes. 

Disbelief in excellence is the worst soil in 
w T hich the mind can work ; we must believe, 
before we can hope. The political creed, of 
which expediency is the alpha and the omega, 
can never know the generous purpose, or the 
high result. It sees events through a micro- 
scope ; the detail is accurate, but the magnifi- 
cent combination, and the glorious distance, 
are wholly lost. His age looked not beyond 
to-day ; it forgot what it had received from 
the past, and w r hat it owed to the future. 
Rochefoucauld says, and most truly, that hy- 
pocrisy is the homage that vice pa3~s to virtue; 
now, in Walpole's time, it was not worth vice's 
while to pay even the poor homage of hypo- 
crisy. Political virtue w 7 as laughed at; or, at 
best, considered a sort of Utopian dream that 
no one was- bound to realize. Human interest 
will always mingle with human motive. To 
this hour, the great science and duty of poli- 
tics is lowered by the petty leaven of small 
and personal advantage ; still, no one can 
deny the vast advance that has been made. 
Our views are loftier, because more general ; 
and individual selfishness is corrected by the 
knowledge, that good is only to. be worked 
out on a large scale. The many have taken 
the place of the few ; and a great principle 
gives something of its own strength to the 
mind that entertains it. 

The union of philanthropy and of political 
science belongs to our own age : every hour 
the conviction is gaining ground, that happi- 
ness should be the object of legislation; and 
that power is given for responsibility, not for 
enjoyment. Power is a debt to the people : 
but as yet we walk with the leading-strings of 
prejudice, strong to confine the steps, which 
they never should attempt to guide. Let the 
child and the nation alike feel their own way ; 
the very stumbles will teach not only caution, 
but their own strength to recover from them. 
There is a long path yet before us ; but the 
goal, though distant, is glorious. The time 
may come, when that intelligence, which is 
the sunshine of the moral world, will, like 
the sunshine of the physical world, kindle foi 
all. There will be no tax on the window- 
lights of the mind. Ignorance, far more than 
idleness, is the mother of all the vices ; and 
how recent has been the admission, that know- 
ledge should be the portion of all ? The des- 
tinies of the future lie in judicious educa- 
tion ; an education that must be universal, to 
be beneficial. 

The state of the poor in our own country is 
frightful ; and ask any one in the habit of 
coming in contact with the lower classes, to 



ETHEL CHURCHILL, 



what is this distress mainly attributable ? 
The answer will always be the same — the 
improvidence of the poor. But, in what has 
this improvidence originated ? — in the neglect 
of their superiors. The poor have been left 
in that state of wretched ignorance, which 
neither looks forward nor back ; to them, as 
to the savages, the actual moment is every 
thing: they have never been humanized by 
enjoyment, nor subdued by culture. 

The habits of age are hopeless, but how 
much may be done with the children ? Labour, 
and severe labour, is, in some shape or other, 
the inevitable portion of mankind; but there 
is no grade that has not its moments of mental 
relaxation, if it but know how to use them. 
Give the children of the poor that portion of 
education which will enable them to know 
their own resources ; which will cultivate in 
them an onward-looking hope, and give them 
rational amusement in their leisure hours: 
this, and this only, will work out that moral 
revolution, which is the legislator's noblest 
purpose. One great evil of highly civilized 
society is, the immense distance between the 
rich and the poor; it leads, on either side, to 
a hardened selfishness. Where we know 
little, we care little ; but the fact once ad- 
mitted, that there can be neither politically nor 
morally a good which is not universal, that we 
cannot reform for a time, or for a class, but for 
all and for the whole, and our very interests will 
draw us together in one wide bond of sympathy. 
A mighty change, and, I believe, improvement, 
is at this moment going on in the world ; but 
the revolution, to work out its great and best 
end, must be even more moral than political, 
though the one inevitably leads to the other. 
Nothing can be permitted to the few ; rights 
and advantages were sent for all : but the few 
were at the fountainhead in Sir»Robert Wal- 
pole's time. It is but justice to him to note 
how much he was in its advance. Nothing 
could be more enlightened than the encourage- 
ment he gave to our manufactories and colo- 
nies. Look, also, at his steady preservation 
of peace; what rest and what prosperity he 
gave to England. The great want of his ad- 
ministration was, as we have said before, the 
want of high principle : it was the ideal of 
common sense, but it was nothing more. Now, 
mere common sense never does any thing 
great ; the noblest works of our nature, its exer- 
tions, its sacrifices, need some diviner prompt- 
ing : the best efforts of humanity belong to en- 
thusiasm; but Sir Robert's was not the age of 
enthusiasm. The revolution, and the exile 
of the Stuarts, seemed to have exhausted that 
ardour, and that poetry, which are essentially 
the characteristics of English history : the 
chivalric, the picturesque, and the romantic, 
were put aside for a time to awaken into the 
higher hope, and more general enthusiasm of 
the present. The best proof of their exalting 
presence among us is, that we believe and 
hope, where our grandfathers ridiculed and 
doubted. But we are keeping the fair petition- 
ers waiting ; a fault Sir Robert himself would 
toot have committed. 



CHAPTER LXVII. 

AN AUDIENCE. 

Not wii.!i tlio world to teach us, may we learn 
Tlio spirit's njblest lessons. 1 tope and faith 
Arc stars that shine amid the far-off heaven, 
Diram'd and obscured by vapours from below; 
Impatient selfishness, and shrewd distrust, 
Are taught us in the common ways of life; 
Oust, is beneath our feet, and at our side 
The coarse and mean, the false and the unjust; 
And constant, contact makes us grow too like 
The things we daily struggle with and scorn: 
Only by looking up, can we see heaven. 

Sir Robert gave one quick scrutinizing 
glance as his fair guests entered, which was 
succeeded by the prolonged look of extreme 
admiration ; he called up his most courteous 
manner as he pointed to the seats nearest to 
his own. 

" I never," said he, " wished my gout with 
my enemies so cordially as I do at this mo- 
ment." 

"Nay," replied Lady Marchmont, "I can- 
not help feeling obliged to it; at all events, 
you cannot seek safety in flight. We have 
stormed your stronghold, and you must yield 
yourself our prisoner, rescue or no rescue !" 

" Not so bad as that, either," exclaimed 
Walpole ; " I would not fly, if I could : 

( Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, 
The power of beauty I remember yet!'" 

" I trust," returned Henrietta, with a glance 
at the silent and confu&ed Ethel, "that we 
shall find you a very slave to its influence." 

Sir Robert smiled, and then said, in a good- 
humoured tone, '* Well, now, fair ladies, what 
do you want with me ? for, I suppose, you 
are no exceptions to the general rule; no one 
ever comes to me who does not want some- 
thing." 

" Well," replied the young countess, "you 
would not have us unlike everybody else 
in the world ?" 

" That is what you already are !" said the 
minister, with an air of great gallantry. 

" To be frank," continued Lady March- 
mont, having first appropriated the compliment 
with a very sweet smile, " we do come to ask 
a favour !" 

" Now, the Lord have mercy upon me !" 
exclaimed Sir Robert, sinking back in his 
chair; " there is nothing in the world so un- 
reasonable as a pretty woman. Well, let me 
hear what outrageous proposition is about to 
come from two at once !" and he half hummed 
through his teeth the air then in its zenith of 
popularity : — 

" How happy could I be with either, 
Were t'other dear charmer away !" 

" Nay," said Lady Marchmont, " we trus^ 
that our petition will not be so very outrage- 
ous, either. But, will you allow me to intro- 
duce my companion, Miss Churchill ?" 

Sir Robert's brow darkened at once ; bul 
there was something in Ethel's pale and sub- 
dued loveliness, which softened him ; for he 
asked, in a very kind tone, " And what doea 
Miss Churchill want with me ?" 



100 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



"Pity and pardon ?" exclaimed Ethel, in a 
ow, but distinct whisper. 

"I thought how it was," cried Walpole, 
" those fantastic coxcombs have all the luck 
with you. Here is a goose — by Jove ! I am 
calumniating that respectable bird : Trevanion 
has not even the brains of a goose — an idiot 
tries to unsettle a whole kingdom, does con- 
trive to turn the heads of some worthy people, 
and here are two of the prettiest women in 
England coming to beg for his head, as if it 
were worth keeping on his shoulders !" 

"You are quite wrong," interrupted Lady 
Marchmont ; " as far as Mr. Trevanion is con- 
cerned, you have our full permission to hang 
him out of the way at your earliest conve- 
nience !" 

"You only say this," returned Sir Robert, 
fixing a penetrating glance on Ethel, to whose 
cheek the colour rose vividly, " because you 
know he has escaped ! The jailor was fool 
enough to have a daughter, and she was fool 
enough to think, because a man was handsome, 
he ought not to be hanged ; so they took ad- 
vantage of a dark night, and a smuggler's 
boat, and are gone to France and the devil to- 
gether! Don't faint, at least, not here!" 
added he abruptly, to Ethel, whose fading 
blush left her paler than before : "your lover 
is not more inconstant than all men are : but 
I see how it is ; women are all alike, they 
would rather have a lover hanged, than that 
another should save him from the gallows !" 

A quick temper feeds on its own indulgence, 
and Sir Robert had talked nimself into being 
angry; however, Lady Marchmont took ad- 
Vantage of the pause to say, "Mr. Trevanion 
has nothing to do with our visit ; it is on Mrs. 
Churchill's account that we have ventured to 
address you. We have heard that she is to 
be imprisoned : it is for her sake that we im- 
plore your compassion !" 

" My grandmother," exclaimed Ethel eager- 
ly, "pines for her own home: I am sure a 
prison will kill her. Consider, sir, she is an 
old woman, she will not trouble you long!" 

"An old woman!" exclaimed the minister, 
whom an unlucky twinge made at that moment 
doubly impatient, " old women are the plague 
of my life ! So I am to send Mrs. Churchill 
down to the very spot where a treasonable 
correspondence is most easily managed ; and 
by the ease with which she gets out of a first 
scrape, give her all possible encouragement to 
get into another. Well, I was quite right in 
asking what preposterous request had you 
come here about !" 

"I see," returned Lady Marchmont, "that 
old women are no favourites of yours ; but if 
you would extend your clemency to Mrs. 
Churchill, I think she has seen her folly, and 
will leave conspiracies to themselves in fu- 
mre." 

" And who," asked Sir Robert, "will be- 
come sureties for her future good conduct ?" 

This appeared an easy question to answer; 
and from the early friends of their house, 
Ethel selected two neighbouring gentlemen, 
to whom she had always been accustomed to 



look with the utmost respect. She comd 
scarcely have made a worse selection, for they 
were two most notorious Jacobites. The mo- 
ment Sir Robert heard the names, "Really, 
this is too bad !" exclaimed he, in a rage, ring- 
ing a bell violently that stood by him on the 
table : " ladies, I can waste no time in listen- 
ing to any such nonsense. Good morning !' 
There was no resource, the minister would 
not even look towards them, so absorbed had 
he suddenly become in the papers before him. 
The door opened ; and, in another moment, 
they found themselves in the vestibule, where 
the young secretary was waiting to hand them 
to the carriage. He was too accustomed to 
discontented suitors not to see at a glance 
that the interview had been one of disappoint- 
ment, and he Avas too discreet to ask any 
questions ; a discretion, b}''-the-by, of all kinds 
the rarest. 



CHAPTER LXVIII. 

A FRIEND AT COURT. 

I did not know rill she was lost, 

How much she was beloved ; 
She knows it in that better world, 

To which she is removed. 

I feel as she had only sought 

Again her native skies f 
I look upon the heavens, and seem 

To meet her angel eyes. 

Pity, and love, and gentle thoughts, 

For her sake, fill my mind ; 
They are the only part of her 

That now is left behind. 

The disappointed petitioners stood, for a 
few moments, on the terrace while waiting for 
their carriage : they stood in complete silence ; 
Ethel the most vexed, Lady Marchmont the 
most surprised. Henrietta felt like a dethron- 
ed divinity, refusal and rebuff were such very 
novel things to her, excepting from her hus- 
band ; and from husbands they come as mat- 
ters of course. But she was a petted, spoiled 
beauty ; and to be dismissed in such an un- 
ceremonious manner was beyond her compre- 
hension: she no longer wondered that Lord 
Marchmont was in opposition. As for Ethel, 
she was quite bewildered : she had felt such 
implicit reliance on Henrietta's success, that 
the disappointment was doubly bitter, because 
wholly unexpected. 

They had stood both so completely absorb- 
ed in their disagreeable revery, that neither 
perceived the approach of a stranger, who 
was about to pass them with a slight but 
courteous bow, when he caught sight of Hen- 
rietta, and immediately stopped. 

" This is an unexpected pleasure !" ex- 
claimed he. " What good fortune blows Lady 
Marchmont hither ?" 

" Good fortune, do you call it ?" cried Hen- 
rietta: "why I can scarcely refrain from 
venting my rage even upon poor, unoffending 
you. Good ! my lord ; don't expect even a 
civil word from me. It is a very disagree- 
able things to agree with one's husband : buft 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



101 



Lo-night I move my patches, and become 
tory." 

" Nay," replied Lord Norboume, for he was 
the stranger, " Sir Robert can have done no- 
thing to merit so severe a sentence. Come, 
let me hear your grievance. He has bought 
some picture you wanted, or refused a slip 
from some plant, without which, of course, 
you cannot exist for an hour .'" 

" Dear Lord Norbourne," said Henrietta, 
"my business is of a much more serious na- 
ture. I leave it to your own kindness whether 
it shall or not be intruded upon you." 

" Lady Marchmont knows," replied he, 
" that it is no commonplace expression of ci- 
vility, when I say, let me have the happiness 
of serving you whether it be in a little or great 
thing." 

"I equally know that I may take you at 
your word," said Henrietta ; " and, as a first 
step, as it is her history that I am about to 
tell, will you allow me to introduce my young 
friend ? Miss Churchill, Lord Norbourne." 

It would be difficult to say on which party 
the name of the other produced the greatest 
effect. With Ethel there was the one asso- 
ciation : this, then was Courtenaye 1 s uncle, 
whose daughter he had married. The whole 
past rose vividly before her — all her sorrow, 
all her suffering. The tears started, but pride 
repressed them: or, rather, pride is no name 
for the sensitive and shrinking feeling which 
trembles even at compassion for its misery. 
It was very painful to Ethel to seek aid from 
Lord Norbourne. Had she consulted her own 
wishes, she would have withdrawn at once ; 
but it was a sacred duty to advance her grand- 
mother's cause by every possible means : and, 
moreover, was not the listener in complete ig- 
norance of the agitation he caused by his pre- 
sence ? She little knew how well Lord Nor- 
bourne was acquainted with her name ; or 
how larofe a share he had had in her unhappi- 
ness. Her appearance produced on him an 
emotion which even his calm and polished 
manner could scarcely conceal. She brought 
to him the image of Constance; thus at once 
unlocking the spring of his kindliest and best 
feelings. He felt at once what he owed of 
amends to the young and fair creature, whose 
beauty wore such obvious trace of suffering — 
of suffering, too, that he had inflicted. His 
better nature was awakened on her behalf; he 
longed to serve her, to be kind to her; he felt 
as if such service and such kindness w r ere a 
worthy offering to the memory of his own 
angel child. Unconscious of all this, Lady 
Marchmont was equally surprised and de- 
lighted to find what interest Lord Norbourne 
took in her story. Like all women who seem 
to have an imperative necessity in their nature 
to give a romantic reason for every thing, she 
began to think that his lordship had suddenly 
fallen in love with the beautiful girl to whose 
cause he was giving such earnest attention. 

" Well," said Lord Norbourne, as Henrietta 
concluded her narrative, "I trust that Lady 
Marchmont will not be driven to the desperate 
necessity of agreeing with her husband, even 



in politics. Just walk round the lawn for two 
or three minutes, and let me try my influence 
with Sir Robert." 

He left them without waiting ; and Heir 
rietta, after following him with eyes tha 
looked the most eloquent thanks, turned to her 
companion, exclaiming, — 

" I cannot say much for the success of my 
first scheme, that you should be the second 
Lady Walpole ; but what do you say to being 
the third Lady Norbourne ? but, I warn you, 
in the last case we shall be rivals." 

The expression of Ethel's face quite checked 
her vivacity. For the first time it struck Lady 
Marchmont how much her friend was altered. 
Ethel had not even heard what she said, so 
completely was she lost in her own thoughts. 
She leant against the balustrade of the terrace, 
her gaze fixed on the river, but seeing it not. 
The flush of excitement had left her deadly 
pale ; while the blue eyes looked unnaturally 
large, with a sad, set expression, as if haunted 
by the perpetual presence of one oppressive 
thought. Henrietta felt, whose image was 
present to Ethel : she said nothing ; but press- 
ing her companion's arm kindly, drew her 
onwards, and walked along the terrace in si- 
lence. But Henrietta's imagination was too 
acute and too buoyant not to arrange a whole 
future during their walk. She reconciled 
Ethel and Courtena}^ ; she gave Lord Nor- 
bourne's consent to their marriage ; and was 
just ending, like a fairy tale, with — " and 
they lived very happy for the rest of their 
lives," when Lord Norbourne returned. 

" I expect a charming welcome," said he, 
" for I return successful : Sir Robert relents. 
I have offered to become security that Mrs. 
Churchill has done with treasonable corres- 
pondence. She will not yet be permitted to 
return to the manor house : it is too convenient 
for 'treasons, stratagems,' &c. ; and it is as 
well not to be put in the way of temptation . 
but she will be allowed perfect liberty in 
London. Something of a fine is still talked 
of; but even that, I hope, will be remitted." 

" How kind you are !" exclaimed Lady 
Marchmont ; but Ethel found no voice to 
speak. Lord Norbourne took her hand very 
kindty, and placed her in the carriage. 

" You must allow me," said he, " to call on 
Mrs. Churchill. I flatter myself I shall be 
able to convince her that, without compro- 
mising her principles, the best thing that she 
can do will be not to attempt carrying them 
into practice." 

He turned down the very terrace where 
they had just been walking ; and though, cer- 
tainly, there was as little resemblance as could 
well be between himself and Lady March-* 
mont, yet their thoughts flowed in precisely 
the same channel. Chilled and hardened, as 
it had been, by constant contact with the 
world, yet Lord Norbourne's was inherently 
a high and generous nature. To such, atone- 
ment is a necessity and an enj oyment. Ethel's 
happiness seemed to him like a sad, sweet 
debt, owing to the memory of his lost Con- 
stance. 

i2 



102 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



CHAPTER LXIX. 

THE INFLUENCE OF THE DEAD. 

Who are the spirits watching by the dead ? 
Faith, from whose eyes a solemn light is shed; 
And Hope, with far-off sunshine on the head. 

The influence of the dead is that of heaven; 
To it a majesty of power is given, 
Working on earth with a diviner leaven. 

To them belongs all high and holy thought: 

The mind, whose mighty empire they have wrought; 

And Grief, whose comfort was by angels brought. 

And gentle. Pity comes, and brings with her 
Those pensive dreams that their own light confer; 
While Love stands watching by the sepulchre. 

Confidence is inseparable from human 
nature. Never was temper so reserved but it 
has its moments of unbending— moments 
when the full heart unlocks its secret foun- 
tains, and tells of emotions unsuspected, and 
thoughts hitherto concealed by the guarded 
brow and practised lip. Now, 1 of all times 
and places calculated for confidence, there is 
no Jine like evening; no place like sitting 

jr the fire. 

Much may be said in favour of a long walk 
on a summer twilight ; the heart opens to the 
soft influences of the lovely hour ; but those 
very influences distract us from ourselves. 
The eye is caught by the presence of the beau- 
tiful : the violets, half hidden in the long grass ; 
a branch of hawthorn, heavy with its fragrant 
load ; a cloud, on which the crimson shadow 
lingers to the last : — these are too fair to be 
passed by unnoticed ; they take us from our 
discourse with a half unconscious delight. 
Moreover, before the calm and subduing as- 
pect of nature, human cares feel their own 
vanity. The lulling music of leaves, stirred 
only by the gentle wind, enters into the soul ; 
and the sweet, deep drawn breath brings its 
own tranquillity. Passionate and present, in- 
deed, must be the despair that resists the har- 
mony of such an hour ; but the quiet chamber, 
and the secluded hearth, have an atmosphere 
of another kind. The objects around have 
been seen so often, that they have at last be- 
come, as it were, unseen; their familiarity 
does not carry us out of ourselves, for all their 
associations are our own. They remind us 
of nothing in which we were not the principal 
actors; if they call up the image ol a friend, 
they call up our own also. Not a chair nor a 
table but has some link with our by-gcne 
hours. Here we read, modifying the thoughts 
of others with our own ; there we write ; and 
how much is implied in that little phrase ! 
how the whole world of inward existence 
passes before us, while putting only a small 
portion of it on paper! With how much is 
every letter combined, whether of business or 
of affection ! The room is filled with the 
ghosts of departed hours, often unnoticed and 
unremembered ; but, when recalled by some 
chance circumstance, how vivid, and how dis- 
tinct do they rise upon the memory ! 

The chamber in which Lord Norbourne was 
seated, was especially one of this kind ; it had 



been his own room for years, ana was crowd- 
ed with all that marked his character and his 
taste. It was not large, but of unusual height, 
and fitted up with great costliness. The 
bookcases were ebony, inlaid with green mo- 
rocco, and so were the tables, and the curtains 
were of crimson velvet. They were closely 
drawn, but you could hear a gentle rain beat- 
ing against the window panes. There were 
few pictures, but each a masterpiece. A 
sunny landscape of Claude Lorraine's, con- 
trasted the stormy darkness of one by Salva- 
tor Rosa ; while the spiritual loveliness of a 
" Madonna," by Guiclo, was opposed to the 
passionate beauty of a " Fornarini," by Ra- 
phael. Only one modern picture was admit- 
ted, and that was a likeness of Constance, 
painted under her father's especial instructions. 
It was not taken in the dress of the time ; but 
a loose white robe was gathered in with a few 
simple folds at the waist. The long hair of 
the palest gold was just parted on the fore- 
head, and then fell unbound to the waist. 
Not an ornament of any kind was introduced, 
only one white thin hand held a bunch of lilies. 
The likeness was very strong; and the artist 
had caught, with great felicity, the sweet ex- 
pression, the purity and the fragility which 
were Constance's great charm. You believed 
in angels as you gazed upon her face. On 
either side of the hearth sat Lord Norbourne 
and Mr. Courtenaye; they had dined together, 
and the wine and fruit still stood on the small 
table drawn between them, where strawberries 
and cherries were not in strict accordance with 
the cheerful fire. But Lord Norbourne was 
greatly in advance cf his age, and, as to the 
matter of that, of our own. He had no vague, 
false notions of beginning fires in November, 
and ending them in May ; but had arrived at 
the philosophical conclusion, that there are 
very few evenings, in all the year, that a fire 
is not a consummation of domestic felicity in 
England most devoutly to be wished. 

Norbourne had been exerting himself to 
amuse his uncle, but with little success ; and 
the conversation languished till the servants 
had left the room. 

" I have seemed very ungracious," said 
Lord Norbourne ; " but I am too much occu- 
pied with one subject to be able to talk on any 
other." 

" What is it ?" exclaimed Courtenaye : "I 
will, at least, promise to be an attentive 
listener." 

" That I do not doubt," replied his uncle, 
with a forced smile ; " for I am going to talk 
about your marrying again." 

Norbourne coloured ; and, after a moment's 
silence, said, — 

" This is a very painful subject. For both 
our sakes, might it not be avoided ?" 

" No," returned the other ; " the confidence 
that now exists between us, and to which I 
cling as the last happiness of my life, must be 
unbroken by even the shadow of a restraint. 
Would you wish it otherwise, Norbourne .«"' 

" My dearest uncle !" exclaimed his listenei. 

" We shall feel more at ease," continued 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



103 



Lord No-bourne, " when each fully under- 
stands tl.3 feelings of the other. I have 
shrunk, I own, from the subject; but an inter- 
view tha: I had this morning induces me to 
defer it no longer. I saw Miss Churchill to- 
day." 

" Ethel !" exclaimed Norbourne, his strong 
and uncontrollable emotion betraying the 
power that her name still had over him : he 
tried to say something more, but the words 
died on his lips. 

" I never saw so lovely a creature," conti- 
nued his uncle* ''I do not now wonder that 
3 r ou found it so hard to forgive me. Ah, I was 
wrong, very wrong !" 

" My dear uncle," interrupted the other, 
" let there be some remembrances buried for- 
ever in oblivion between us." 

" Not yet," returned Lord Norbourne. " I 
feel what I owe you ; the future must repay 
the past." 

" I cannot bear you to speak thus," inter- 
rupted Courtenaye. " When I think of that 
gentle creature whose sweet eyes are now 
looking upon us, as if indeed they looked from 
heaven ; when I recall all your kindness, and 
all your affection, — I feel, indeed, that you 
have a right to dispose of my whole exist- 
ence." 

" I should be glad to do so for 3 r our happi- 
ness, replied his uncle, in a tone of earnest 
affection : "I always loved you, but the last 
few months have drawn us so much together. 
There is a tie between us nothing can break." 

" Nothing, indeed !" replied Norbourne, 
taking his uncle's hand. 

Both were silent for a few minutes, when 
Lord Norbourne resumed the conversation. 

"But you do not ask me how, when, and 
where ? — have you no curiosity to hear where 
I met with Miss Churchill ?" 

Norbourne smiled, and his uncle continued. 

" Of all places in the world, at Sir Robert 
Walpole's villa at Chelsea." 

His listener looked astonished, and added, 
in a whisper, — " You call her Miss Church- 
ill ; how is it that you know her by that name 
rather than her present one ?" 

" Why, Miss Churchill is her present name ; 
but I forget that you know nothing of her his- 
tory. That singularly foolish old lady, her 
grandmother, got up a sort of caricature con- 
spiracy, and Miss Churchill was to have been 
married to a coxcombical Jacobite, of the name 
of Trevanion ; but he was arrested in the 
church, though he has since escaped by means 
of the jailors daughter." 

" But what could bring Miss Churchill to 
London ?" 

"Why, her grandmother came off at once 
to see what friends she could find ; but a fool- 
ish visit to the Dutchess of Buckingham, some 
indiscreet letters, and Mr. Trevanion's escape, 
made Mrs. Churchill the object of serious 
suspicion. Lady Marchmont — it is extraor- 
dinary how women do learn every thino-! — 
heard that an arrest was intended, and what 
does she and her fair friend do, but set oft, like 



two errant damsels in a romance, to obtain a 
pardon from Sir Robert." 

" And how did they succeed ?" asked Nor- 
bourne. 

" Why, just as might be expected," replied 
his uncle, " not. at all : Walpole thought them 
two fools for their pains ; and, irritated by the 
gout, dismissed them with as little ceremony 
as possible." 

"And can nothing be done for the poor, old 
lady ?" exclaimed Courtenaye, eagerly. 

"And the pretty young one ?" returned his 
lordship, laughing. " Why, I have been a 
complete Amadis of Gaul this morning, rescu- 
ing distressed beauty, if not from pe.il, from 
perplexity. I met Lady Marchmont on the 
terrace, not a little surprised to meet her lady- 
ship there." 

"Lord Marchmont is in the opposition, is 
he not ?" asked his nephew. 

" Yes, for the time being ; not that he knows 
very well what he is. We care little for him, 
his solemn lordship is one of those never long 
attached to any party, it being quite impossi- 
ble to come up to their exaggerated ideas of 
self-importance. They reckon time by a se- 
ries of personal affronts ; for an aptitude to 
take offence is the constant characteristic of 
their low, dull vanity — a vanity never satis- 
fied. Still it surprised me to meet Lady 
Marchmont at Chelsea." 

" I never," said Norbourne, " observed any 
similarity of opinion between the brilliant 
countess and her lord and master." 

" True," returned the other ; " but you must 
have noted, as well as I have done, a careful 
avoidance of any thing like direct opposition 
to Lord Marchmont ; therefore, I certainly 
wondered at her appearance." 

" But how did she interest you in their fa- 
vour ?" asked his nephew. 

" By introducing Miss Churchill," said 
Lord Norbourne, earnestly. " Norbourne, till 
I saw that lovely face — so pale, so sad — I 
never felt how little had her happiness been 
considered. I cannot tell j T ou how I was 
touched by her appearance ; — what a relief it 
was to me when I found that I could serve 
her." 

" My dearest uncle," exclaimed Norbourne, 
" how little are people in general aware ot 
how kind you are !" 

" I care for the opinion of people in gene- 
ral," replied his companion, " precisely what 
it is worth — nothing ! Every hour my con- 
tempt increases for the herd of mankind. 
False, flattering, and cowardly, — treating them 
ill is only giving them their deserts, and they 
treat you all the better in consequence. Tram 
pie them under foot, and then, being in their 
proper places, they know how to behave." 

"It is very discouraging," answered the 
other, " to find how often kindness is thrown 
away ; but it will not be so in the present in- 
stance." 

" That is a hint, is it not, to go on with my 
story ?" asked Lord Norbourne, smiling 
" Well, I found Sir Robert in a very bad hu 



104 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



mour : some silly vote, and still sillier speech, 
of Lord Marchmont had irritated him the night 
before ; and the names of the very gentlemen 
to whom Miss Churchill had referred as their 
securities, enraged him to the last degree. It 
was owing to their opposition that our mem- 
ber lost his election for the county." 

"How unfortunate! 1 ' cried Courtenaye. 

" ' All's well that ends well,' " replied his 
uncle. " Sir Robert was, at first, very much 
surprised at my taking up the case, and obvi- 
ously did not know to the influence of which 
lady he was to attribute it. I believe his op- 
position, in the first instance, originated in the 
fear that, by thus acting, I was making a fool 
of myself." 

"An alarm as unnecessary, as the alarms 
our friends entertain on our account generally 
are. A friend is never alarmed for us in the 
right place. But how did you manage to con- 
vince Sir Robert that you were in your sober 
senses ?" 

"Why, I did what I always do," returned 
his uncle, "to a man for whom I have a re- 
spect, — I told him the truth. I frankly 
avowed that I tc'ok an interest in Miss Church- 
ill, and on your account." 

Norbourne coloured, from mixed sensations ; 
still hope was the predominant one. 

" I believe that the whole business," conti- 
nued his uncle, " is now settled. I do not 
think that you will regret Mrs. Churchill 
being obliged to remain in town for some time 
to come ; and if the fine does dip somewhat 
deeply into the old lady's hoards, it matters 
little ; for whoever you marry will be unto me 
as a daughter." 

Norbourne could only look at his uncle 
with grateful affection ; and Lord Norbourne 
continued : — 

"I think, Norbourne, that I could do any 
thing for yourself; yet shall I tell you that my 
present line of conduct does not arise from my 
own prompting." 

"To whose then ?" exclaimed Norbourne, 
in undisguised astonishment. 

"lam" answered Lord Norbourne, "but 
fulfilling the last wishes of our poor Con- 
stance. You do not even now know how 
precious your happiness was to that gentle 
and loving heart." 

" I cannot bear," exclaimed Norbourne, " to 
think of happiness, and Constance in her 
grave. Ah, if she did but know the sorrow I 
have felt for her sake." 

" If," returned her father, " according to her 
own sweet belief, the departed yet watch the 
Lttltwed en earth, how would she wish to 
soothe an unavailing regret ! But you must 
cow see a letter I found, addressed to me, after 
1 « dee&h." 

Lord Norbourne rose from his seat; and, 
r:»;lock*ng one of the closets, took from it a 
<Vl' A X\ lYoty casket. "You open it," said he 
" 'i.^3ken voice, "by touching this spring. 
--?:',! tsae letter it contains, and return it to me 
V; ;< - { rrrow. Tt is a treasure with which I 
;,..t<., ~n part for any thing in this world." 



CHAPTER LXX. 

THE LAST LETTER. 

Strong as the death it masters, is the hope 

That onward looks to immortality : 

Let the frame perish, so the soul survive, 

Pure, spiritual, and loving. I believe 

The grave exalts, not separates, the ties 

That hold us in affection to our kind. 

I will look down from yonder pitying sky, 

Watching and waiting those I loved on earth 

Anxious in heaven, until they too are there. 

I will attend your guardian angel's side, 

And weep away your faults with holy tears; 

Your midnight shall be fill'd with solemn thought 

And when, at length, death brings you to my love, 

Mine the first welcome heard in Paradise. 

Norbourne delayed opening the casket till 
alone in his room ; and even then he lingered. 
There was something exquisitely painful in 
the memories that crowded upon his mind : a 
thousand of Constance's daily acts of affec- 
tion rose before him : never till this moment 
had he felt them unrequited; but now they 
were remembered like a reproach. He could 
not accuse himself of a moment's unkindness, 
or even coldness ; from the hour that they 
stood at the altar together, her happiness had 
been the most sacred and the most tender care 
in life ; but now he felt as if he had wronged 
her in not loving her entirely. The image of 
another had been in his heart, — might not its 
shadow have sometimes fallen upon her ? 
Any occupation was better than this mood of 
morbid dejection ; and, suddenly drawing the 
lamp towards him, he opened the casket. 
The first things he saw were the long tresses 
of fair hair, which her father had had cut off 
after Constance's death. Norbourne's heart 
smote him, that he had not thought of them as 
a sad memorial. His eyes filled with tears, 
as he took up the glittering lengths. Their 
pale gold was lovely as ever ; but there was 
something in the touch from which he invo- 
luntarily recoiled. It is strange the difference 
between the hair of the living and the dead : 
the one so soft, so fragrant, and falling ; the 
other so harsh, so scentless, and so straight. 
In nothing is the presence of mortality more 
strongly marked. 

There was a perfume hung about the casket ; 
but it came not from that coldly golden hair : 
it rose from the withered leaves of some 
flowers, whose scent outlived their colours. 
Norbourne at once recognised the riband he 
himself had put round the roses the night of 
that festival whose end had been so fatal. 

" Alas !" exclaimed he, " how tenderly hag 
her father garnered these tokens of the past!" 
and again he felt as if he ought to have done 
likewise. 

Below these lay the letter. Norbourne 
could see that it had been often read ; and on 
it were the trace of tears — tears shed by the 
proud, the reserved Lord Norbourne. He felt 
that his uncle did, indeed, love him as his 
own son, or never would he have let him look 
on these proofs of the tenderest sorrow, — the 
most gentle affection. He took up the letter : 
well did he know the delicate and graceful 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



105 



handwriting ; but he saw that the characters 
were tremulous, and it had obviously been 
written at different times. How much did it 
betray of the heart struggling- for expression 
with bodily weakness ! At first the page 
swam before him ; but, with a strong effort, 
he at last read the contents. 

LETTER OF CONSTANCE TO HER FATHER. 

My dearest Father, — Before you begin 
the following letter, I entreat your patient 
kindness if there be aught in its contents to 
grieve or to displease you. If you could 
know the relief that it is to me to write, you 
would, I know, forgive me. 

Before you read this letter, the child whom 
your affection has made so happy, will be 
cold in the grave. Read it, my beloved pa- 
rent, as the expression of my latest wish on 
earth — the wish that will be next my heart 
when it ceases to beat. I know that I am dy- 
ing ; and but for your sake, my father, I could 
be glad to die. You know not how weary I 
often feel, nor the cold sickness that often 
comes over me. The day is very long, and 
the night yet longer. Things that I used to 
love, now only fatigue me. I gaze into the 
sunshine, and my eyes close with its bright- 
ness. I look upon my flowers only to ask 
whether they or I shall be the first to fade. 
There was a time when I was sad to think of 
death, when I shuddered at the thought of the 
dark and cold tomb : but God, in his mercy, 
allowed not such terror to last. I used to 
shrink from the grave, where love was not : 
but I now feel that his love is with us even 
there. Few are the ties that now bind me to 
this weary world, and they will be with me 
in eternity. 

My father, it is your old age left childless 
that is my abiding sorrow. I fear your proud 
and self-sufficing nature. Who will force you 
to love when I am gone ? You will be un- 
happy, and your unhappiness will take the 
seeming of sternness and of sarcasm : and yet, 
if you would allow it, there is one who would 
love you almost as much as I have done. 
Norbourne has for you an affection that but 
few sons have for their father. He admires, 
he understands you ; and confidence on your 
part, and return, will make him your affec- 
tionate and devoted child. I sometimes hope 
that it will be so, for my sake. You will 
grieve together over my loss : and grief sub- 
dues and draws those who share it together. 

And now, dearest father, for what I long, 
yet dread to say. Norbourne is young ; he 
will, I believe, I hope, marry again. May 
she whom he marries be to you as a daughter! 
Let her be such ; you can make any one love 
you whom you choose. I have long felt that 
it was yuur influence over my cousin that 
made me his wife ; for he never loved me. 
Do not start at this : I was a child when I 
married — a child in every thing but my pas- 
sionate love ; but I grew to womanhood 
rapidly. I seem to have lived years, so much 

Vol. II 14 



have I thought and felt during the last few 
months. I have learnt the secret of others 
from my own heart, and that taught me that 
my cousin had for me only the affection of a 
brother. How unlike my own feverish, un- 
tranquil, and fearful fondness for him ! yet 
how kind he always was ! how tender in his 
even feminine care of me ! Hour after hour 
has he turned from all study, all employment, 
all amusement, to watch and soothe my sick 
fancies. I could not help being happy in his 
presence; and yet his absence has often been 
a relief. I have wept with painful gratitude 
over the favourite flowers that, every morning, 
he would allow no one to gather for me but 
himself. Still there lacked that sympathy 
which taught me to read his thoughts without 
a word. Nothing but 16ve can answer to love ; 
no affection, no kindness, no care, can supply 
its place : it is its own sweet want. 

Do you remember my fainting at Marble 
Villa ? A sudden and dreadful jealousy of 
Lady Marchmont entered my mind. God only 
can forgive me for all I then thought! for 
God only can know the agony of my suffer- 
ing. A moment's frantic misery led to an 
explanation with Lady Marchmont ; and I 
learnt that my wretchedness had been vain. 
But not with my jealousy of her, who was 
afterwards my dear and true friend, did the 
knowledge depart that suc*h jealousy had 
brought. I could not observe Norbourne's 
feelings without perceiving how different they 
were to mine. There was an anxiety about 
his kindness, which too often appeared as if it 
had something to make up to its object. 

From discovering that he did not love me, 
it was but a step to finding that he loved an- 
other. I have watched him read , first earnest- 
ly; then the page has been closed uncon- 
sciously, and he remained lost in a gloomy 
revery. I have opened the volume when he 
left the room, and found that the record was 
of ill-placed affection. Often have I noted 
how he shrank away from any conversation 
that turned on those tender, yet deep senti- 
ments on which I could have talked to him 
forever : and, alas ! worst of all to bear — I 
have bent over his feverish and troubled sleep : 
there was a name breathed amid his dreams, 
but that name was not mine. 

My father, I charge 3 r ou with the care of 
his future happiness : think that it is the last, 
the dearest wish of your child. In the mutual 
affection between you and my husband, I see 
the resource of your old age. His ties will 
become yours, and a new growth of kindly 
interests and warm affections will spring up 
under the shadow of the old. If, as I some- 
times hope, the departed spirit is permitted to 
retain in another world those affections which 
made its heaven on earth, how tenderly will [ 
watch over you ! 

My beloved father, our parting is but for a 
season. Not in vain have these divine words 
been spoken, whose comfort is with me even 
now. I die in their glorious faith, and in 
their cheering hope. If I die, as I trust to do. 



106 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



watching the fa^es that I love to the last, these 
words shall be my latest gift to you, my fa- 
ther ; they will bring- their own pow er. 

I am very faint, I can write no more. I 
commend my dearest husband to you; and 
that God may bless, and reunite us all, is the 
latest prayer of 

Your affectionate child, 

Constance. 



CHAPTER LXXI 

A REQUEST REFUSED. 

Age is a dreary thing when left alone : 
It needs the sunshine brought by fresher years ; 
It lives its youth again while seeing youth, 
And childhood brings its childhood back again. 

B'lt for the lonely and the aged man 
Left to the silent hearth, the vacant home 
Where no sweet voices sound, no light steps come 
Disturbing memory from its heaviness— 
Wo for such lot ! 'tis life's most desolate ! 
Age needeth love and youth to cheer the path— 
The short dark pathway leading to the tomb. 

"Is Lord Marchmont not yet come in?" 
asked the countess, with a degree of impa- 
tience which her husband's return was not 
commonly in the habit of calling forth. 

" No, my lady," replied the servant. 

"You will let me know the moment he 
comes in." 

" Yes, my lady ;" and he disappeared. 

" How I do hate," exclaimed Henrietta, 
"those mechanical 'yeses' and 'noes!' I 
wish everybody else was an impatient as my- 
self. Though, perhaps," added she, half- 
smiling, "it is as well that they are not." 

A few hasty turns up and down the luxuri- 
ous room, and she resumed her seat, and began 
again to read the letter, which lay open on. a 
table beside. It was from Sir Jasper ; and, 
for the first time, he asked her to come and 
see him. The letter was written with cheer- 
ful words ; but, tc the quick eye of affection, 
there lacked the cheerful spirit. 

"It is selfish," wrote her uncle, " to ask 
you to leave all your gayety, all your triumphs, 
to share an old man's solitude ; but I wish it 
very much; and my dear child must, indeed, 
be changed, if it be not a pleasure to gratify 
that wish. Summer is now in great beauty, 
but I. cannot enjoy our green walks without a 
companion ; and I want you to see how all 
your favourite flowers have prospered under 
my care. You must come and be grateful. 
Ethel Churchill — it was very kind of her to 
write to me — says, that I shall find you equal- 
ly altered and improved ; so you see, dear 
Henrietta, I need to refresh my memory even 
of you. Come you must, or rather, you will ; 
for I have already made all kinds of prepara- 
tions for your arrival." 

"Why," exclaimed Henrietta, "have I left 
t to him to ask me ? why have I not proposed 
going to him ? why have I allowed Lord 
Marchmont's trivial excuses for delay, to 
postpone a visit which would have made my 
ancle so happy ? But I will go at once." 

Ao-ain she began to read her letter, when, 



suddenly letting it fall, she turned pale. A 
terrible fear had entered into her mind : the 
handwriting was certainly more tremulous 
than usual. He was ill, and would not tell 
her so. At once her imagination conjured up 
a thousand shapes of suffering. She saw her 
uncle — sick, lonely, and pining for his child. 
She could not bear the picture ; and, covering 
her face with her hands, as if to exclude it, 
began to weep bitterly. 

At this moment Lord Marchmont enteied 
the room in a very bad humour ; for one of the 
servants, sent by Lady Marchmont to seek 
him, had, by giving his message aloud, that 
Lady Marchmont requested him to come home 
immediately, as she wanted to speak to him 
on a matter of the utmost consequence, placed 
him under the decent and disagreeable neces- 
sity of returning at once, before a bet was de- 
cided, whether his own cook, or that of Lord 
Montagle's would prepare a single dish to the 
greatest perfection. The jury of taste had been 
impannelled, and here was he summoned 
away ten minutes before the dishes came up. 
It was a trying circumstance, if not to his phi- 
losophy, to his temper. 

" What is the matter ?•" asked he, on enter- 
ing the drawing-room, and finding Henrietta 
sobbing ; " what can induce you to disfigure 
yourself so by crying ?" 

" My uncle is ill, very ill !" exclaimed 
Henrietta, speaking, however, more from the 
fears of her excited fancy than from the actual 
contents of the letter. 

" Sir Jasper ill !" replied Lord Marchmont, 
with the most decorous expression of distress ; 
" I am grieved to hear of it. When did you 
receive the truly painful intelligence ?" 

" O, may I not go to him at once ?" cried 
Henrietta, alive to nothing but her own alarm. 

"I should, of course, however illtimed and 
inconvenient to myself, wish you to do what 
was most proper on the occasion. But you 
know," continued he, " that you are too apt 
to exaggerate : perhaps you will allow me 
again to repeat my question of, When did you 
receive the information of Sir Jasper's alarm- 
ing illness ?" 

" Read his letter," exclaimed the countess, 
wringing her hands impatiently. 

Lord Marchmont deliberately took up the 
epistle, first smoothing, with great care, a 
crease that had been made by folding it up in 
a different form to the original one. Twice, 
then, he changed its position, till the light fell 
upon it exactly as he liked ; while Lady 
Marchmont watched him in a perfect fever of 
anxiety. 

" There is nothing relative to indisposition 
in the first page," said he, after taking time 
enough, as his wife thought, to have read 
twenty letters. " But Sir Jasper has a great 
talent for epistolary correspondence — to be 
sure he has nothing else to do ; but my time 
is of great importance. Perhaps your lady 
ship will have the kindness to point out the 
passage referring to his illness." 

" Read the end," said "Henrietta, more fever 
ish, and more irritable every moment. 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



10? 



Lord Marchmont slowly turned over the 
pages, smoothing them as he went along. 
"I cannot say much for your ladyship's care 
of Sir Jaspers letters." 

" Never mind ; only, do read it," interrupt- 
ed the countess. 

Again his lordship began his long and de- 
liberate perusal, while Henrietta watched the 
slow motion of his eyes with a degree of im- 
petuosity she could scarcely repress. 

"Why, surely," cried she, "you are not 
going to read it again !" 

" Indeed, I need to do so ; for I cannot find 
that Sir Jasper makes the slightest allusion to 
his illness." 

" He is too kind, too good !" exclaimed 
Lady Marchmont : "I know he would not 
alarm me for the world ; but I see it in his un- 
steady writing," 

" Sir Jasper is advanced in life, you could 
not expect his hand to be as steady as mine," 
returned her husband, very calmly. 

"But his anxiety to see me," interrupted 
Henrietta. 

" Is exceeding^ natural. There never was 
any thing so dull as Meredith Place. I shall 
never forget the few weeks that I spent there." 

" It was our honeymoon," thought his 
beautiful wife to herself; but she said nothing. 

" I really must, once for all," added Lord 
Marchmont, in an unusually solemn tone, "re- 
quest that your ladyship will not give way to 
these whims and caprices. Nothing could he 
more inconvenient than the way in which you 
sent for me this morning. You never consi- 
der what you interrupt: and, after all, Sir Jas- 
per's illness exists only in your own fancy." 

" Well, well," returned Lady Marchmont, 
whose patience was fairly exhausted, "at 
least you will allow me to judge for myself. 
I purpose leaving London to-night." 

" Leaving London to-night !" ejaculated her 
husband — " are you mad ? Why, we dine at 
the prince's to-day." 

"What do I care for the prince?" cried 
Henrietta : " I must and will go to my uncle." 

" Must and will, Lady Marchmont, are 
words which my own proper sense of my au- 
thority cannot permit, you to use. I beg to 
state, definitely, that I cannot permit you to 
leave London at present. It is very obvious 
how much his royal highness admires you ; 
and court favour is too fleeting not to be made 
the most of while it lasts." 

" But think how anxious my poor uncle is 
to see me !" said Henrietta, in a most plead- 
ing tone. 

"It is fortunate that you have a calmer 
judgment to direct you than your own!" re- 
plied Lord Marchmont. "I have an idea — " 

"Have you really?" thought Henrietta; 
" take care of it, for it is your first !" 

" Instead of going to see Sir Jasper, let us 
ask him to come and see us : of course, the 
invitation ought to be from the master of the 
house ; I shall, therefore, write to him my- 
self." 

"My uncle will never leave home," cried 
Henrietta. 



" I am sure," returned Lord Marchmont, 
" there is nothing so very delightful in Mere- 
dith Place, that I remember, to induce its mas* 
ter always to stay there ; so let me beg you to 
compose yourself. No woman who has the 
least respect for herself should ever cry, it ig 
peculiarly unbecoming ; and now I have the 
honour to wish you a good morning. Hav 
you any commands when I write to your 
uncle ?" 

"None!" replied Henrietta; and, as the 
door closed, she flung herself back among the 
cushions, exclaiming, " 0, that I had never 
married !" 



CHAPTER LXXII. 

THE TRUTH OF PRESENTIMENTS. 

I felt my sorrow ere it came, 

As storms are felt on high, 
Before a single cloud denote 

Their presence on the sky. 

The heart has omens deep and true 

That ask no aid from words ; 
Like viewless music from the harp 

With none to wake its chords. 

Strange, subtle, are these mysteries, 
And linlcd with unknown powers-. 

Marking mysterious links that bind 
The spirit world to ours. 

Henrietta wept long and bitterly ; in vain 
did she try to gain some composure by read- 
ing and rereading Sir Jasper's letter. True, 
there was not even an allusion to illness in 
any way ; parts were even playful in their 
cheerfulness ; still she felt assured that there 
was something unusual in the earnestly ex- 
pressed wish to see her. Her uncle had al- 
ways been so reluctant to urge his claims on 
her time or attention, so fearful of abridging 
even her slightest pleasure, that it was no 
ordinary motive that induced him to urge her 
visit. 

"Alas!" exclaimed she, " what a mistake 
is our endeavour after happiness ! I have all 
that haunted my childish dreams in our lonely 
woods ; I have wealth, rank, beauty, and 
wretchedness ! I pine for love, and none love 
me, save one kind old man, and he is far 
away, suffering solitude I might share, and 
sickness I could soothe !" 

The time had passed quicker than she had 
thought; and a message from Lord March- 
mont, conveying the important intelligence 
that he was gone to dress, and particularly 
requesting that her ladyship would be punc- 
tual, was the first thing that roused her. She 
started from her seat. 

" Perhaps," thought she, " if I show March- 
mont a readiness to oblige him to-day, and 
make myself very agreeable, to-morrow I may 
renew the subject of my visit, and persuade 
him into consenting." 

But her heart sank within her when she 
thought of the cold, chill obstinacy of her hus- 
band ; even her toilet could not distract her 
attention. The rich brocade enveloped her 
graceful figure, and the diamonds glistened in 



108 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



her luxuriant hair, yet they scarcely won a 
glance from the wearer : but Lady Marchmont 
had that perfect style of beauty which nothing 
could disfigure. Mere prettiness needs the 
becoming, but beauty asks nothing- but itself. 

The dinner was dull enough ; and that worst 
sort of dulness which frets the spirits, by 
perpetual demands on their exertion. Lady 
Marchmont was glad w T hen it was over ; and 
she entered her carriage to return home alone, 
for Lord Marchmont was going to his club, he 
had lately taken to whist-playing. As she 
alighted, there seemed an unusual stir in the 
hall; servants came forward to meet her, and 
then started back; she knew without asking 
that something was the matter, and scarcely 
could she find voice to ask a question, which 
her own fears answered. An old domestic 
came forward ; she knew him at once, he had 
lived for years with her uncle : she clasped 
her hands, her lips moved, but no sound came 
from them. 

" Madam," said the man, " we have ordered 
the travelling carriage ; I trust you will yet be 
in time to see my master." 

Lady Marchmont neither shrieked nor faint- 
ed, though lip and cheek blanched to the most 
deadly whiteness. 

"In time to see him!" muttered she ; and 
her hollow whisper seemed to reverberate 
through the hall. " Where is the carriage ?" 
said she, hurrying to the door. 

" Won't your ladyship change your dress ?" 
asked her favourite maid, who stood ready 
prepared for the journey. 

"No," exclaimed Henrietta, opening the 
hall door herself, and hurrying down the steps, 
where the carriage stood waiting : " tell the 
postilions to drive for life and death !" ex- 
claimed she, springing in without assistance ; 
and, throwing herself back, drew the hood of 
her mantle over her face. 

Her favourite woman followed her in si- 
lence ; she saw that the advice and directions 
with which she was generally ready, would 
not even be heard. Like the other servants, 
she was awed by her mistress's pale and 
speechless despair. During the whole of the 
journey, Henrietta never spoke but twice, and 
that was to urge the attendants to speed. Now 
and then a slight shudder passed through her 
frame ; it was when the image of her uncle 
rose too painfully distinct before her: she 
dared not ask even herself, should she see 
him again ? 

On Lord Marchmont's return, he too, was 
struck with the unusual appearance of confu- 
sion in his hall ; but anger was his predomi- 
nant sensation when he heard that Henrietta 
had actually set off without waiting one mo- 
ment. 

" She must be mad !" exclaimed he, " to go 
without consulting me, and without my per- 
mission !" 

" Her ladyship thought, perhaps, that you 
would overtake her," said one of the attend- 
ants. 

" She thought very wrong then," said Lord 
Marchmont, pettishly : " she may go on her 



wildgoose-chase alone, I am not going half 
over the country on such a night as this 
Why, it rains in torrents !" 

The idea that it was more comfortable in 
the house than out of it, did much towards re- 
conciling his lordship. He felt positively 
glad that, as his wife had acted without his 
sanction, she should be subject to all possible 
inconvenience, as if such coulpl be felt in Hen- 
rietta's state of mind. 

" Some of Sir Jasper's property," muttered 
he to himself, on his way to his dressing- 
room, " is yet unsettled. I do not think that 
there is any danger of. his leaving it away 
from Henrietta ; still, old men are capricious, 
and, perhaps, it is as well that Henrietta is on 
the spot : at all events, if she had stayed till to- 
morrow, I must have accompanied her; now, 
that will be perfectly needless." 

He then allowea his valet to help him on 
with his dressing-gown ; and, leaning back in 
the large w r ell-cushioned chair, looking the 
very picture of luxurious ease, said, " I shall 
have a bottle of the old Burgundy, and tell 
Chloe he must exert himself to send me up 
some slight chcf-d > c£iivre for supper: I am sure 
that one needs something, after so much an- 
noyance !" 



CHAPTER LXXIII. 

RETURN HOME. 

'Tis not my home— he made it home 

With earnest love and care ; 
How can it be my own dear home, 

And. he no longer there 1 

I ask'd to meet my father's eyes, 

But they were closed to me ; 
My father, would that I were laid 

In the dark grave with thee. 

Where should I look for constant love, 

To answer unto mine 1 
Others had many kindred hearts, 

But I had only thine. 

The shades of the evening closed round 
just as Henrietta gave one sad start, and 
turned her face from the carriage-window, as 
she first recognised a familiar object: it was 
a clump of firs that grew on a hill, and were a 
landmark to the country for miles around. 
Now, they stood dark and phantomlike, 
thrown out by the crimson sky behind. Her 
heart sickened with impatience, the time 
seemed longer now that they drew so near; 
gradually, the long shadows mingled together, 
objects became confused, and it was necessary 
to light the lamps and flambeaux, and the 
avant-courier began to sound his horn : it was 
dangerous to risk meeting another carriage in 
the then state of the roads. All these prepa- 
rations wound the anxiety of Lady Marchmont 
to a pitch of feverish agony : her cheek burnt, 
her hand trembled ; she felt a sensation of 
choking in the throat; she felt confused, 
dizzy, and yet with one terror present and 
paramount over all. The carriage stopped; 
and, for the first time, a scream rose to her 
lips : she knew that it was at the lodge that 
they were stopping. It was but a moment, 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



109 



•.'or the gates were open, the porter was not at | 
his lodge, and they drove in. 

" Let me out !" exclaimed Henrietta, as the 
heavy vehicle made its second pause at the 
hall-door. She sprang from the carriage, and 
ran into the house: "Where is my uncle ?" 
cried she ; hut the question was received in 
dead silence hy the assembled servants: the 
silence was sufficient answer. " He is dead !" 
said Henrietta, aloud : "I knew it ■" and she 
stood as if rooted to the ground in the middle 
of the hall. 

None who ever saw her ever forgot her to 
their dying day ; her mantle had dropped on 
the ground, and her long hair, yet partly ga- 
thered up with jewels, fell in black masses 
over her shoulders. From the feverish pain 
in her temples, she had pushed it back from 
her forehead, and the whole face was exposed. 
It was like that of a corpse, with a strange 
unnatural spot of red burning on either cheek, 
and the large eyes fixed and glaring, but with 
no expression. No one had courage to speak 
to her, and there she stood for some minutes : 
a slight movement among the servants recalled 
her to herself; she started, and hurried at once 
to her uncle's room. A dim light showed the 
dark velvet bed, with its hearse-like plumes, 
and one or two spectral figures, that seemed to 
flit round its obscurity : Henrietta saw but 
one object, the form extended cold and rigid, 
and the pale and set face, that would never 
more look affection upon her. Quietly, almost 
calmly, she approached ; and, standing by the 
bedside, gazed steadfastly on the body : at 
last, clasping her hands passionately together, 
"Leave me!" exclaimed she, throwing her- 
self on her knees beside the bed. The wo- 
men obeyed ; but, ere the door closed, they 
heard the long suppressed sobs of the heart's 
uttermost agony. 

Again and again did Henrietta start from 
her knees ; and, dashing the tears from her 
eyes, gaze on the face of the dead, hoping, 
almost expecting, that some trace of life 
would appear, and as often did she dash her- 
self down in fruitless despair : there was that on 
those cold, white features, none ever mistake. 

" If I had but seen him, heard his last 
words, caught his last look, and told him yet 
once again how I loved him, I could bear his 
death ; but to know that his latest look rested 
on others, that he wished to see me and did 
not, it is too much to bear !" and again a violent 
burst of weeping supplied the place of words. 

An hour elapsed, and the attendants re- 
turned, but Lady March mont again dismissed 
them : that night she had resolved to watch 
beside the dead. It is well that the body 
sometimes sinks beneath the mind ; Henrietta 
could not have borne such intense misery, but 
she grew faint. For nearly two days she had 
taken neither food nor rest, and even the relief 
of tears had been denied to her uncertain and 
feverish suspense. When the attendants came 
in the morning, they found her, her long black 
hair wet with tears, her cheek burning, but 
asleep beside the corpse. It was the heavy 
vvornout slumber of exhaustion. 

Vol. II. 



CHAPTER LXXIV. 

THE LAST NIGHT WITH THE DEAD. 

How awful is the presence of the dead ! 
The hours rebuked, stand silent at their side 
Passions are hush'd before that stern repose ; 
Two, and two only, sad exceptions share — 
Sorrow and love,— and these are paramount. 
How deep the sorrow, and how strong the love 
Seeming as utterly unfelt before. 
Ah ! parting tries their depths. At once arise 
Affection's treasures, never dream'd till then. 
Death teaches heavy lessons, hard to Lear ; 
And most it teaches us what we have lost, 
In losing those who loved us. 

Henrietta crowded a life's suffering into 
the next week. There is need of change, even 
with the dead ; and each of the mournful rites 
preceding interment brought on a frantic out- 
burst of sorrow. The placing the body in the 
coffin was a dreadful struggle ; but when it 
became needful to screw down the lid, then, 
indeed, she felt that she had parted with her 
kind old uncle forever. No entreaties could 
prevail on her to leave the room ; she sat with 
her head enveloped in her mantle, her pre- 
sence only indicated by a quick convulsive 
sob, at any pause in that peculiar and jarring 
sound. She had, on the second day, recog- 
nised, and spoken with her usual kindness to 
the old servants ; indeed, it was something of 
a consolation to gather every possible detail 
respecting her unci e. The account was sooth- 
ing, rather than otherwise ; he appeared in his 
usual health and spirits till the attack, which 
carried him off in two days. He had suffered 
but little pain ; and his last words were a 
blessing on his beloved child. 

" If he had but been spared a few hours," 
was her constant exclamation : " his last look, 
his last word — I could lay down my life to 
have had them !" 

Ah ! the tender and solemn farewell be- 
side the bed of death is, indeed, a consola- 
tion to the survivor ! There is nothing so 
soothing as to know that the last earthly wish 
has been confided to your fulfilment, the last 
expressions of earthly affection have been your 
own. The eyes closing to tbeir last cold 
sleep, rested upon you, and were glad to rest; 
and your prayers were the latest music in the 
w r eary ear. It is some comfort to think that 
you sacrificed even your own sorrow in the 
beloved presence ; and the thousand sad, slight 
offices, are remembered with such melancholy 
tenderness. But all this was denied to Hen- 
rietta, and hers was a nature to feel their pri- 
vation most acutely ; sensitive and affectionate, 
she exaggerated their omission with all the 
bitterness of self-reproach. 

At length the day of the funeral came ; and, 
till the coffin was carried to the hearse, Lady 
Marchmont never felt that she was quite 
parted from her uncle. She saw him, even as 
she had last gazed upon him, pale, cold, and 
awful ; but still he was there. The coffin 
was to her like a shrine ; all that she held 
most dear and most precious was within its 
dark and silent sanctuary. She sat in the 
room; she saw them bear it away : with one 
strong and convulsive effort she v ose, fo" ao 
K 



110 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



thing- could prevent her following her more 
than father to the grave. 

All parade had been avoided by Sir Jasper's 
express orders ; but the poor of the whole 
neighbourhood gathered to pay the last re- 
spect to the remains of their friend and bene- 
factor. The churchyard was crowded ; and 
yet so deep was the stillness, that not one 
word was lost of the burial service. After- 
wards, it was a pleasure to Lady Marchmont 
to think of the affection evinced towards her 
uncle ; but, at the time, the numbers oppressed 
her: she would have given worlds to have 
been alone in the churchyard. With an agony 
too great for endurance, she heard the ropes 
creak as they lowered the coffin into the 
ground: and when the gravel rattled on the 
lid, it struck too upon her heart. To her 
dying hour she was haunted by the fearful 
sound ; it came upon her ear in the stillness 
of night, making her start from her restless 
pillow ; and often did she hear it, amid light 
and music, turning her pale with the image of 
death even while surrounded by gayety and 
festival. But when they went to tread down 
the earth, it seemed to her like sacrilege ; and, 
forgetting every thing in one strong emotion, 
she sprang forward to prevent it. The effort 
was too much ; and, for the first time, she sank 
back in the arms of the servants in strong 
hysterics ! 

She was carried home quite exhausted ; the 
only sign she gave of consciousness was, that 
when they were about to take her to the room 
which had formerly been her own, she raised 
her head, and feebly insisted on being taken 
to her uncle's. Every thing here was pecu- 
liarly his, and there she had gazed for the last 
time, on his inanimate features ; in that room 
she could call up his image more distinctly 
than elsewhere. The presence of the dead 
was around her, and it was dearer than aught 
else in the world beside. 



CHAPTER LXXV. 

THE REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD. 

Pale Memory sits lone, brooding o'er the past, 
That makes'her misery. She looketh round, 
And asks the wide world for forgetful ness : 
She asks in vain; the shadow of past hours 
Close palpable around her; shapes arise— 
Shadows, yet seeming real ; and sad thoughts, 
That make a night of darkness and of dreams 
Her empire is upon the dead and gone; 
With that she mocks the present, and shuts out 
The future, till the grave, which is her throne, 
Has absolute dominion. 

Some days elapsed before Lady Marchmont 
was able to leave her bed ; not that she suf- 
fered under actual illness, but the passion of 
sorrow had completely exhausted a frame na- 
turally fragile. But youth, health, and time, 
are strong to console, and the first bitterness 
of regret inevitably passes ; but from that 
time Henrietta never recovered her former 
gayety : a well of grief had opened in her 
heart ; and nothing could stop the under-cur- 
rent of its deep, still waters. One idea was 
perpetually recurring, "There is no one to 
love me now I" and, in proportion to the want 



of affection, the craving for it became stronger 
While Sir Jasper lived, there was one human 
being in whom she could repose unlimited 
confidence ; one to whom, under any circum 
stances, she could turn for consolation ; one 
to whom even a trifle, concerning herself, was 
the dearest thing on earth : now, there was net 
one whom she could truly say loved her. 
With all her advantages, with all her fascina- 
tion and her loveliness, she was flattered, ad- 
mired, and courted, but not loved. How un» 
satisfactory was the homage of the eye and 
the lip only ! . 

It was while dwelling on these topics of 
sadness and irritation, that her eye fell upon 
Lord Marchmont's letter of invitation to Sir 
Jasper. It arrived but a few moments after 
his death, and had never been opened ; she 
broke the seal, but had not patience to read it 
through, its cold commonplace civility fretted 
her very heart. Impatiently, she tore it into 
fragments, and flung it in the fire. 

" And this is the man," exclaimed she, 
with a bitter laugh, ' ; to whom I am united 
for my life ; my inferior in every way — mean, 
shallow, heartless — I despise him too much 
for hatred !" 

But, deep within her secret soul, Lady 
Marchmont felt she hated her husband ; at 
that moment she would have been thankful to 
have given up the world, and spent the rest of 
her life in the gloomy seclusion of Meredith 
Place. She turned away from the future with 
a morbid feeling of discouragement : her first 
brilliant dream of the pleasures of the world 
had been broken ; she had experienced their 
worthlessness, and their vanity ; she felt that 
they were insufficient to fill up the void in her 
heart ; they had nothing wherewith to satisfy 
the noblest and the best part of her nature ; 
they contented neither her mind nor her heart. 
Lassitude and discontent were her predomi- 
nant sensations : she had only one strong 
wish — never to see Lord Marchmont again ! 
She shuddered whenever his image came 
across her ; and this dislike was increased by 
his letters. After a little decent sorrow had 
been put forth for the late " severe affliction," 
joined with some weariful truisms about resig- 
nation to the will of Providence, the rest of 
the epistle was filled up with reproofs about 
her ladyship's extraordinary and improper 
conduct in setting off without his consent ! 

Again was the letter flung in the fire, and 
again absolute loathing towards the writer 
arose in Henrietta's mind. Days passed on, 
quiet, languid, and sad. Every day that the 
weather permitted, Lady Marchmont visited 
her uncle's grave : it had become the princi- 
pal object of her existence; and the weather, 
gloomy, cold, and rainy, though at the begin- 
ning of summer, harmonized well with hei 
present frame of mind. She seemed to de- 
sire nothing beyond her present mode of life; 
and yet Henrietta was mistaken in supposing 
that she had now discovered the existence for 
which she was really best suited. Her keen 
feelings, and active fancy, would soon have 
needed employ: the imaginative tempera- 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



Ill 



»nent, above all others, requires society and 
excitement, else it preys too much on itself. 

The truth was, that she had received a vio- 
.ent shock, and it would be long before either 
mind or body recovered their ordinary tone : 
but this mournful calm was soon disturbed by 
letters from Lord Marchmont, urging 1 her re- 
turn. Week after week she dela) 7 ed it, till at 
last he formally announced his intention of 
coming to fetch her himself. Henrietta's 
grief was renewed in all its passionate vio- 
lence ; leaving her uncle's grave was leaving 
himself; and yet so subdued was her spirit, 
by its long indulgence of sorrow, that she 
could not find in herself even energy enough 
for resistance. The week that was yet to 
elapse, she spent in wandering through her 
uncle's favourite walks in hours of tearful 
vigil, beside his tomb, and in collecting to- 
gether every trifle on which he had set a value. 
Again and again did she repeat her directions 
that every thing should be left in their old 
accustomed places ; the grim crocodile itself, 
that swung from the roof, acquired a value in 
her eyes. 

The last evening arrived, and Henrietta re- 
turned from her prolonged visit to her uncle's 
grave. The misty moonlight that struggled 
through the black masses of gathering vapours, 
scarcely sufficed to guide her steps as she 
passed, languid and lingering, along the nar- 
row path : she had passed through the church- 
yard the very evening before her former de- 
parture for London. How forcibly did the 
change that had taken place in herself, strike 
upon her now ! Then she was somewhat sad ; 
but it was a sadness soon to be flung aside. 
The future was before her, brilliant because 
unknown ; she then believed its promises, for 
she had not proved them, there was so much 
to which she looked forward : now she looked 
forward to nothing, for nothing seemed worth 
having. Alas ! the worst part of a heavy 
sorrow, is the despondency which it leaves 
behind ! 



CHAPTER LXXVI. 

THE LABORATORY. 

'Tis a (air tree, the almond tree: there Spring 
Shows the first promise of her rosy wreath ; 
Or ere thesrreen leaves venture from the bud, 
These fragile blossoms light the winter hough 
Willi delicate colors, heralding the rose, 
Whose own Aurora they might seem to be. 
What links beneath their faint and lovely red ? 
What the dark spirit m tnose fairy flowers 1 
'Tis death! 

The night was unusually dreary, as, for the 
.'ast time, Henrietta sat listening to the wind 
that moaned, in fitful intervals, round the an- 
cient house. There was not another sound ; 
she seemed the only creature alive in the 
world, so profound was the quiet, and so 
dreary. The red gleams of the wood fire 
nickered over the black wainscot in fantastic 
combinations; the long shadows from the 
lamp fell dark upon the floor ; and the win- 
dow, whose curtains were still undrawn, 
ooked out upon a sky covered with heavy 



clouds, from whence the wan and misty moon 
sometimes emerged, but oftener only indicated 
her presence by a dim white ring, amid the 
dusky vapours. 

Henrietta kept wandering + o and fro like a 
disturbed spirit; now watching the shelves, 
covered with dusty volumes, now gazing on 
the different articles, scattered in the same 
confusion as when Sir Jasper used his labora* 
tory. On a small table, drawn close to his 
arm-chair, lay opened a large book, which 
Henrietta stopped, every now and then, in her 
troubled walk, to read. 

" It may easily be done !" muttered she ; 
and her fine features set with an expression of 
stern determination. Again she read the pass- 
age that had riveted her attention; and, ris- 
ing from her seat, carried the still open 
volume, and laid it on a slab by the furnace in 
the laboratory : it was a celebrated treatise on 
poisons, written in the fifteenth century. The 
grate was laid with charcoal, to that she put 
a light, and then, as if she had forgotten some- 
thing, hurried to the library, and carefully 
locked the door. First returning to see that 
the fire had kindled, she then went to the 
window, which, with the first gleam of moon- 
light, she cautiously enclosed, and stepped 
into the shrubbery. A small drizzling rain 
was beginning to fall, but she heeded it not; 
and, approaching a tree that stood near, began 
to gather the green fruit, with which its 
branches were thickly covered. Any one who 
had seen her, might have been pardoned for 
believing, from that hour, in supernatural ap- 
pearances. Her tall figure was wrapped in a 
loose white robe, and her long black hair hung 
down to her waist, already glistening with the 
raindrops. The moonlight fell directly on 
her face, whose features seemed as rigid as 
those of a statue, while the paleness was that 
of a corpse ; but the large gleaming e) r es, so 
passionate and so wild, belonged to life — life, 
racked by that mental agony, life, and human 
life, only knows. 

It was an almond tree beneath whose boughs 
she stood. A few weeks since they had been 
luxuriant with rosy blossoms ; fragile and deli- 
cate flowers, heralds most unsuited to the bitter 
fruit. The almond was now just formed in 
its green shell, and of these Henrietta gather- 
ed a quantity, and bore them into the library 
in the skirt of her dress. She then sat down 
by the fire, and carefully separated the stone 
from the pulp, which she burnt ; and her next 
task was to extract the kernel, which she did 
by means of a heavy pestle and the hearth. 
The kernels were next crushed together, and 
placed to simmer over the furnace. 

From her childhood she had been accus- 
tomed to watch, and often to aid, in her uncle's 
chymical experiments ; she was, therefore, not 
at a loss, as a complete novice in the science- 
would have been. More than once she re- 
ferred to the huge volume that lay unclasped 
before her ; and, at a certain point, she ap- 
proached a curiously wrought old cabinet ; 
from one of its recesses she took a glass mask, 
and some strongly aromatic viregar. With a 



112 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



steady hand she fixed the mask on her face, 
and again approached the furnace. The 
strange-looking- chamber, the red glare of the 
charcoal, her tall form, and long black hair 
loose, realized the wildest dream of one of the 
sorceresses of old, bending over herb and 
drug, to form their potent spells. Once she 
grew faint; and, springing to the outer room, 
she hastily undid the mask, and gasped for 
breath at the open window. She was deadly 
pale ; but the exquisite features were even 
stem in their expression of unconquerable will. 

Again she resumed her fearful task, and 
hours passed by ; and she started as a red 
glimmer fell on the open page — it was the 
crimson coming of daybreak that gleamed 
through a crevice in the closed shutters. But 
her task was done ! She snatched up two 
tiny vials, and poured into each a few drops, 
like singularly clear water ; but in each of 
those drops was — death ! The glass stoppers 
were inserted ; the bottles hermetically seal- 
ed ; and, depositing them in a secret drawer 
of a small casket, she locked it, put the little 
key on a chain that she always wore of her 
uncle's hair ; and, pressing it to her heart, 
exclaimed, "Now I am mistress of my fate 
in this world !" Her rapid movement made 
her long, loose sleeve catch in the glass 
mask, which fell to the ground, and was 
shivered in a thousand fragments. 

" It matters not," exclaimed she ; " I need 
its services no more !" Hastily she glanced 
around; and, returning to the laboratory, 
cleared away all traces of the night's work, 
and extinguished the charcoal. She then 
flung open the windows, for the atmosphere 
was heavy and oppressive ; but she started 
back as the fresh air blew upon her throbbing 
temples, but brought no colour to her wan lip 
and cheek. Heavily her eyes closed before 
the cheerful light, and she turned away with a 
sick shudder. The closed curtains made the 
bedroom still dark ; and, extinguishing the 
lamp, she flung herself on the bed. Over- 
tired and excited, it was long before she slept ; 
sleep came at last, but it was broken and fe- 
verish ; and the interrupted breath, and the 
red spot that soon burned on her cheek, told 
that the dream was one of pain and fear, and 
that slumber was not rest. 



CHAPTER LXXVII. 

THE SEASON. 

And yet it is a wasted heart: 

It is a wasted mind 
That seeks not in the inner world 

Its happiness to find ; 

For happiness is like the bird 

That broods above its nest, 
And finds beneath its folded wings, 

Life's dearest, and its best. 

A little space is all that hope 

Or love can ever take ; 
The wider that the circle spreads, 

The sooner it will break. 

Another season had recently commenced 
its round of gayety ; the present was outwardly 



as glad as if there had been no past; the Sim- 
shine played over the onward current of exist- 
ence; and the bubbles, weeds and flowers, 
danced on the surface : few cared to look on 
the rock and the darkness below. Ever} r one 
appeared to be doing precisely the same 
things that were doing at that ver}^ time the 
3^ear before. The streets were filled with car- 
riages, the Mall with a gay crowd ; the talk 
was ot fetes and visits ; and eyes and diamonds 
seemed equally bright. The spring had come 
forth in all its beauty, and the flower was in 
the grass, and the green leaf on the bough. 
Change is slow and strange in the social and 
the natural world ; it requires some great con- 
vulsion to alter the aspect of either : but, in 
the hidden and inward world, — there it is that 
change does its work; we marvel to find how 
ourselves are altered, while every thing seems 
to have remained the same around us ; but 
decay always begins at the heart. 

Mrs. Churchill being settled in London, 
Ethel had come out as a beauty and an heiress, 
and was brilliantly successful in both capaci- 
ties. Sir Robert had remitted the fine: but 
flatteries, executed with whatever genius, were 
quite wasted on the quiet and pensive girl, 
who 

Listened, and forgot them with a smile. 

Youth has one delightful time, when hope 
walks, like an angel, at its side, and all things 
have their freshness and their charm. There 
appears so much to enjoy, that the only ques- 
tion is, what to enjoy first ? But this period, 
brief enough with every one, had been unusu- 
ally brief with Ethel Churchill. It now was 
like a dream to her that she had ever looked 
forward. " Sufficient for the day is the evil 
thereof," is above all the motto of disappoint- 
ment. At first she was reluctant to visit ; she 
shrank, with morbid weakness, from the idea 
of meeting Mr. Courtenaye ; but this she had 
hitherto escaped, he having been sent on a 
confidential mission to Paris. She went out, 
night after night, because it was less exertion 
to go out, than to refuse the kindness that 
forced on her the unwelcome amusement. 
When a day was over, she was glad, and yet 
there was nothing that she anticipated on the 
morrow. But Ethel's was a nature essentially 
unfitted to the cold and glittering life of so- 
ciety ; gentle, timid, and dependent, her world 
was in the affections ; those blighted and de- 
stroyed, existence was a blank, nothing re- 
mained wherewith to fill up the weary void. 

The intercourse between her and Lady 
Marchmont was constant and affectionate, yet 
there was but little confidence. They were 
too different : Ethel had not Henrietta's infor- 
mation, nor her talents ; and Henrietta scarcely 
comprehended the want of them. Lady March- 
mont was now in the most brilliant hour of 
her life ; her reputation for beauty, wit, 
and fashion, was firmly established. Her 
very caprices were pronounced charming ; 
her sightest phrase was called a bon-mot ; 
wherever she went, she was followed and 
flattered; and her whole existence seemed 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



113 



made up of praise and pleasure. With all 
this, there was that perpetual fever of the 
heart which broke out sometimes in petulance, 
sometimes in sarcasm ; all admitted that her 
ladyship was very unequal, but very brilliant ; 
and even her rudeness passed only for " pretty- 
Fanny's way." 

It is strange what society will endure from 
its idols. Henrietta had too much vanity not 
to like the homage that surrounded her ; still 
she was too shrewd not to see through it, and 
she pined for something better. Between 
Lord Marchmont and herself the distance be- 
came greater every day ; she despised him, 
and he disliked her ; ay, disliked, for we hate 
the superiority which we only acknowledge 
secretly. Henrietta would have loved any 
man whom she could have admired ; admira- 
tion is the divinest privilege of a high and 
generous nature like hers ; it is the smaller 
and meaner kind who look down, but in her 
husband there was not one redeeming point : 

fi The head was vacant, and the heart was cold." 

His lovely and neglected wife was in the 
most painful and the most dangerous situation 
for a woman. Only her vanity was cultivat- 
ed ; the mind had no employ, and the affec- 
fWns were left to waste. 



CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

RANELAGH. 

I did not wish to see his face, 

I knew it could not be; 
Though a look had not alter'd there, 

What once it was to me. 

Since last we met, a fairy spell 

Had been from each removed ; 
How strange it is that those can change, 

Who were so much beloved! 

It is a bitter thing to know 

The heart's enchantment o'er; 
But 'tis more bitter still to feel 

It can be charm'd no more ! 

" So I hear," said Lady Mary, " that, ' se- 
vere in youthful beauty,' you have driven an- 
other of your lovers to despair ; but it really 
was too bad to hand over all Lord Portsea's 
hearts and darts to Mrs. Fane, persuading her 
that she was the rightful owner of the scented 
scroll." 

" I am sure," replied Lady Marchmont, 
" that she was delighted to receive it. I hate 
to have things wasted, and it was utterly 
wasted on me ; but you are wrong as to the 
hero of the billet ; it was placed in my bouquet 
by Lord Harvey." 

" Lord Harvey !" exclaimed the other, with 
an expression of anger she could not at once 
disguise. The fact was, that, for some time 
past, Lady Mary Wortley had considered 
Lord Harvey as her own especial property. 
Now, nothing is more provoking to a woman 
than a lover's infidelity ; it is a wrong which 
leaves her without even the satisfaction of 
revenge. His very infidelity shows that she 
has lost her power ; and without power, where 
is revenge ? A sneer is some comfort ; and, 

Vol. II. — 15 



fate be praised ! there is always a good-na 
tured friend to repeat it. " Well," said she, 
" Lord Harvey is doing his best to find if 
there be a ' yes' in the world. It would re- 
quire — what is that rule in arithmetic ? ah ! — 
long division, to reckon up the number of re- 
fusals he has had this season ! However, 1 
suppose, 

' Though I miss the sweet possessing, 

'Tis a pleasure to adore ; 
Hope, the wretch's only blessing, 

Ma-y in time procure me more.' " 

"I cannot," returned Lady Marchmont, 
" answer by your next verse : — 

'Constant courtship may obtain her, 
When both wit and merit fail ; 

And the lucky minute gain her, 
Fate and fancy will prevail.' 

There is to me that insipidity about Lord Har- 
vey, which always belongs to the forced and 
artificial. He takes as much pains to make 
up a character as Lady Clevedon does to 
make up her face !" 

Lady Mary turned pettishly away ; no wo- 
man likes anybody but herself to depreciate 
a lover; it is personally an ill compliment. 
But Lady Marchmont had little time to spe- 
culate on the causes of Lady Mary's petulance ; 
for, at that moment, she felt Miss Churchill's 
clasp on her arm tighter, while the slight 
frame she supported trembled with agitation. 
Her quick eye detected the cause in a moment ; 
Mr. Courtenaye had just entered the room, 
though he had not as yet perceived them. In- 
deed, the position in which Ethel stood effec- 
tually screened her from observation ; and 
Henrietta thought she could not do better than 
stand as they were, thus giving her companion 
time to recover her outward composure. 

In the mean time, Mr. Courtenaye had 
caught sight of the countess, and came eagerly 
forward to speak. She was delighted to re- 
new the acquaintance ; for, in her own mind, 
she had already arranged to what it was to 
lead. The crowd, which had been collecting 
for the last hour, had now become exceedingly 
dense, and a sudden movement forcing Lady 
Marchmont forward, separated her from her 
friend. Norbourne did not see her face, but 
saw that a young woman was placed in a very 
embarrassing situation ; offered, or rather drew 
her arm within his own. She was so situated, 
that it was impossible to refuse ; the crowd 
still pressed upon them ; their eyes met, and 
to both it seemed like a dream. Neither even 
attempted speaking ; but, though Norbourne 
felt the arm he held tremble, Ethel was more 
composed than her once lover. She had pride 
and indignation to sustain her, while he was 
divided between embarrassment and an over- 
powering sensation of delight at meeting again. 
The face was intentionally averted, but there 
was the same sweet profile, and the long lash 
of the downcast eye lay golden on a cheek 
crimson with emotion. They reached the 
door before he summoned resolution to speak ; 
but, just as the words rose from his heart to 
his lip, Ethel, by a sudden effort, caught Lady 
Marchmont's arm, and whispered, " For God's 
k2 



114 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



sake, let us go home !" Henrietta saw her 
uncontrollable emotion, and instantly com- 
plied with her wish : Courtenaye handed them 
to the carriage. 

How long, that night, did the light touch 



of Ethel's little hand linger in his 



He 



felt anxious, but happy ; he had seen her, and 
every thing- seemed possible ; she would, she 
must, forgive him. But Ethel sought her 
own room with a bitter and burning heart : 
she gave way to a burst of passionate tears. 

"What!" exclaimed she, '" am I still so 
weak ? How I despise myself!". 

She rose, and paced the room impatiently; 
pride, love, and the bitter sense of injury, 
contending together. Again she resumed her 
seat; again gave way to weeping, that brought 
no relief. 

" O that," cried Ethel, wringing her hands, 
" I may never, never see him again !" 



CHAPTER LXXIX. 

THE INFLUENCE OF AN INVITATION. 

Life is so little in its vanities, 

So mean, and looking to such worthless aim, 

Truly the dust, of which we are a part, 

Predominates amid mortality. 

Great crimes have something of nobility; 

Mighty their warning, vast is their remorse : 

But these small faults, that make one-half of life 

Belong to lowest nature?, and reduce 

To their own wretched level nobler things. 

Lady Marchmont was listlessly turning 
over the praises of her beauty, duly set forth 
by heroic verse in a poem just dedicated to 
her, when there came one of those solemn 
raps at the door, which she well knew an- 
nounced Lord Marchmont. An expression of 
disgust passed over her features, and a slight 
elevation of the shoulders accompanied the 
answer, " Come in !" His lordship made 
his appearance ; and there was a look as 
nearly approaching to anxiety as his immova- 
ble face could well convey. He inquired after 
her ladyship's health with an unusual air of em- 
pressement. 

" But I need not ask," added he, " for I 
never saw you looking so lovely. Ah ! I see 
that you are yourself the subject of your 
studies ; you must permit me to read your 
praises to you." 

He took up the book, and began to read the 
commonplace compliments it contained with a 
solemn and emphatic air, which, if possible, 
added to their absurdity. Lady Marchmont 
looked what she was — thoroughly bored ; 
fortunately, her husband soon held that he 
had played the agreeable quite long enough ; 
and, nothing doubting his success, thought it 
was the very time to introduce what was the 
real objectof his visit. 

" I hear," said he, " that the preparations 
for the fete Sir Robert Walpole is about to 
give at Chelsea, are on a scale of unusual 
magnificence !" 

" Are they ?" replied Lady Marchmont. 

w He intends," continued his lordship, " to 



give a dinner, a tea-party, a ball, and sup 
per!" 

" Does he ?" replied Henrietta. 
"Why you answer," exclaimed her hus 
band, pettishly, " as if you did not care about 
the matter ?" 

" I do not care !" was the answer 
" Now really," returned he, " that is carry- 
ing conjugal obedience too far. I can assure 
you, that I do not expect a pretty woman like 
yourself to be indifferent to a ball, though it 
be given by the minister !" 

Finding that this compliment was received 
in silence, he went on : — 

" Now, own the truth, — are you not very 
sorry that my having been in the opposition 
precludes your going to the most brilliant 
fete of the season ?" 

" I cannot be sorry," replied she, " for what 
I do not care the least about !" 

"Ah!" returned her husband, "I know 
candour is not a feminine accomplishment : 
but what would you say if I told you that 
you might go ?" 

" Why I should say," answered Henrietta, 
" that I shall not be asked !" 

" But you can easily procure an invitation," 
said Lord Marchmont, who now succeeded in 
making his wife at least look astonished. " In 
short," continued he, assuming an air of mys- 
tery, " many circumstances have occurred 
lately that give me a very different view of 
things to what I had formerly. I believe Sir 
Robert Walpole to have been a most misre- 
presented man : I owe him some atonement ; 
my sense of justice dictates it : I mean to go 
to his fete!" 

" Do you ?" was the brief answer. 
" Yes, 1 feel that I ought; and with me, to 
feel that I ought to do a thing, is to do it !" 
added he, looking quite Roman with excess 
of virtue. 

He was obliged, however, to be content 
with his own applause, for his wife remained 
silent ; and, after a pause of conscious self- 
satisfaction, he continued : — 

"I do not expect you to comprehend my 
motives." 

" I am glad," said Henrietta, quietly, " that 
you do not expect impossibilities !" 

" 0, no !" said he, with a most imperturba- 
ble air, " I always make allowance for femi- 
nine weakness ; I do not expect your mind to 
follow mine !" 

" Now, the Fates forbid that it should !" 
thought Henrietta. 

"I am aware," Lord Marchmont proceeded 
to say, " of my own political importance, and 
I have been wrong in allowing my personal 
feeling to the prince to bias my conduct; but 
every day shows more the weakness of Frede- 
rick's character. I cannot serve him and my 
country ; I shall, therefore, go to Sir Robert's 
fete!" 

" A most proper and patriotic resolve !" re- 
plied the countess: "I only see one objec- 
tion— " 

" O, you find some objection to any thing 
that I propose!" interrupted her husband: 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



11; 



'why srnuh. I not go, if I please, to Sir Ro- 
oert's ball ?" 

• ; Only," answered Henrietta, "that you 
have not an invitation !" 

' It will be very easy," persisted his lord- 
ship, " to obtain one." 

" Not so very easy," replied she : " why, 
the invitations are as much canvassed for, as a 
seat in parliament!" 

" The greater the difficulty, the greater the 
triumph in procuring- one : that triumph I re- 
serve for you," said her husband, bowing with 
an excess of conjugal gallantry. 

" For me !" cried Henrietta, with unqualifi- 
ed surprise. 

" You will readily suppose," replied Lord 
Marehmont, resuming all his solemnity, "that 
I never propose a plan, without having duly 
considered the most eligible method of carry- 
ing it into execution. I have designed, it re- 
mains for you to execute !" 

Henrietta gave a silent bow of inquiry. 

"I am aware," continued her husband, 
" what a favourite you are with Lord Nor- 
boume : I am not jealous, as I know it is on 
his daughter's account. What a melancholy 
thing her death was ! such a pity she should 
have died before this fete! You can make 
some little allusion to your friendship for 
her, and ask Lord Norbourne to procure us 
tickets." 

" I do not like to ask him," said Lady 
Marehmont. 

" O, no ! of course, you like nothing that I 
propose !" interrupted his lordship. " I re- 
quest, however, that you will attend to my 
commands, not to your own capricious likings 
and dislikings !" 

" I will obey, my lord," replied Henrietta, 
with a mock-tragedy air. 

Lord Marehmont rose from his seat, saying. 
" I hope you fully understand the importance 
of vour mission. It is no trifle to have my 
political adhesion to give in : you will be a 
welcome visiter !" 

" I do not doubt it!" said Henrietta. 

" You had better complete your toilette, for 
I have ordered the carriage : I never neglect 
any thing :" and, with these words, his lord- 
ship bowed out of the room. 

" I know Lord Norboume's kindness," said 
Henrietta, " or I would have refused, print 
blank. I wonder what has occasioned this 
sudden change : but of what use is it hunting 
for some motive, too small to discover." 



CHAPTER LXXX. 

ASKING FOR AX INVITATION. 

This is a weary and a wretched life. 
With nothing to redeem it but the hear.. 
Affection, earth's srreat purifier, stirs 
Our embers into flame, and that ascends. 
All finer natures wahc this bitter world 
But for a while, then Heaven asks its own, 
And we can but remember and regret. 

Lady Marchmoxt's name procured her in- 
stant admittance ; and Lord Norbourne came 



down to hand her from the carriage, and take 
her to his own room. 

"I find," said he, "that my curiosity, 
which was up in arms when your card was 
brought, is quite lost in the pleasure of seeing 
you. I shall not allow you to tell me your 
business for a longtime." 

"I am in no hurry," said Henrietta, smil- 
ing ; while her eye, glancing round the room, 
caught sight of Constance's picture. " How 
like, how very like !" exclaimed she, approach- 
ing it, partly to conceal her emotion. 

" It is," said Lord Norbourne, " such a 
comfort, and such a companion." 

" She looks like what she was, an angel.!" 
exclaimed the countess, earnestly. "I never 
knew any one who did me so much good. I 
grew better while she was with me. 0, Lord 
Norbourne ! I felt her loss and yours deeply 
at the time: but I have felt it more bitterly 
since. My poor uncle — ;" but she could not 
finish the sentence ; and the tears she could 
not restrain, entirely overpowered her. " I 
wish," exclaimed she, in broken sobs, "that I 
had died instead of Constance !" 

" My dear child," said Lord Norbourne, 
" you are too young, and should be too happy, 
for such a wish." 

" I am not happy," she replied ; " in losing 
my uncle, I lost the only human being who 
really cared for me. You cannot think how 
weary I am of the heartless, useless life that I 
lead. I wish I had been }"our daughter : I 
should have had some one to look up to, and 
to love. Ah, the lot of Constance was far 
happier than we deem !" 

" I believe it was," replied Lord Norbourne, 
kindly taking his companion's hand. " I have 
learnt to think of my loss with a sadness that 
soothes me. I turn to her image Avhen over- 
fretted with worldly cares. I hope almost as 
she hoped for our reunion." 

" I cannot tell you," continued Henrietta, 
"how often I think of her. Perhaps, from 
being the only objects of my affections that I 
ever lost, her idea and that of my uncle are 
singularly blended together. Ah, we never 
know how dearly we loved our friends until 
the grave has closed over them." 

Lord Norbourne would then fain have said 
something to comfort her, but even he could 
think of nothing. All consolations appear 
commonplace in the presence of a great sor- 
row. For other griefs there are many pleas 
to urge for forgetfulness ; but to urge upon us 
the forgetfulness of the dead, seems like pro- 
fanation of their sad and sacred memory. Lord 
Norbourne, too, was touched by the confidence 
reposed in him. He knew Lord Marehmont. 
and felt how utterly his wife was thrown 
away upon him ; and yet it was a sort of un- 
happiness to which it was impossible to al- 
lude, and still more impossible to redress. 

"Yet who would believe," exclaimed he, 
half- thinking, aloud, " to see you sometimes 
so brilliant, and, seemingly, so gay, that the 
envied and flattered Lady Marehmont knew 
the bitterness of regret, or the darkness of 
despondency ?" 



116 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" Ah," replied she, " life is very inconsis- 
ient. We contradict each other; still more 
do we contradict ourselves. It seems to me 
as if there were a perpetual warfare going on 
between the outward and the inner world. 
Nothing is really what it appears to be ; and 
this is what discourages me more than I can 
express — the not knowing to what I may trust, 
and my utter inability to discern between that 
w T hich is; and that which only seems." 

" Half the misery in this life," returned 
Lord Norbourne, " originates in its falsehood. 
We conceal our thoughts and our feelings, till, 
even to ourselves, they become confused ; and 
half our time is spent in fretting and feverish 
attempts to disentangle the webs we have 
woven : and the strange thing is, that all this 
dissimulation is unnecessary ; we should have 
done far better without it." 

" What a small, worthless thing," exclaim- 
ed Henrietta, " is our existence, filled with 
mean envyings, paltry hopes ! and, if for one 
instant redeemed by a true affection, or a ge- 
nerous emotion, what wretchedness is sure to 
follow the indulgence of either!" 

" You must not come to me," answ T ered her 
listener, "for a defence of society; I have 
long since loathed its bitterness as much as I 
despise its baseness. You cannot know the 
miserably mean motives that actuate the ge- 
nerality ; but the trifles so sought give their 
own narrowness to the mind." 

" And that brings me at once," interrupted 
Henrietta, " to the object of my visit ; the 
motives, however, being supposed to lie too 
deep for my feminine apprehension. Guess 
what brings me here." 

" Nay," replied her companion, " what 
have I done for you to presuppose such a want 
of gallantry, as to imagine that I would at- 
tempt to guess a lady's secret before she 
thought proper to communicate it ?" 

"It is not interesting enough," answ r ered 
she, " for me to make a mystery of it : but the 
fact is, that Lord Marchmont has either caught 
cold by sitting on the opposition benches, or 
thinks that nothing but his own personal ex- 
perience can decide whether Sir Robert's cook 
exceeds his own — a subject on which I have 
lately heard him express much anxiety. He 
has suddenly discovered that England owes 
every thing to the present administration, 
which he has henceforth resolved to support 
with both vote and voice." 

" We shall be glad of the vote," replied 
Lord Norbourne, " though we would dispense 
with the voice." 

" I fear me," answered the countess, " that 
you must take your bargain ' for better or 
worse.' But I have not yet arrived at my 
business. There is a condition annexed to 
the proposed alliance." 

" Something very unreasonable,! suppose," 
cried Lord Norbourne. "Is it a marquisate, 
or the next vacant riband ?" 

"Your conjectures are not what yours ge- 
nerally have the reputation of being; but 
wide, indeed, of the mark. However, if your 



penetration be at fault, you will at least have 
the satisfaction of establishing your theory o* 
small motives." 

" Well," said he, " let me hear what bribe 
(I beg pardon for the word) is to win over our 
potent ally." 

" Only," replied Lady Marchmont, " an in- 
vitation to Sir Robert's/efe at Chelsea." 

"An invitation!" exclaimed Lord Nor- 
bourne, — "he shall have a dozen if he please. 
I will take care, that the tickets are duly for- 
warded this afternoon." 

" Many thanks for your kindness," said 
she, rising from her seat. "Ah, Lord Nor- 
bourne ! you do not know how to grant fa- 
vours : you have not made me feel aw T kward 
or embarrassed in the least. I really do not 
hate you for having obliged me." 

Lord Norbourne laughed, and took her hand 
to lead her to the carriage. 

" By the way," said he, as they were de- 
scending the staircase, "how is your beautiful 
friend, Miss Churchill ? and, speaking of so 
great an ornament to a ball-room, you must 
allow me to send her a card together with your 
own." 

" You are too kind," exclaimed Henrietta, 
delighted. 

" 0, no ; I am only selfish," returned Lord 
Norbourne. " I shall expect a vote of thanks 
from Sir Robert for my beauties." 

" I shall do nothing for the next week but 
study my costume and complexion," said she. 
" Ethel and myself will consider our conquests 
as proper compliments to your kindness." 

"Ah! as to your charming self," replied 
he, 

" ' The world is all before you where to choose ;' 

but, do you know, I am rather inclined to 
limit the sphere of Miss Churchill's fascina- 
tion. It has already, unless I am greatly mis- 
taken, produced due effect on Norbourne ; and, 
of course, I am in his interests." 

" Well, I promise you to circumscribe her 
conquests as much as possible by extending 
my own," returned Henrietta. " It will be 
an easy task ; for Miss Churchill does not do 
' the honours of her eyes.' I often tell her 
her beauty is quite wasted upon her." 

" Not wasted," said her companion, " if it 
do but procure for her the true allegiance of 
one affectionate heart ; and I know Nor- 
bourne too well not to know how safely he 
maybe trusted even with the happiness of an- 
other." 

" This is as much as to say," thought Lady 
Marchmont, when seated in the carriage, 
" Lord Norbourne is quite prepared to give 
his consent to his nephew's marrying again. 
Well, I hope that Ethel will recover her bloom 
and spirits : if there is such a thing as happi- 
ness in this wide and weary world, it is be- 
fore her now. I w T ish I could anticipate 
things as eagerly as I used to do ; but, alas ! 
scarcely any thing seems worth anticipating ; , 
or if some fair hope arise upon the distance, i 
is too good to be true." 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



117 



CHAPTER LXXXI. 

THE FETE AT SIR ROBERT WALPOLE's. 

Few, save the poor, feel for the poor; 

The rich know not, how hard 
It is to be of needful food 

And needful rest debarr'd. 

Their paths are paths of plenteousness, 

They sleep on silk and down ; 
And never think how heavily 

The weary head lies down. 

They know not of the scanty meal, 

With small pale faces round; 
No fire upon the cold damp hearth 

When snow is on the ground. 

They never by the window lean, 

And see the gay pass by ; 
Then take their weary task again, 

But with a sadder eye. 

There is no denying that there are " royal 
loads" through existence for the upper classes ; 
lor them, at least, the highways are macada- 
mized, swept, and watered. They are surround- 
ed not only by luxuries, but by pleasures, 
which, at all events to the young, must have 
the zest of novelty. It seems to me the veri- 
est fallacy to say that the lots in life are 
weighed out in equal balances : the difference 
is very great — to the examiner, sad ; and to 
the sufferer, bitter ! Before we talk of equali- 
ty of pain, which is, in nine cases out often, 
only a selfish and indolent excuse for neglect, 
let us contrast a high and a low position to- 
gether. On one side is protection, instruc- 
tion, and pleasure ; on the other is neglect, 
ignorance and hardship. Here, wants are 
invented to become luxuries ; there, "hunger 
swallows all in one low want." Among the 
rich, body and mind are cultivated with equal 
watchfulness ; among the poor, the body is 
left to disease and to decrepitude, and the 
mind to void anddestruction. I grant that I 
speak of the two extremes ; but it is the worst 
ill of social existence that there should be 
such extremes. 

The child of the rich man sleeps in the 
silken cradle, his little cries are hushed by the 
nurse, whose only duty is to watch the pro- 
gress of that tiny frame. The least illness, 
and the physician bestows on the infant heir 
the knowledge of a life ; for every single pa- 
tient benefits by all his predecessors. The 
child becomes a boy : Eton or Westminster, 
Oxford or Cambridge, have garnered for his 
sake the wisdom of centuries : he is launched 
into public life, and there are friends and con- 
nexions on either hand, as steppingstones in 
his way. He arrives at old age : the arm- 
chair is ready, and the old port has been long 
.n the cellars of his country-house to share 
its strength with its master. He dies ; his 
very coffin is comfortable ; the very vault of 
his ancestors is sheltered ; a funeral sermon is 
preached in his honour ; and escutcheon and 
marble tablet do their best to preserve his 
memrry. 

Take the reverse of the picture. The in- 
fancy of the poor child is one of cries, too 
often of blows ; natural affection has given 
way before the iron pressure of want. The 



old proverb, that, " When poverty comes ir, 
at the door, love flies out at the windoAV," ia 
true in a far more general sense than the one 
in which it is generally applied. They havo 
the floor for a bed ; the scant and mouldering 
remnant of food for dinner ; the cold hearth, 
where the wind blows in the snow ; — these 
physical sufferings react on the moral world, 
they deaden and imbitter the sweetest of our 
feelings. The parent half loves, half loathes, 
the child that takes the bread from his own 
mouth ; and the child looks on that as tyranny, 
which is only misery. It learns to fear before 
it learns to love. 

Suppose such a childhood psst : it has 
escaped disease ; no chance chill has distorted 
the youthful limbs, they have, at least, health 
to begin life. The poor man has nothing 
more than his strength. Cod's best gifts lie 
dormant within him : the chances are that he 
cannot read even the holy page, that, at least, 
holds out the hope of a less miserable world. 
He has not that mental cultivation which 
alone teaches us what are our resources, and 
how to husband or to exert them. He knows 
only how to labour, and that not in the most 
serviceable manner to himself. He does not, 
even when he can, which is rare enough, lay 
by for the future, because he has never been 
accustomed to reflect. Life has for him no 
future. Perhaps he takes to drinking ; and it 
is easy, with half-a-dozen different lands of 
French wines on the table, the claret purple 
beside the golden sherry, to say a thousand 
true and excellent things on the crime of ex- 
cess. If the gentleman refrains, it is from a 
moral restraint the poor man has never been 
taught to exercise ; and what does the poor 
man drink to avoid — cold, hunger, perhaps 
bodily pain — always bodily weariness ? 

Old age comes on feeble, and often prema- 
ture, when his place of refuge is a straw 
pallet, where, if his family keep him, it is an 
act of Roman virtue, the very devotion of duty 
and affection ; for even the old man's morsel 
must be taken from their own. But the w r ork 
house is the ordinary restingplace before the 
grave ; and there human selfishness takes its 
most revolting aspect ; there life has not left 
one illusion, one affection : all is harsh, cold, 
revolting, and unnatural. The difference that 
began in the cradle continues to the tomb. 
The bare coffin, a few boards hastily nailed 
together, is flung into the earth ; the service is 
hurried over, the ground trodden down, and 
the next day the children are playing upon the 
new grave, whose tenant is already forgotten. 
So much for the equality of human existence. 

But the fete of to-day belonged to a different 
order of things. Luxury, aided by refinement; 
gave every grace to the external world, at 
least. Villas are, I believe, a delightful in- 
vention of the Romans, who set very seriously 
about enjoying the world they had conquered. 
Sir Robert's villa would have done honour to 
Lucullus, who has always appeared to me the 
most thoroughbred gentleman of antiquity. 
Alcibiades was a happy union of coxcomb and 
conqueror ; but there was in him a want of 



113 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



-hat repose, and of that superb self-reliance, 
which characterizes the Roman. The climate 
and the scenery of England are admirably 
adapted to the perfection of a villa. The great 
sharm of our landscapes is their colouring — 
so quiet, yet so refreshing. The fine old trees, 
and the fine old tree standing by itself, are 
peculiar to our fields ; the rich sweep of grass 
so vividly green, the prodigality of garden 
flowers, and a sky whose intense blue owes 
ihe depth cf its purple to the white clouds 
which float above in broken masses, — all 
these belong to a style of natural beauty which 
is entirely English. It is connected only with 
enjoyment; nothing startles as in the vast 
precipices of Switzerland ; nothing brings the 
past too vividly to mind as in the "sad, though 
lovely ruins of Greece : all is tranquil, and 
redolent of summer. It is the cultivated, ra- 
ther than the artificial ; just enough of nature 
for all the purposes of art. 



CHAPTER LXXXII. 

THE FETE AT SIR ROBERT WALPOLE's CON- 
TINUED. 

Ladye, thy white brow is fair, 
Beauty's morning light is there ; 
And thine eye is'like a star, 
Dark as those of midnight are : 
Round thee satin robe Is flung ; 
Pearls upon thy neck are hung: 
Yet thou wearest silk and gem, 
As thou hadst forgotten them. 
Lovelier is the ray that lies 
On thy lip, and in thine eyes. 

Nothing more strongly marks the insuffi- 
ciency of luxuries than the ease with which 
people grow accustomed to them; they are 
rather known by their want than by their pre- 
sence. The word "Z>/ase" has been coined 
expressly for the use of the upper classes. 

Lady Marchmont had acquired much of that 
languid indifference, the most foreign to her 
temperament, by the want of something really 
to interest her. She had grown careless to 
observe, yet even she was quite animated into 
admiration by the beauty of the garden as she 
entered. The turf short, but not too short, 
fresh without being damp, sloped down to the 
river ; sometimes golden green in the sun- 
shine, at others darkly green in the shade. 
The beds were filled with flowers of every 
kind, and stands were scattered around of rare 
and costly plants. Groups of the young and 
beautiful were mingled among them, and the 
rich colouring ot the period's costume w r as 
relieved by the verdant foliage. It was a 
pretty contrast beiween nature and art. 

" Well," exclaimed Lady Marchmont, ! 
breathing the perfume with which a honey- j 
suckle, wound around an old ash, filled the j 
air, " I do confess that I like common flowers ! 
better than any. The hothouse plant has no j 
associations." 

" And I," interrupted Lord Marchmont, 
" infinitely prefer exotics : they show that 
some trouble has been taken on our account. 



But, talking of trouble, I wish, instead of lo\ 
tering here, you would come and pay youi 
respects to Sir Robert." 

Sir Robert stood to receive his guests on 
the portico, which gave a pleasant shelter and 
coolness to the front of the house. A large 
hall, filled with odoriferous shrubs, opened 
behind, and gave a fine view of the river and 
the opposite bank. Sir Robert was now at 
the very summit of worldly prosperity. He 
stood fast in the king's favour; and what, un- 
der the rose, was of far more consequence, in 
the queen's. There was peace abroad, and a 
ministerial majority in the house at home. In 
short, the old Scotch secretary, Johnstone, 
might well put the question to his master, 
which he had asked that very morning, — 
" 0, sir, what have } T ou done to God Almighty, 
to make him so much your friend ?" 

Henrietta could not help shivering at the 
air of solemn submission that Lord March- 
mont assumed as he ascended the steps of the 
terrace. In anybody else she would have 
smiled ; but the absurdity of your husband 
comes too close for laughter, it may reflect a 
little on yourself — at all events on your taste 
for choosing him. 

" Ah, m}^ fair petitioners," said Sir Robert, 
with great good humour, as they approached ; 
" I see that you are resolved on being reveng- 
ed by looking to killing. Lord Marchmont, 
how do you justify to your conscience having 
married such universal destruction ?" Lord 
Marchmont began a long speech, of which 
honour, and conviction, and his country's 
good, were the only words audible ; for a fresh 
party distracted Sir Robert's attention, and 
Lord Norbourne came to the rescue, and, 
offering Lady Marchmont his arm, proposed a 
walk through the grounds. Now this was an 
agreeable arrangement to all. Miss Church- 
ill cared little who her companion was ; and 
Lord Marchmont's small vanity was flattered 
by being an escort to a beauty, who, more- 
over, was a silent, if not an attentive listener; 
while his wife, besides preferring an}^ company 
to that of her husband, really liked Lord Nor- 
bourne. The last two, however, had each 
a little motive of their own. Lord Norbourne 
wished to sta}' with the party till his nephew ar- 
rived, fully intending then to monopolize Lord 
Marchmont, and thus to leave Ethel to Courte- 
naye. Lady Marchmont wished to have a 
nearer view T of a singularly handsome young 
man, who seemed perfectly lost in the admira- 
tion she inspired. His appearance was very 
distinguished, and yet she did not know him : 
he must be new to society, to give way to any 
feeling so openly and so naively. The crowd 
had carried him forcibly with them ; and Hen- 
rietta found that she had a sudden curiosity to 
inspect a gum cistus which was blowing at 
the end of the walk. The result of her in- 
spection was not quite satisfactory, for the 
stranger had disappeared. But the next crowd- 
ed walk turned out better : again she beheld 
those dark and eloquent eyes fixed upon her- 
self, as if unconscious of any thing else in the 
world. A knot of acquaintances shut him 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



119 



out rVsm sight, and Henrietta had never before 
thought it so tiresome to listen to news and 
flattery. Lord Xorbourne was the next per- 
son detained ; but his companion found the 
able, though, perhaps, to the 
full as dangerous as delays proverbially are. 

•• Do not," exclaimed a voice, whose deep 
melody was remarkable, "ask me about Ver- 
sailles, every thing was tiresome there, even 
the love-making; but I remember nothing 
about it. I can think onlv of that divine 
face." 

What instinct told Lady Marchmont that 
the speaker meant her own ? Some reply 
was made, and the voice continued: 

" My whole existence is passed into my 
and here lam wasting my time in talk- 
ing to you, when I might be looking at 
her." 

The laurel branches were put aside, and the 
»e stranger stepped from the shade. 
His eyes met those o^ Lady Marchmont. who 
felt herself colour, and then, angry at having 
ran talking hastily to the first per- 
son near. She talked without waiting for an 
answer, startling the elderly gentleman she 
addressed by the suddenness of her questions; 
and then half affronting him by not listening to 
me quarter of his reply. But she was 
the fashion, and the first privilege of fashion 
is impertinence. Her companion, on second 
thoughts, only felt flattered by her speaking; 
to him at all. When her party next moved. 
half unconsciously she looked towards the 
laurel, but the place was vacant. 



CHAPTER LXXXIII. 

- 7— Love has wings, 
Like lightning, swift and fatal : and it spr;:-._-. 
Like a will f it is least ex| 

torish'd or rejected. 

rt thou ! — thou mighty one ! 
ik thy name in beauty :" yet we shun 
■ guest : for who will own 

npire,"aad his heart thy throne? 

Trerc Avas an absolute mixture of pique 
and disappointment as Lady Marchmont pass- 
ed on; but they had scarcely reached the open 
lawn before she saw the stranger talking to 
Lady Mary Wortley Montague, who was smil- 
ing; her very sweetest, and, worse, looking her 
very best. * An ill defined dislike, a little like 
jealousy, ar.^se in Henrietta's mind : a little, 
however, mitigated by observing that the gen- 
instantly caught sigflit of herself; and 
that, when n >t absolutely forced to look at his 
■don, he looked towards her. Suddenly. 
the two appr niched, an 1 ry said, with 

s. forced smile, 

" Will you allow me to present Sir George 
Kingston to you ? — the most accomplished 
coquefthat ever 

T n round the land 

On all he j 

which denomination he ranks all wo- 
men." 

" Poets excel in fiction," said Sir George, 



with a quiet, almost timid, manner, " and 
Lady Mary is a poet: but, as we never for 
give being bored, let me entreat her to talk tc 
Lady Marchmont of some more amusing sub- 
ject than myself." 

" I can assure you," continued Lady Mary, 
••you meet on equal terms; you cannot be 
worse than Lady Marchmont : — 

' Her eyes, like suns, the rash beholders strike ; 
But, like the sun, they shine on all alike,' 

excepting her husband, of cours .'" 

Henrietta looked more vexed than the com- 
monplace sneer needed, and which Sir George 
did not appear to hear. He was surrounded 
by some friends, all of whom seemed delight- 
ed to see him once mere in England. A Furn 
in the walk shut him out; and Henrietta 
began to think what a tiresome thing nfi!e is, 
and to wonder that people ever gave them. 
She also began to enumerate the number of 
hours she should have to stay ; and to think 
that it was very unreasonable, even in a prime 
minister, to give a breakfast, dinner, and tea- 
11 in one day, to say nothing of the 
night itself being trenched upon by a ball. 
Lord Xorbourne-s attention, too, was more 
taken up than it ought to have been with the 
beauty of the fete en his arm ; but, alas ! he 
knew everybody, and everybody knew him : 
public characters must pay the penalty of 
greatness. 

Henrietta was now all but surrounded by a 
lderly gentlemen, ribanded and starred ; 
and on the other side was the trunk of a huge 
cedar tree. Her prospects might have been 
more agreeable. However, the very cedar, 
which, in the first instance, she had ungraci- 
ously denominated •' odious," improved upon 
acquaintance. 

Not exactly like a hamadryad emerging 
from the trunk, but stepping very gracefully 
from behind it, Sir George Kingston made his 
appearance. " Desperate circumstances," ex- 
claimed he, "justify desperate conduct. Poets 
lay it down as a rule, that deities are not to 
extricate a hero from his embarrassment un- 
less there remain no human method of extri- 
cating him. Now, nothing short of a divinity 
can aid me. May I appeal to her aid ?" 

" At all events." replied Lady Marchmont, 
*' my curiosity is encraged en your side; and 
if only one-half of what is said of women be 
true, that is quite enough to decide in your 
favour." 

•• I take you for my confidant at once." re- 
plied Sir George ; " but, do you know that it 
will entail upon you, at least, ten minutes' 
patient listening- ?" 

"I feel eoual to the exertion," said Hen- 

"Will you then allow me to offer you my 
arm ? for. I frankly confess that my disclo- 
sure is meant for your ear a 1 

Henrietta took his arm. but coloured as she 
did so ; why she coloured, she could net have 
told herself. They turned into the next walk ; 
and, in spite of both curiosity and confidence, 
they proceeded, for some distance, in perfect 



120 



MISS LANDOIN'S WORKS. 



silence. It was very pleasant, however ; and 
not the less so for a little touch of awkward- 
ness. At last, Lady Marchmont arrived at 
the conclusion that something ought to be 
said ; and, turning to her companion, ex- 
claimed, — 

" Let no one ever again talk of feminine 
impatience ; but I really can be an angel no 
longer, so let me have the full benefit of all 
the ideas I have given you such ample time to 
collect." 

He started as if from a revery. " Lady 
Marchmont must be so much accustomed to 
have every thing forgotten when she is by, 
that she will pardon it quite as matter of ha- 
bit," was the answer: " but I must not tres- 
pass too far on your forbearance. Miss 
Churchill is very intimate with you, is she 
not?" 

Henrietta felt disappointed, though she 
could have given as little cause for her disap- 
pointment as for her previous blush. 

" Miss Churchill is," replied she, " my 
most intimate friend." 

" Perhaps, then," exclaimed Sir George, 
"you will save me a task to which my cou- 
rage is not equal. Will you allow me to com- 
municate to you the disagreeable mission 
which I have incautiously undertaken ?" 

" What is the matter ? — yes ; pray, tell me 
first," interrupted Henrietta, now all anxiety 
on Ethel's account. 

"Miss Churchill is very beautiful ?" ask- 
ed he. 

" The loveliest creature on which the sun 
ever shone !" 

Sir George Kingston looked at his compa- 
nion as if he did not quite agree with her ; 
and, though he only looked his doubt, Henri- 
etta felt the full compliment of the look; 
again she coloured, and said hastily, — " But 
do tell me. Ethel is as dear to me as a sis- 
ter." 

" Do not laugh at me," said her companion, 
in a low, earnest tone, "if I confess I cannot 
understand inconstancy in love. I told Tre- 
vanion I was the worst person in the world 
that he could employ : from me he must ex- 
pect no defence of his conduct." 

" Mr. Trevanion !" cried Lady Marchmont ; 
"do only tell me that he is married, and I 
shall be eternally grateful to you." 

"It is precisely," replied the other, "the 
fact of his marriage that I was about to com- 
municate." 

" You are the most charming person in the 
world. You are invested with a perfect halo 
df delight," exclaimed Henrietta. "Miss 
Churchill has some chimerical notion of ho- 
nour in her head, but that is over now ; your 
information does not leave a single obstacle 
in the way of the most perfect happiness that 
ever wound up a fairy tale. We must find 
Miss Churchill, and tell her ; but I claim the 
privilege of being told all about it as we go." 
"I may as well use Trevanion's own 
words," replied Sir George. " ' I have no 
choice,' said he, gazing, despairingly, in the 
glass : ' one heart I must break. Now that 



of Miss Churchill being at a distance, and thai 
of Mademoiselle de Nargis being at my side 
the last is most important — I married this 
morning. Let my lovely Ethel know the fad 
as gently as possible : lay the blame on fate, 
not on my falsehood. Tell her, if she die, her 
memory will be enshrined in my heart.' " 

"That certainly was a consolation," said 
Lady Marchmont. "The fact is, that the 
marriage between Mr. Trevanion and Miss 
Churchill was a family affair, arranged with- 
out the slightest regard to the young lady'? 
feelings, which Mr. Trevanion well knew 
were interested by another." 

A sudden turn in the walk brought then* 
face to face with Lord Marchmont and Ethel, 
to whom the countess whispered a few words 
in a low voice. A flush of pleasure came oyer 
the listener's face. 

"Trevanion," exclaimed Sir George, "might 
have spared all his anxiety on Miss Churchill's 
account. She looks as if the news were only 
too good to be true." 



CHAPTER LXXXIV 

THE FETE. 

Not to the present is our hour confined, 
The great and shadowy future is assign'd 
To be the glorious empire of the mind. 

The past was once the future and it wrought 
In the high presence of on-looking thought; 
All that we have, was by its efforts brought. 

To-day creates to-morrow, and the tree 
Of good or ill grows in past hours, what we 
Make for the future— certain is to be. 

The superb banquet that had been laid out 
for the queen, was over. For once opinion 
had been unanimous even about an act of Sir 
Robert's. The royal party had dined in the 
greenhouse, the coup oVozil of which was as 
striking as it was new. Vast stands of the 
most costly exotics reached to the glass roof, 
which was partly covered by a luxuriant vine, 
or by a small scarlet creeper. Set in arches 
of the most beautiful flowers, but with colours 
that bore comparison even with those of nature, 
were hung pictures of the old masters. Sir 
Rooert Walpole was, like Cardinal Mazarin, 
a great collector of paintings. In both, the 
love of art was the only glimpse of the ideal, 
the one single touch of the imaginative. 

There never was a nature less allied to the 
poetical or to the picturesque than Sir Ro- 
bert's. It never could have entered his head 
to clothe 

" The palpable and the familiar 
With the golden exhalations from the dawn." 

His highest idea of inspiration was that — 

" Pegase est un cheval 

Qui mene les grands hommes a l'hdpital." 

His perceptions were cold, clear, and defined ; 
he never went beyond the actual, though that 
he took in at a glance. His contempt for 
mankind grew out of never looking beyond 
what he saw : now the smallest of human mo- 
tives are what lie on the surface. It encou- 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



121 



rages us to be thought a little better than what 
we are ; but Sir Robert's system made no al- 
lowances, — it took a low view of the intellec- 
tual world, but a still lower of the moral. 
There was no excitement, no belief, no gene- 
rous impulse about it. He would have erected 
no glorious monument to the past, to serve as 
oracle and incentive to the future. We can 
iuinoine his enjoying the pointed and polished 
satire of Pope ; though we can also imagine 
him saying, " Of what use is it to tell men of 
their faults, they never mend them ?" But 
how impossible it would be to suppose him 
entering, for one instant, into the wide and 
benevolent philosophy of Wordsworth, a phi- 
losophy founded on belief in good. 

Yet the actual never quite suffices to the 
mind ; and even Avith the shrewd, the practical 
Sir Robert, the imagination opened one sunny 
vista, in which he saw visions and dreamed 
dreams. To know what passed through his 
mind, what train of thoughts were conjured 
up while watching the quiet loveliness of a 
Claude, or the spiritual beauty of a Raphael, 
would be a curious study : but the guests he 
had now assembled were intent on no such 
curious speculations ; they were quite content 
with the external, without examining into the 
interior, world. 

It. would have been difficult to have ima- 
gined a scene more like one in fairyland, than 
the scene as the guests again dispersed through 
the grounds. The sunset had been magnifi- 
cent, and the Thames was floating in dark 
radiance ; the waves wearing that transparent 
clearness, which gives more the idea of melted 
beryl, than aught else : every little circle in 
the water had that trembling light which 
characterizes precious stones. The atmos- 
phere was unusually clear, as if loath to part 
with the daylight ; but the moon, like a round 
of lucid snow, had risen on the sky ; and a 
pale, soft gleam, came from the lamps amid 
the foliage. 

One device obtained great admiration : small 
lights were scattered on the ground, in some 
of the winding paths of turf, to emulate glow- 
worms. The principal band was placed in the 
great hall ; which, splendidly lighted up, and 
hung with blue damask, whose festoons were 
fastened back with wreaths of flowers, was 
thrown open for the dancers. But strains of 
music came from every part of the grounds ; 
and on the river was a boat, filled with wind 
instruments, whose soft aerial melody floated 
in at every pause. 

The beauty of the evening had little attrac- 
tion to Lord Marchmont, who was in the card- 
room, devoting all his energies to the whist- 
table. Lady Marchmont was wandering about 
the gardens with Sir George Kingston, and 
Lord Norbourne had taken charge of Miss 
Churchill. 

Ethel was more -than usually depressed ; 
the gayety around made her shrink into her- 
self; she had no sympathy with it; it only 
made her think, more and more, how the 
spring of happiness was dead within her : she 
had no real enjoyment in any thing. The 

Vol. II.— 16 



forced gayety which society exacts as its false 
and weary tribute, only fatigued, without ex- 
citing her. She went out, in the vain hope 
that, leaving behind the solitude of home, she 
could leave, too, the perpetual presence which 
there haunted her. Ethel soon found that 
change of place was not change of thought, 
and the very effort fretted her with a feverish 
discontent. It was a constant labour to keep 
her attention to what was said ; however, 
Lord Norbourne set down her silence to a 
graceful timidity, and only waited an oppor- 
tunity to effect a change he had meditated from 
the first. It soon came : as they were on 
their way to a transparency of their majesties, 
not a little larger than life — with Bellona, in 
a very handsome helmet, on one side, and 
Peace, with a cornucopia and a full blown 
wreath of roses, on the other — the path was 
interrupted by a little knot of gentlemen. 

" How very fortunate !" exclaimed Lord 
Norbourne. " Townshend, I have been want- 
ing, all day, to say a few words to you ! Miss 
Churchill, can you forgive my want of gal- 
lantry, if I transfer you to the charge of my 
nephew ? Will you allow him to show you 
the transparency ?" 

Mr. Courtenaye stepped forward, eagerly; 
and, before she had time to think, Ethel found 
herself arm-in-arm, and walking on quietly 
with her former lover. 



CHAPTER LXXXV. 

A SCENE BY MOONLIGHT. 

Thou canst not restore me 

The depth and the truth 
Of the love that came o'er me 

In earliest youth. 

Their gloss is departed, 

Their magic is flown ; 
And sad, and faint-hearted, 

I wander alone. 

Ethel and Mr. Courtenaye both walKedon 
in silence, both careless of what direction they 
took, and solitary, even in that glittering 
crowd, each alive only to the other's presence. 
At length each stopped, as if moved by a sud- 
den and mutual feeling; perhaps Ethel, un- 
consciously, obeyed the movement of Nor- 
bourne, to whom the quick, silent walk, had 
become intolerable. On his part, there might, 
also, have been a little intention ; for nothing 
could be more lonely than the nook where 
they paused. On one side was a thicket of 
gum cistus, then in the height of its fragile 
bloom ; a shower of white leaves lay on the 
turf below, one-half had fallen since morning; 
a willow drooped over the marble balustrade, 
the long green branches dipping into the 
stream, and breaking, with their tremulous 
shadow, the silvery column that the moon- 
light traced on the water. 

Ethel leaned on the balustrade, and gazed 
down on the river, chiefly to have an excuse 
for withdrawing her arm from Norbourne's, 
for she saw nothing of the scene before her. 
She started, as if from a fiend, at the sense of 



122 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



enjoyment which stole over her at his side; it 
recalled all her former happiness, but it also 
recalled how bitterly it had been purchased. 
The moonlight fell full on her face ; and the 
delicate profile was outlined on the dark clear 
air like a statue's, — as colourless, — and, Nor- 
bourne felt, as cold. For a few minutes he 
stood, struck less with her perfect beauty, 
th an with the change that had passed over it 
during - the last year. The mouth no longer 
trembled with sweet half smiles, born of no 
cause but the very buoyancy of inward glad- 
ness ; no blushes came, fast thronging to the 
cheek ; blushes without a cause, save oelicious 
consciousness. True, the eyes were down- 
cast, as of old, but they strove not to look up, 
and when scarce raised, sinking again with 
sudden shame ; now, they were only fixed on 
the objects below. 

Norbourne felt, keenly felt, how much their 
relative position was altered ; even now he 
could not explain his seeming inconstancy. 
Could she forgive him ? An age of anxious 
thought passed in those few moments; but 
there was something that encouraged him in 
the soothing influences of the calm and lovely 
hour ; despair seemed impossible ; and time, 
so precious, was passing rapidly : the sus- 
pense grew intolerable. 

" Miss Chun hill !" exclaimed he : " dearest 
Ethel !" 

She turned, startled by his sudden address, 
and the deep flush encouraged him to go on. 

■" Dearest — sweetest !" continued he, pas- 
sionately, " tell me that we may yet be happy ; 
that the devotion of my whole life will 
atone." 

44 Mr. Courtenaye," returned Ethel, en- 
deavouring to move away, "you will pardon 
me if I decline listening to protestations, of 
whose value I am now fully aware !" 

" Listen, my more than beloved, my idolized 
Ethel !" exclaimed he, snatching her hands, 
and detaining her ; " do not rashly throw from 
vou a heart so utterly your own: my only 
hope of happiness in this world depends upon 
you : you know not how I love you !" 

44 This is not the first time that I have heard 
a similar assertion from Mr. Courtenaye," re- 
plied Ethel, with whom indignation was 
rapidly mastering every other feeling. It was 
impossible for her to listen to words of love 
from Norbourne, and not recollect how un- 
d cub ting had been her early confidence, and 
how cruelly it had been betrayed. 

44 Dearest, sweetest Ethel !" cried he, ' 4 for- 
give me ; 3rou know not the circumstances in 
which I was placed !" 

To Ethel, this speech bore only one inter- 
pretation ; she thought it referred to what Lady 
Marchrnont had suggested, — to pecuniary em- 
barrassments : for these she was too young, 
too ignorant of their effect in the world, to 
have the slightest sympathy : however, she 
mastered the bitter anger that gave her mo- 
mentary and forced composure, w T hile she 
said, — 

44 Perhaps I may be permitted to ask what 
Ihcse circumstances were ?" 



44 Impossible !" cried Courtenaye : " deares 
Ethel, let me owe my forgiveness only to the 
kind and gentle heart which once I hoped was 
mine!" 

This appeal to the past was most unfortu- 
nate for his cause ; his allusion to her feelings 
seemed to Ethel a positive insult. 

44 Mr. Courtenaye," said she, coldly and 
haughtily, " might have spared any mention 
of affection so ill bestowed — of confidence so 
misplaced. He will allow me to tell him, 
that whatever my former weakness may have 
been, not a trace remains of it now !" 

44 Ethel ! my own, my only love !" ex- 
claimed he, in a broken voice, 44 do not leave 
me thus ; tell me that time may yet soften 
your too just indignation; give me hope." 

44 Never!" said she: 44 nay, Mr. Courte- 
naye, I insist upon hearing no more : 1 only 
marvel at your dreaming I could ever believe 
you again !" 

Even while she spoke, she turned away so 
rapidly, that she was gone before Norbourne 
recovered the shock of her last words. He 
felt that his case was hopeless, and he could 
not blame her; but the spot was hateful to 
him ; he hurried from the shade, and met his 
uncle. Lord Norbourne had just seen Miss 
Churchill alone; and, under the excuse of 
having missed her own party, join that of 
Lady Mary Wortley's, just then passing. 

44 Ah!" said Lady Mary, 44 I thought that 
Lady Marchrnont was too well amused to 
take care of you ; so, come, and I will help 
you to find her ; or, rather, let us look for Sh 
George Kingston !" 

Lord Norbourne had watched them pass, 
and now he met his nephew, pale and agitat- 
ed. He asked no questions, but drew his 
nephew's arm within his own ; and, complain- 
ing of fatigue, proposed going home. 



CHAPTER LXXXVI. 

A LATE BREAKFAST. 

Why did I love him 1 I look'd up to him 

With earnest admiration, and sweet faith. 

I could forgive the miserable hours 

His falsehood, and his only, taught my heart ; 

But I cannot forgive that for his sake. 

My faith in good is shaken, and my hopes 

Are pale and cold, for they have look'd on death. 

Why should I love him ? he no longer is 

That which I loved. 

Sir George Kingston had just wrapped 
her cloak round the graceful figure of Lady 
Marchrnont, and was going to hand her intc 
the carriage, when her attention was asked 
for a moment by Lord Norbourne. Drawing 
her within the shadow of a column, he said 
in an earnest whisper, — 

44 Dearest Lady Marchrnont, something lias 
gone wrong between Norbourne and Misa 
Churchill : I suspect that, from most mis- 
taken pique, she has refused him; may I rely 
on your influence to set it right ?" 

44 You may, at all events," replied she< 
44 rely on my utmost endeavours." 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



123 



"They cannot fail !" said he : " do justify 
Norbourne ; tell her how wrong I was to 
strain my influence to the utmost, as I frankly 
confess I did : but I must not now detain you. 
Good-night. I leave our cause in your 
hands.'' 

So saying, he resigned her to Sir George 
Kingston's care, who said, as he placed her in 
the carriage : — 

"Henceforth I shall need a new calendar; 
the shortest day of the year is, I have just 
found out, in July !" 

Lady Marchmont found her companions in no 
mood for discourse. Her husband was asleep, 
and Ethel's languid voice was scarcely audi- 
ble when she forced a reply to some trilling 
question ; and Henrietta could perceive, from 
the convulsive movement, and from the short 
suppressed sob, that she was weeping. When 
they arrived at home, the light showed Ethel 
so pale, so wornout, that she thought all at- 
tempt at any intercession were best deferred to 
the morrow. It must, also, be confessed, that 
she felt too weary for much eloquence as a 
pleader. 

The golden sunshine of noon, as it fell 
slanting over the windows of Lady March- 
mont's dressing-closet the following morning, 
lighted up as pretty a piece of artificial life, as 
could ever have furnished painter with an in- 
terior. Fantastic figures, and bright birds and 
flowers on the paper, recalled nothing that had 
ever been seen before — the fantastic reigned 
predominant ; so it did in the china scattered 
profusely round. I never could enter into the 
passion for china; it is an affection born of 
ostentation. Those stiff shepherdesses ; those 
ill-shaped teapots ; those monsters, which take 
every shape but a graceful one ; those little, 
round cups make no appeal to my imagination ; 
they suggest nothing but ideas of trade ; they 
are redolent of the auction-room. Moreover, 
I detest bargains ; the bargain can only be one, 
because either the first purchaser is dead, or 
ruined. He has left either heirs or creditors, 
each equally greedy, careless, and impatient ; 
or, if these toys be disposed of during a life- 
time, such sale only tells a common tale of, 
first extravagance, then want ; fancies indulged 
thoughtlessly, to end miserably. A bargain 
is a social evil ; one man's loss, tempting an- 
other man's cupidity. But, " it were too cu- 
rious to examine thus," is the motto of daily 
existence ; and, in the meantime, the sunshine 
fell carelessly over a careless world. 

The soft west wind waved the curtains to 
and fro, letting in golden glimpses, now shed- 
ding new lustre over the frosted silver, and 
polished glass, of the mirror; then, by the 
change of shadow, giving what seemed almost 
motion to the quaint figures on the Indian 
paper, or kindling, with clearer colour, the 
roses that were crowding the flower-stands. 
The breath of the roses, mingled with the fra- 
grant bohea, which stood just made on the 
little breakfast-table. 

Ensconced, each in a large fauteuil, wrap- 
ped in loose, white dressing-gowns, the hair 
only gathered with a single riband, sat the two 



friends. The excitement of yesterday's tri- 
umphs had not yet left Lady Marohmont's lip 
and eye. She was in the gayest spirits ; a 
mood, the inevitable augury of ill ; it is like 
the very bright sunshine which is sure to pre- 
cede rain. "When the pavement dries so 
quickly, we may be sure of another shower," 
is a common saying, and it may serve as a 
type. Alas ! this careless gayety seems like 
tempting fate. 

Ethel was the very reverse : the mouth was 
pale, the eyes were heavy ; during the preced- 
ing night they had closed with the weight of 
tears, but not with sleep ; she looked what she 
felt, very wretched. The habit of endurance, 
almost mistaken for composure, had been 
broken in upon : she had been forced to re- 
member her past happiness ; again to shrink 
from the future. It was as if the gates of life 
had been twice closed upon her ; not that, for 
a moment, she regretted her refusal ; never 
again could Norbourne Courtenaye be what 
he had been to her; but never could she feel 
for another what she had felt for him; so 
young, and yet with all the sweetest hopes of 
life a blank : she hoped, she feared, she 
wished for nothing.' It was in vain that she 
made an effort to talk ; her companion's gay- 
ety only oppressed her. Henrietta saw that 
any attempt to lead the conversation to the 
point she wished, would be in vain; she was, 
therefore, obliged to do what, to a woman, is 
especially disagreeable, to begin upon her 
subject at once. She hesitated; for her own 
heart told her, that where the lover fails, no 
third party ever succeeds. 

" My dear Ethel," said she, " tell me the 
truth ; what did Mr. Courtenaye say to you 
last night ? Moonlight and sentiment always 
go together." , 

"Don't be witty now," exclaimed Ethel, 
"I cannot bear it; be serious, and I will not 
have a reserve from a friend so kind and so 
true as yourself. Mr. Courtenaye renewed 
his offer last night — " 

"And you accepted him!" replied Henri- 
etta, purposely. 

"Accepted him!" returned Ethel: "ne- 



CHAPTER LXXXVII. 



CONVERSATION AFTER BREAKFAST. 

False look, false hope, and falsest love, 

All meteors sent, to me, 
To show how they the heart could move 

And how deceiving lie : 
They left me darkeird, crush'd, alone , 
My spirit's household gods o'erthrovvn. 

The world itself is changed, and all 

That was beloved before 
Is vanish'd, and beyond recall, 

For I can hope no. more : 
The sear of fire, the dint of steel, 
Are easier than such wounds to heaL 

" Ethel," said Lady Marchmont, earnestly 
" you are wrong : I will not talk to you, be- 
cause I know it would be in vain, of the ad- 
vantages of the connexion ; for I believe too 



124 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



ate, that nothing in marriage can supply the 
want of affection : but, Ethel, you love him !" 
"I did !" replied the other, coldly. 
" Nay, you do !" continued the countess. 
" Forgive me, dearest, if I seem to say more 
than even our old friendship would warrant ; 
but do let me implore you, not from any mis- 
taken pride — nay," seeing Ethel about to 
speak, " I will not be interrupted — do not, 
from mistaken pride, throw your happiness 
away from you. Think what it is to go 
through life loving, and beloved; to be under- 
stood, appreciated, cared for; the thousand 
slight things of daily life made delicious by a 
quiet, yet well understood sympathy; your 
thoughts shared, your sorrows soothed ; a mo- 
tive for every action, for you know that their 
object is the happiness of another." 

" Mr. Courtenaye has already showed how 
much he cared for that happiness," returned 
Ethel, bitterly. 

" Yet you love him !" said Henrietta. 
" True, his name passes your lips ; if you 
thought that you were to meet him anywhere, 
you would not go ; yet, not the less is his 
image perpetually before you. We drive out 
together : half the time you do not hear a word 
that I say ; lost in your own thoughts — 
thoughts which, many slight things betray, 
are fixed on one object. If you rouse from 
your revery, you are restless and agitated ; 
your eye wanders round in one perpetual 
search ; and if, perchance, as has happened 
once or twice, he has only passed in the dis- 
tance, your eye brightens, your cheek flushes 
crimson, and your whole frame quivers with 
uncontrollable emotion !" 

"I did not think," whispered Ethel, "that 
I could have shown such weakness : you 
know not how I have struggled with — how I 
despise it !" 

"Nay," replied Henrietta, "why should 
you struggle with a feeling which, in you, is 
both natural and excusable ? Come, be gene- 
rous, and forgive Mr. Courtenaye ; it is of no 
use expecting romantic constancy in the pre- 
sent day. You do not know, and, therefore, 
can make* no allowance for embarrassments of 
a pecuniary nature ; but involved estates are 
very troublesome things." 

" O, Henrietta!" exclaimed her listener, 
" what must that love be which worldly cir- 
cumstances could, in a moment, suffice to 
change ? Ah, what is there in the wide world 
that I could not have endured for his sake ?" 
"Well, then," interrupted Lady March- 
mont, " endure a little wrong on his part : I 
have no doubt his uncle exercised great influ- 
ence over him. Now, Lord Norbourne, who, 
1 can tell you, is one of your greatest admirers, 
consents, and there is not an obstacle to your 
happiness." 

" Yes," said Ethel, " there is one not to be 
rot over — the past ' Henrietta, I could for- 



give the misery that I have suffered, though 
even you know not what it has been. My 
God, forgive me murmurs wrung from me by 
wretchedness too great to be endured ! Night 
after night, I have laid my head on the pillow, 
and prayed that I might never raise it again ; 
day after day, I have turned away loathing 
from the mo-ning light! How could I bear 
to think on tea many miserable hours before 
me ! With what heart-sickness I waited for 
the letter that never came ! I have felt my 
temper grown irritable, my spirits broken, all 
my former enjoyments grown distasteful, my 
very nature changed — all this I could forgive, 
but I cannot forgive his own unworthiness ! 
He whom I thought so high-minded, so gene- 
rous ; to whom I looked up, and on whom I 
relied with such fearless confidence; for him 
to prove so cruel, so false ! In what can I 
ever believe again ? It is not for his loss that 
I grieve, but I grieve over my own wasted 
affections ; for all, that I cannot again even 
dream! No; let Mr. Courtenaye restore me 
my belief in his own high excellence, let him 
give me back my hope, my confidence, and 
then let him ask me to love him once more, — 
but not till then !" 

She bowed her face in her hands, and the 
large tears trickled slowly through. 

" Yet," said Lady Marchmont, seating her- 
self by Ethel, " this very grief shows you re- 
gret him." 

" It does !" exclaimed Ethel, suddenly rais- 
ing her face, and dashing the tears aside. "I 
loved him — utterly, tenderly, as I shall never 
love again ; but I will not trust my happiness 
a second time with one who wrecked it so 
entirely : I have not courage to risk such suf- 
fering again. He sacrificed me first for inte- 
rest ; I should next be flung aside for some 
newer fancy. There is no faith to be placed, 
where faith has been once broken : and now, 
let this subject be dropped forever between 
us. I will not, I could not, marry Mr. Courte- 
naye !" 

" It is of no use," exclaimed Lady March- 
mont, as her companion left the room, " and I 
know not what to say. She convinces my 
reason, and yet I see she is wretched ; she will 
neither be happy with him, nor without him. 
Love is a fearful risk ; and, I believe, of all 
the ingenious inventions for multiplying and 
varying misery, it is one of the most inge- 
nious." 

" One word more," said Ethel, returning 
for a moment : " I must entreat, as a personal 
favour, that this subject be never renewed 
between us. It can only serve to keep alive 
feelings that I owe it to myself to subdue. 
Henceforth I shall consider forgetfulness a 
duty." 

Poor Ethel ! of all duties, forgetfulness is 
the hardest to fulfil. The very effort to forget 
teaches us to remember 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



125 



CHAPTER LXXXVTII. 

LADY MARCHMONT'S JOURNAL. 

Tis strange to think, if we could fling aside 
The mask and mantle many wear from pride, 
How much would be, we now so little guess, 
Deep in each heart's undream'd, unsought recess ! 

The carelsss smile, like a bright banner borne ; 
The laughlike merriment; the lip of scorn; 
And fur a cloak, what is there that can be 
So difficult to pierce as gayety 1 ■* 

Too dazzling to be scann'd the gloomy brow 
Seems to hide something it would not avow ; 
But mocking words, light laugh, and ready jest, 
These are the bars, the curtains to the breast. 

Of all habits, that of writing down your 
thoughts and feelings, is one of the most diffi- 
cult to abandon. Henrietta soon found a ter- 
rible vacuum left, by the letters in which she 
used to pour forth every feeling and thought 
to her uncle. Often of an evening, when she 
came home too feverishly restless for sleep, 
and yet too indolent for defined occupation, a 
letter had been a resource ; now she took to 
keeping a journal. Sometimes it was burnt 
the next day, sometimes kept ; but the habit 
formed itself, and her journal soon grew into 
a familiar friend. A few extracts will show 
its spirit. 

EXTRACTS FROM LADY MARCHMONT'S JOURNAL. 

What an odd thing it is, the trouble one 
takes to collect and to amuse people who are 
rarely amused, and who do not thank us if 
they are ! What do I recollect of the even- 
ing ? Little, but that I was rather more bored 
than usual. I should so like to have talked 
more to Sir George Kingston. I cannot un- 
derstand how it is that I, who have lived all 
my life among strangers, should ever feel shy ; 
and yet I very often do. He had singularly 
encouraging manners, and talked easily. I 
think of a thousand answers I might have 
made, now that it is too late. It was positive- 
ly rude to talk to another, as I did, while I 
danced with him ; but I could not help it. 
" Could not help it" — is not that the reason 
given for nine out of ten of our actions ? He 
talked to no one but myself: I wish he had 
spoken to some one else. I should like to 
hear what he talked about. The other men 
did not like him : they called him a coxcomb. 
Peculiarity in dress is never popular with 
your own sex ; if possible, you will be called 
vulgar : if that be quite out of the question, 
there is the resource of calling you affected. 
Ethel thinks him handsome , but she is so 
taken up with her own thoughts that she has 
not much attention for any thing else. 

Really, being in love appears a pleasant 
state of existence ; it is always agreeable to 
know that there is another thinking of you, 
whether you think of them or not. I like the 
idea of there being one individual leaving 
your room who will bear away every look you 
have given, every word you have said, — it 
gives importance to them in your own eyes ; 
and yet I have often marvelled what people 
see in each other. Even as a book is read 



through, people are talked through. Ont 
needs change of acquaintance ; it is to the 
mind what change of air is to the body. As 
Hortense says of the gilded knicknackery of 
her saloon, — 

"Est-ce utile? 
C'est plus, c'est ne"cessaire." 

I have never yet been able to steer my lovers 
through the Scylla of presence, or the Charyb- 
dis of absence. If I see much of them I get 
tired ; if I do not see them, I utterly forget 
them. I hear a great deal of the necessity of 
loving: I better understand the difficulty of 
doing it. I wonder whether Sir George 
Kingston has ever been in love. Does any 
body ever go through life without feeling it ? 
yet the generality of what are called love af- 
fairs appear to be the most insipid things in 
the world. They put me in mind of the 
French-woman, who, at a masquerade, was 
tormented by a full grown Cupid exclaiming, 

" Mais regardez-moi, je suis V amour." 

" Yes," cried the lady, " V amour propre." 

After ail, a story I have heard my grandmo- 
ther tell of the last but half-a-dozen Lord and 
Lady Pomfret's courtship, is not so far re- 
moved from the ordinary course either. 

"Do you love buttered toast?" was ths 
gentleman's question. 

" Yes I do," was the lady's reply. 

" Buttered on both sides ?" 

"0,dear, Yes!" 

" Well, then, we will be married." 

" How very nice ! Yes !" 

Now half what are called love affairs have 
no higher ground of sympathy than the poor 
mutual liking for buttered toast. 

There are some people who ought never to 
dream of commonplacing the ideal with them- 
selves. The world of the heart is essentially 
ideal : it collects all poetry,— innate and ac- 
quired ; it is fastidious, dreaming, and deli- 
cate ; and is a question of taste as well as of 
feeling ; and it is to this world that love be- 
longs. It should be kept as far apart from 
lower life as that mysterious world of stars 
and clouds on which I am now gazing. I do 
like this last hour of the four and twenty that 
we snatch from sleep. It is so pleasant to 
feel the excitement of an amusing evening 
fade away, by degrees, into a mood half 
thoughtful, half pensive, like the rich colours 
in the west, melting into the saddened soft- 
ness of twilight. 

What made me say I was bored to-night ? — 
it is an affectation of to-day. It is worse than 
a sin to be pleased : it is a shame. What has 
poor, dear Truth done now-a-days, that every 
body blushes to own her ? I ought to be sa- 
tisfied with the last few hours, if it were only 
for making me enjoy the stillness; and there 
is nothing like the stillness of London — it is 
intense. The very wind has not a voice, and 
what a depth of purple is in the sky, broken 
by a few small, bright stars ! It. was a beau- 
tiful belief that sought to read the future in 
their light. We read nothing there now. My 
spirit denies my words ; they yet shine dowr 
l2 



126 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



upon us with influence ; they give us dreams, 
fantasies, and associations : we feel the di- 
vinity of our better nature in their presence. 
If I ever loved, I would almost wish to be 
forgotten during the hurry of business and the 
cares of day ; but let the beloved think of me 
in the soft and dark silence of a starry mid- 
night : if he have one spiritual or tender 
thought in his nature, it will be all love's and 
mine. Mine ! ah, ought I to wish it mine 1 
But I hate the word " ought" — it always im- 
plies something dull, cold, and commonplace. 
The " ought nots" of life are its pleasantest 
things. 

Alas ! for Lady Marchmont, when principle 
became matter of persiflage, and the heart 
turned away from its own truth. 



CHAPTER LXXXIX. 

A DECLARATION. 

I cannot choose, but marvel at the way 
In which we pass our lives from day to day, 
Learning strange lessons in the human heart ; 
And yet, like shadows letting them depart. 
Is misery so familiar, that we bring 
Ourselves to view it as " a usual thing ?" 
We do too little feel each other's pain ; 
We do too much relax the social chain 
That binds us to each other ; slight the care 
There is for grief, in which we have no share. 

Amid the many contrasts produced by our 
forced unions of nature and art, there is no 
contrast so strange as that between the ex- 
terior and the internal world of society. It 
would seem as if the one existed only to give 
the lie to the other. The one — so dark, so 
deep, so difficult of access; the other — so 
covered with glittering falsehoods, and all 
seeming so smooth and so easy. Only an 
occasional sarcasm reveals the unquiet of the 
subdued, but feverish heart. Nothing could 
be gayer in appearance than the little circle 
assembled at Lady Harvey's villa. It was a 
very warm evening; and the moonlight turned 
the Thames to an unbroken mirror of silver, 
and gave to the soft shadows of the shrubs, 
and the creepers that wound among the trel- 
lises, an appearance almost Italian. Watteau 
might have painted the group on the lawn ; 
and, assuredly, Lady Marchmont, Lady Mary 
Wortlejr, and Miss Churchill, were each ex- 
quisite specimens of different styles of beauty. 

" I am not sure," exclaimed Lady Mary, 
" that I like moonlight; it makes one look so 
pale." 

"Well, if it does," returned Sir George 
Kingston, glancing at Lady Marchmont, whose 
regular features seemed outlined on the air 
like those of a statue, — 

" ' Paleur qui marque une ame tendre 
A bien son prix. J " 

Lady Mary observed the look, and it put her 
in what is best expressed by an ill-humour. 
Her liking for Henrietta had long since passed 
iway ; jealousy had, as usual, been followed 
by envy, whose companion is sure to be dis- 



like. She had not yet forgiven her for Lord 
Harvey ; and now there was Sir George 
Kingston, whose homage she had quite re- 
solved on making her own. 

" Une ame tendre" said she ; which, being 
translated into plain English, means "a tender 
heart." " Why, instead of coming from Paris, 
I shall believe you come from Utopia. There- 
are no hearts in our world." 

"For 'ours,' say 'yours,'" replied Sir 
George. 

" No ; I mean what I say," interrupted 
Lady Mary. 

"An unusual occurrence," muttered Lord 
Harvey. 

Without attending to the remark, Lady 
Mary went on. 

" We might have had hearts in our cradles ; 
but, as I don't pretend to remember mine, I 
cannot say. Perhaps at sixteen, too, there is 
a sort of imagination of one ; but it is a 
phantom which flits at the cockcrowing of 
reality. We soon learn, 

' That the worth of any thing 
Is just as much as it will bring :' 

and we value a lover by the estimate of others, 
not by our own. Our own suffrage is noth- 
ing." 

" This is making love a mere question of 
vanity," said Henrietta. 

" A question, my dear, I should have thought 
you could have answered as well as any one," 
returned Lady Mary. " Love is society's 
Alexander the Great, only intent on making 
conquests ; and we care for no captives but 
those who follow the track of our triumphs in 
chains." 

" I utterly disagree with you," exclaimed 
Henrietta; " I have always thought mystery 
the very atmosphere of love !" 

" ! you would like a cavalier, with the 
dramatic accompaniments of moonlight and 
mask. Well, the two first are quite ready ; 
and," added she, with her peculiar sneer, "I 
dare say Lady Harvey could furnish a mask." 

" I think," retorted her ladyship, who cared 
little what she said, " a muzzle seems more 
necessary." 

" But to resume a subject," said Sir George, 
"which, whether it be felt or not, is univer- 
sally interesting. Why, if there be no such 
thing as love, do we all affect to believe in 
it?" 

" Pray," replied Lady Mary, " don't ask me 
to account for human inconsistency. Why 
do people, who would never look at a picture 
by themselves, pretend to a taste for art 1 ?" 

" But," interrupted Lady Marchmont, "be- 
cause some affect a taste, that is no reason 
that there should not be many who really have 
it. I, for one, believe both in love, and the 
love of art." 

" Charming credulity !" exclaimed the 
other : 

" Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of the minute !" 

but we all know that you are 

Every thing by fits, and nothing long.' * 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



1S>7 



"It is quite curious to observe," said Lady 
Harvey, " how accurately you remember all 
Pope's lines. I do believe that he was your 
grande passion ,• and that you only gave him 
up for the sake of appearances, which, I admit 
were not in his favour." 

This was a disagreeable subject — one wo- 
man -always knows how to plague another; 
but it had the desired effect : the conversation 
languished, and the party began to disperse 
about the garden. 

" How very lovely the river is just now, 
with its dark ripples growing so silvery where- 
ever the moonlight touches them !" exclaimed 
Lady Marchmont. 

"Lovely, indeed!" said her companion: 
but she saw that her companion's gaze was 
fixed upon herself. " Perhaps, from having 
always stayed so quietly in England," said 
she, at last, to break a silence, growing every 
moment more embarrassing, — " I may exag- 
gerate its delight; but I have the greatest 
wish to see foreign countries. Did you enjoy 
travelling much ?" 

"I never," whispered Sir George, "knew 
what enjoyment was till this moment." 

"Avery pretty piece of flattery," replied 
Henrietta, trying to laugh it off; "but not 
true." 

"You feel it to be true," replied he : "I 
cannot talk to you as I do to other women." 

Ah, how subtle is the flattery which at once 
separates you from the rest of your sex ! 

" Do you know," continued he, "I some- 
times think I fear you ?" 

" Fear me !" exclaimed Lady Marchmont. 

" Yes," returned he, in a low, earnest tone : 
" or, rather, I should fear you, did I not see 
how different you are to the gay, the careless 
trifiers around you. Do you think that I could 
talk to Lady Mary as I talk to you ? — .she 
would not understand me." 

" Yet, how clever she is!" replied Lady 
Marchmont. 

" And so are you," continued her com- 
panion ; "but you have, what she has not, a 
heart — a heart full of all high and kindly 
qualities." 

" O, pray, go on ! it is," said she, smil- 
ing, "so pleasant to hear one's own praises." 

"Ah!" exclaimed Sir George, "do not, 
even for one moment, imitate her, in laughing 
at all that is serious and true." 

It was not pleasant to be supposed imitat- 
ing Lady Mary, so Henrietta was silent; and 
hei companion continued : — 

"I said that I feared you — ah, beautiful, 
oeloved, as you are ! — and you know it!" ex- 
claimed he, passionately, interrupting the 
words he saw trembling on her lip. " It is no 
light thing to know that all control over my 
own happiness is gone from me forever ; that 
my very life depends upon your will." 

And what did Henrietta" say ? Nothing ; 
but she listened. 

They were soon rejoined by the society; 
and Lady Marchmont strove to still the re- 
proach, which would make itself heard, by 



forcing the gayest spirits : affection became 
suddenly matter of the lightest raillery. 

It is said that ridicule is the test of truth : it 
is never applied, but when we wish to de- 
ceive ourselves ; when, if we cannot exclude 
the light, we are fain to draw a curtain before 
it. The sneer springs out of the wish to 
deny ; and wretched must be the state of that 
mind which desires to take refuge in doubt ! 
But the instinct of right and wrong is immuta- 
ble ; all other voices may be silenced, but not 
that in ourselves. 



CHAPTER XC. 

THE AUTHOR AND THE ACTRESS. 

I cannot count the changes of my heart, 
So often has it turn'd away from things 

Once idols of its being. They depart—" 
Hopes, fancies, joys, illusions, as if wings 

Sprang suddenly from all old ties, to start; 
Or, ft they linger longer, life but brings 

Weariness, hollowness, canker, soil, and stain, 

Till the heart saith of pleasure, it is pain. 

" How beautiful she looked ! but how pale !" 
exclaimed Walter Maynard, who had seen 
Miss Churshill, the night before at the theatre ; 
"and she is not married yet! Is it possible 
that she can know what it is to have the 
heart feed upon itself? — to dream, but not 
to hope ? Has she found out the bitter 
mockery of this weary life, whose craving 
for happiness is only given that it may end 
in disappointment ? But what is this to me ? 
I must be gay — be witty : the points are not 
yet thrown into the dialogue in the second act. 
I wish I could remember some of the things I 
said last night; but, alas ! the epigrams ut- 
tered over champagne are like the wreaths the 
Egyptians flung on the Nile, they float away, ' 
the gods alone know whither. Nevertheless, 
I must be very brilliant this morning — bril- 
liant ! with this pain in my head, and this 
weight at my heart," and he drew a sheet of 
paper towards him. 

At first, he wrote slowly and languidly ; 
but what had been a passion was now a 
power, and he soon obtained mastery over his 
subject. The light flashed in his eyes, the 
crimson deepened in his cheek ; and, tearing 
the first page, he now began to write rapidly 
and earnestly. Strange the contrast between 
the writer's actual situation, and that which 
he creates ! I have been writing all my life, 
and even now I do not understand the faculty 
of composition ; but this I do know, that the 
history of the circumstances under which 
most books are written would be a frightful 
picture of human suffering. How often is the 
pen taken up when the hand is unsteady with 
recent sickness, and bodily pain is struggled 
against, and sometimes in vain ! How often 
is the page written hurriedly and anxiously, — . 
the mind fevered the w T hile by the conscious- 
ness that it is not doing justice to its powers ! 
and yet a certain quantity of work must be 
completed, to meet the exigences of that 



128 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



poverty which has no other resource. But 
there is an evil beyond all this. When the 
iron of some settled sorrow has entered into 
the soul, — when some actual image is pre- 
dominant even in the world of imagination, 
and the thoughts, do what you will, run in 
one only channel, — composition is then a per- 
petual struggle, broken by the one recurring 
cry, " Hast thou found me, ! mine enemy ?" 
Something or other is forever bringing up the 
one idea : it colours every day more and more 
the creations which were conjured up in the 
vain hope to escape from it. 

" I cannot write to-day," becomes more and 
more the frequent exclamation. It is, I be- 
lieve, one of those shadows which deepen on 
the mind as it approaches to its close. It is 
a new and a dreadful sensation to the poet 
when he first finds, that "his spirits do not 
come when he does call to them ;" or that they 
will onl} 7 ' come in one which makes him cry, 
" take any shape but that." It is a new sen- 
sation to be glad of any little return of power, 
and a most painful one. 

Waltei." now rejoiced whenever he did a 
morning's work. Alas ! the real was strug- 
gling with the ideal. After writing a few 
pages, he suddenly paused ; and, pushing the 
papers aside, exclaimed, " What a mockery 
this is ! I do not know myself what I write 
for. Money ! — why should I make more than 
will hold this miserable alliance firm— just 
keep body and soul together ? and sometimes 
I ask, is it worth even doing that ? Fame ! — 
alas ! what would I now give to hope, to be- 
lieve in it, as I used to do ! but it is far off 
and cold ; it lies beyond the grave. And 
love — it is a bitter thing to love in vain ! — to 
feel that none will ever know the deep tender- 
ness, the desire for sympathy, the sweet wealth 
of thought that is garnered in your heart. 
How passionately I wish to be beloved again ! 
to pour out my whole soul, were it but for a 
day, and then die !" 

The emotion exhausted him ; for Walter 
liad tried a frame, naturally delicate, too se- 
verely. The vigil and the revel, the hour of 
social excitement and that of solitary suffering, 
were alike doing their work. Bodily weak- 
ness mastered for a time the mind. The tears 
filled his eyes, and he closed them ; a few 
moments more, and he was asleep. He had 
slept for about half an hour when there came 
alow rap at the door; this did not disturb 
him: and the applicant, who had a key that 
fitted the lock, opened, and came in without 
further ceremony. It was Lavinia Fenton, 
gayly but richly dressed ; the world had gone 
well with her. She took off her mask and 
laid it on the table, together with a small 
basket; and, looking around, saw Walter 
asleep on the sofa. She bent over him for a 
few minutes with an expression of anxiety 
and tenderness, which, for the time, quite sub- 
dued the expression of her bold, though fine 
features. Sleep showed the change that a 
few months had wrought. The soft brown 
hair was damp, and the dew stood on the 



white forehead, where the blue veins were 
azure as a woman's. You saw the pulses 
beat in the clear temples, and the chest heaved 
with the quick throbbing of the heart. The 
cheek was flushed with rich unnatural crim- 
son ; but both around the mouth and eyes 
hung a faint dark shadow, the surest herald 
of disease. The hand, too, how white and 
emaciated it was ! yet with a feverish pink 
inside. 

The girl leaned over him — vain, coquetish, 
selfish; the degradation inevitable, from her 
position lowering even more a nature not ori- 
ginally of fine material ; yet one spot in her 
heart was generous, and even pure. She loved 
him. Had she been beloved again, her whole 
being would have changed ; for his sake she 
would have done any thing, and could have 
become any thing. Lavinia was clever; a 
coarse, shrewd kind of cleverness, quick to 
perceive its own interest, and unscrupulous in 
pursuing it. She had no delicacy, no keen 
feelings that got in her way. She had made 
great progress on the stage, was a favourite 
with the public, and, if not happy, was, at all 
events, often very well amused. Still her 
heart clung to Walter : she knew that he 
loved another, that the connexion between 
themselves was rather endured than solicited 
on his part ; still she had for him a careful 
and disinterested tenderness, that half redeem- 
ed her faults — at least, it showed that all of 
good and feminine kindness was not quite ex- 
tinct within her. She leaned over him, while 
her eyes filled with tears. 

" He is dying," muttered she, in a low 
whisper; "he has too little of this world in 
him to last long in it," and she buried her face 
in her hands. 

But it was no part of Lavinia's system to 
fret long over any thing : she was too selfish, 
perhaps we should say, too thoughtless, for 
prolonged sorrow. Life appeared to her too 
short to be wasted in unavailing regret. It is 
the creed of many beside our young actress. 
She rose softly from her knee, flung back the 
hair that had fallen over her face, dashed the 
tears, and muttered, " It is that he has not 
been in bed all night." She then began to 
make preparations for breakfast, took the fruit 
and cream from her basket ; and it was the 
fragrant smoke of the coffee that roused Wal- 
ter from his sleep. 

It was curious to note the difference be- 
tween the two whom circumstances had so 
thrown together; those circumstances, all that 
was in common to them. Lavinia — shrewd, 
careless, clever ; ready to meet any difficulty, 
however humiliating, that might occur ; utterly 
without principle ; confident in that good for* 
tune, which she scrupled at no means of at- 
taining — was the very type of the* real. Wal- 
ter was the ideal — generous, high-minded, 
clearin perception ; but sensitive, even weak, 
in action ; or, rather, too apt to imagine a 
world full of lofty aims and noble impulses, 
and then fancying that was the world in 
which he had to live. 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



129 



CHAPTER XCI. 

DIFFERENT VIEWS OF LIFE. 

And thus it is with all that made life fair, 

Gone with the freshness that it used to wear 

'Tis sad to mark the ravage that the heart 

Makes of itself! how one by one depart 

The colours that made hope. We seek, we find ; 

And find, too, charm has, with the change, declined. 

Many things have I loved, that now to me 

Are as a marvel how they loved could be; 

Yet, on we go, desiring to the last 

Illusions vain as any in the past. 

" So, all my improvement in your heroine 
was thrown away upon you. I thought how 
it would be when I saw Miss Churchill in the 
stage-box." 

It was long since Walter had heard her 
name, and the sound jarred upon his ear ; it 
brought the real too harshly amid the delusions 
with which he delighted to surround her 
image. 

" Well," continued Lavinia, " life is just 
like a comedy, only it does not end so plea- 
santly ; but it has just as many cross purposes. 
Here I am in love with j T ou, who care only 
for Miss Churchill ; she, again, loves Mr. 
Courtenaye, and he loves only himself, as far 
as I can make out." 

" Do choose some pleasanter subject," ex- 
claimed Maynard. 

" 0, then I must talk of myself: I cannot 
think of a pleasanter one," said she. "Do 
you know that I have made a brilliant con- 
quest ? — one that half the fine ladies in Lon- 
don are dying for." 

" I congratulate 3'ou," replied her com- 
panion. 

At that moment a slow, heavy step was 
heard on the stairs. Walter caught the sound 
before his companion heard it.. 

" For Heaven's sake !" whispered he, " be 
silent. There is that eternal dun again. I 
shall pay him next week, when that cursed 
pamphlet is done. But the door is closed, so 
are the windows ; if he hears nothing, he will 
think lam not at home." 

The actress put her finger upon her lip ; 
and so susceptible is an imaginative tempera- 
ment of an outward impression, that, for a 
moment, Walter forgot every thing but how 
well the pretty attitude and the arch look 
would have told on the stage. But a loud 
single knock at the door recalled him to the 
full humiliation of his position. The colour 
rushed to his face, and then left him deadly 
pale, while he held his breath lest it should 
betray him. The young actress was at first 
inclined to, laugh ; but there was a wretched- 
ness in the expression of Maynard's counte- 
nance which subdued even her reckless gaye- 
ty ; knock after knock sounded heavily upon 
the door, still heavier did they sink on his 
spirit who sat crouching and miserable within. 
A probation of long and shameful years must 
be gone through ; each one with the endur- 
ance more bitter, suffering yet more intolera- 
ble, before the debtor can arrive at that system 
of reckless evasion which is the last stage of 
povertv. Hope and honesty must Ion a- have 

Vol. II.— 17 



been left behind, one finer feeling must have, 
been crushed after another, and hunger been 
predominant, before debt can be held as other 
than the most intolerable shame, the most op- 
pressive misery. Walter was yet 3 T oung in 
his career, and h3 felt it bitterl)*. 

"At length, the creditor, tired of knocking 
to no purpose, and convinced that Maynard 
was not within, thrust a letter under the door, 
and his steps were heard slowly descending 
the oaken staircase. Walter could not breathe 
even when the echo of the last died into utter 
silence. He dreaded lest he should return. 
Lavinia sprang up ; even her light feet jarred 
upon his ear : it seemed as if the least move- 
ment must recall the man again. 

" Hush !" exclaimed he, in a broken voice. 

"Nonsense!" replied the girl; "he won't 
come again to-day. Why, it is not much," 
added she, opening the bill : " I will pay it 
for 3 T ou." 

" Give it me !" exclaimed Walter, angrily, 
colouring even a deeper red. "I wish }"ou 
would not open my letters." 

"I am so rich to-day," said she, laughing; 
" and what makes me in a good humour, puts 
you in a bad one. Come, come, be a good 
child ; leave the affair in my hands, and you 
shall be plagued no more about the matter." 

" Lavinia," replied he, taking the bill from 
her, u there are obligations which it is an af- 
front to offer." 

He was right in his refusal. Sooner or 
later a woman must inevitably despise the 
man who takes money from her. Before a 
man can do this, there must be those radical 
defects of character to which even kindness 
cannot always be blind. He must be a moral 
coward, because he exposes her to those an- 
noyances which he has not courage enough to 
face himself; he must be mean, because he 
submits to an obligation from the inferior and 
the Aveak; and he must be ungrateful, because 
ingratitude is the necessary consequence of 
receiving favours of which we are ashamed. 
Money is the great breaker-up of love and 
friendship ; and this is, I believe, the reason 
of the common saying, that " large families 
get on best in the world," because they can 
receive from each other assistance without de- 
gradation. The affection of family ties has 
the character on it of childhood in which it 
was formed ; it is free, open, confiding; it has 
none of the delicacy of friendship, or the ro- 
mance of sentiment : 3*011 know that success 
ought to be in common, and that )*ou have but 
one interest. 

" You must not look angry," said Walter, 
whose heart smote liim for his petulant re- 
fusal. " My difficulties only need a week's 
hard work ; but, I do not know how it is, I 
am not so industrious as I used to be. A lit- 
tle thing takes off my attention, and I am 
feverish and restless." 

" It is," replied the other, " that you work 
too much." 

"No," returned he, "it is that I do not 
work enough ; that I allow my mind to be 
fretted and distracted with other things, i 



130 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



am never so well, or in such good spirits, as 
when I shut myself up, and do nothing but 
write. I wish I could always keep inventing 
instead of thinking. But we have forgotten 
your brilliant conquest. What is the name of 
your new adorateur ?" 

" Who should it be," replied the actress, 
with an air of triumph, " but the handsomest 
and the most fashionable man in London — Sir 
George Kingston 1 ?" 

"Sir George Kingston!" cried Walter; 
"why you say, truly enough, that he has 
turned the prefciiest heads in London ! I can- 
not understand the luck that attends on some, 
from the very cradle. There are men, who 
seem only sent into the world to show how 
much fortune can do for a favourite ! And so 
you are to be 

* Orsini's mistress, and his fancy's queen !' " 

" You need not look so surprised," ex- 
claimed Lavinia, with a slight air of pique. 

"It was at Sir George Kingston's good for- 
tune, then," interrupted Maynard : "I con- 
gratulate you on having taken possession of a 
heart that so many are trying for !" 

"I am sure," cried the youn^ actress, "I 
never said any thing about a heart; I very 
much doubt whether a man like Sir George 
Kingston has one. He is excessively vain ; 
and, having lived all his life in society, to so- 
ciety he looks for the gratification of his vanity. 
He has one object in existence — to be talked 
about ; for this he devotes himself to the reign- 
ing beauty ; for this he ridfcs the finest horses, 
and gives the best dinners ; for this he has 
furnished his house in Spring Gardens in the 
most splendid manner ; and for this he will 
take me to be the prettiest piece of furniture, 
there !" 

"I have heard he is very clever," said 
Walter. 

" He is no such thing," replied Lavinia ; 
" but he desires to be thought so. I believe, 
what first made him talk to me was, that he 
might say my good things somewhere else. 
As for liking me, he cares no more for me than 
I do for these currants !" scattering a bunch 
over her plate as she spoke ; " and yet you 
will see what influence I shall exercise over 
him. A man who leads his sort of life, must 
be subject to ennui ,• he will require to be 
amused, and I am amusing ; it is my business. 
Moreover, he is vain, and I shall flatter him — 
the more coarsely the better." 

" I begin to believe," muttered her compa- 
nion, " that what is called delicate flattery, is 
an absurdity." 

" You should lay it on," resumed she, " as 
W3 do paint on the stage ; it is quantity that 
tells. But I have, also, another hold on Sir 
George ; I shall do all sorts of absurd and out- 
rageous things, and they will gratify his dar- 
ling propensity — they will make him talked 
of!" 

" Lavinia!" exclaimed Maynard, suddenly 
and earnestly, "have you a grain of feel- 
ing ?" 

" It is well for you, W T alter, to ask that," 



answered the girl, her whole face changing, 
and her words half choked by strong emotion. 

" I was wrong," cried he ; " to me you have 
always been kind and enduring : but forgive 
me, I am not well, and am grown sadly irri- 
table." 

"For one word, one look oi yours," con- 
tinued she, " you know well I would give up 
every thing else in the world. O ! that you 
would let me stay beside you, to watch you, 
to nurse you : but this is folly — " for her quick 
eye caught the coldness on her companion's 
face ; " I know you do not love me, that you 
never could love me now. Well, I have 
chosen my own path ; but 0, Walter ! there 
are times when, in the silence of the night, I 
sit at my window and see the stars shining 
down so coldly and so sadly, that my thoughts 
go back upon other years, and a sort of dream 
comes over me of a far different happiness ; I 
see you, Walter, when but a boy, with your 
soft, serious eyes, sitting at the feet of my old 
grandmother, and reading aloud to her : I have 
not profited much by those words — " and the 
girl paused, pale and tearful ; but, before May- 
nard had time to answer, she had started up . 
"but I shall be too late for rehearsal, and Sir 
George will be there ; he intends giving the 
gayest suppers after the play ; I shall take care 
that you are asked ;" and, without waiting for 
a reply, or bidding further farewell, she left 
the room so suddenly, that Walter had no time 
to have prevented her departure, even if he 
had wished it. 

The sound of the door, as it closed after her, 
sank heavily upon his heart; let her faults be 
what they might, she was the only human 
being' who cared for him. 



CHAPTER XCII. 

LADY MARCHMONT'S JOURNAL. 

Deep in the heart is an avengins power, 
Conscious of right and wrong. There is no shape 
Reproach can take, one-half so terrible 
As when that shape is given by ourselves. 
Justice hath needful punishments, and crime 
Is a predestined thing to punishment. 
Or soon, or late, there will be no escape 
From the stern consequence of its own act. 
But in ourself is Fate's worst minister: 
There is no wretchedness like self-reproach. 

He did not call yesterday at the usual hour. 
How intolerably long the morning seemed; 
and yet I owed it a new pleasure, it brought 
my first note from him. I now know his 
handwriting ; it is graceful, almost, as a wo- 
man's. I shall not see him till to-morrow. 
Ah ! is it true that I, and I only, shall be pre- 
sent to his thoughts ? that life is only life 
when passed at my side ? How intensely I 
feel the happiness of being loved ! I am so 
grateful for it ! Till now I have been so un- 
appreciated, so uncared for ; no one, since my 
dearest uncle's death, has desired to read my 
thoughts, or to look beyond the surface, and 
find what deep and passionate affections lay 
below. 

I am the better for being beloved ; I desire 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



131 



to be kinder to others ; I would fain share my 
utter content ; a deeper pity crosses me when 
I see sorrow. I was growing selfish, cold, 
careless ; I am so no longer. I listen pa- 
tiently, a sweet and ready sympathy seems to 
Knit me closer to my kind. Life had grown 
so wearisome, I hoped for nothing, cared for 
nothing; now, anew delight mingles with all 
things : a look, a word of his, makes my heart 
Deat with tumultuous pleasure. 

The other night, he came sooner to Lady 
Townshend's than was expected, and for my 
sake. I knew he was there before I saw him. 
How different he is to everybody else ! Per- 
haps this is the real myste? of love. I re- 
member reading, long ago, an eastern story of 
a dervise, who had a mystic ointment, with 
which, when the eyes were touched, all the 
hidden precious things of earth were given to 
view. The gold and silver shone within the 
mountain, and the diamonds glistened within 
the secret mines : so it is with love, who is 
the fine magician, showing all the veiled trea- 
sures of the heart. How much has love 
taught me, thai is true and beautiful ! What 
a mistake to build our hopes on the external 
vanities of life ! circumstance is nothing. 
How worthless, now appears to me, all that 
once seemed the chief objects of existence! 
our happiness lies within. To love, says all 
that can be said of intense and engrossing de- 
light ; even when away from him, the sunshine 
of his presence lingers behind. He gathered 
from the old garden wall a branch of those 
fragile roses, which, frail as they are, linger 
on to the last: I have kept them, and those 
few withered leaves have a charm I never yet 
found in a flower ; 

" They breathe 
Not of themselves, but thee!" 

Strange, too, how all old enjoyments revive : 
things that I had thought gone by forever, I 
read with almost my former eagerness ; but I 
apply all I read to him. Ah! no moment is 
languid now ; I have so much to remember ; I 
retrace all he said, all he did ; I imagine a 
thousand scenes in which we both take part. 

Why is it that, in dreaming of an ideal fu- 
ture, I never lay the scene in London ? I fancy 
to myself a lone and lovely island, far away 
in the southern seas, where never another step 
entered but our own ; such an island as lives 
in Pope's delicious verse. How happy I could 
be in C ilypso's cave, where 

" Cedar and frankincense, an odorous pile, 
Flamed on the hearth, and wide perfumed the isle. 
Without the grot, a various sylvan scene 
Appear'd around, and grots of living green ; 
Poplars and alders ever quivering play'd, 
And nodding cypress form'd a fragrant shade, 
On whose high branches, waving with the storm, 
The birds of broadest wing their mansions form ; 
The chough, the sea-mew, and loquacious crow, 
And scream aloft, and skim the deep below. 
Depending vines the shelving caverns screen, 
And purple clusters blushing through the ureen; 
Four limpid fountains from the clefts distil, 
And every fountain pours a several rill 
In mazy windings, wandering clown the hill, 
Where blooming meads with verdant greens were crown'd, 
A.nd glowing violets throw odours round." 

I did not feel the full chaim of these lines 



when I first read the.n, but I do now. It is 
with such scenes as these — lovely, lonely, 
and distant — that I connect his image, not 
with the false and glittering passages of oar 
daily intercourse. The feverish and tumultu- 
ous capital is only the "place oil Von se passe 
le mieux du bonheur ." Will he always love 
me as he seems to love me now ? Why do 1 
say seems? out on such cold suspicion! In 
the truth of my own heart, I read that of his; 
and yet there are moments when I doubt even 
to despair ; when the terrible truth of my po- 
sition forces itself upon the memory, which 
would fain shut it out forever. 

What right have I to rely on the constancy 
of another, who am false myself ? I tremble 
at the future : what can I, what dare I, hope 
for ? O, that we had met earlier ! how happy 
we might have been ! Yet, what do I take 
from Lord Marchmont, but that which he 
cares not for, — my dreams, my thoughts, my 
feelings ? Alas, I cannot deceive myself! I 
am wrong, very wrong ; I could not have writ- 
ten to my uncle what I have written here ! 
I can write no longer, it only makes me 
wretched ! 

And Henrietta turned away to be more 
wretched still. She felt what she did not own 
even to herself — the humiliation, the degrada- 
tion, of her position. It is love's most dread- 
ful penalty to fear, lest that very love lower 
you in the eyes of even him who inspires it ; 
and yet this was the inevitable result of such 
an attachment. But Henrietta's first step in 
life had been a false one : she had married a 
man whom she did not love ; and she had 
learned, too late, that in marriage nothing can 
supply the place of affection. 

And she had a yet harder lesson to learn — 
that nothing can supply the place of strong, 
undeviating principle. There is but one 
wrong, and one right ; but, alas ! Henrietta 
was beginning to make those palliations and 
excuses for her own conduct, which should be 
reserved rigidly for questions in which we are 
not personally concerned. We may, we ought, 
to be merciful to others ; to ourselves, we 
should be only just. 



CHAPTER XCIII. 

A SECRETARYSHIP. 

Alas ! and must this be the fate 
That all too often will await 
The gifted hand, which shall awake 
The poet's lute 1 ? and, for its sake, 
All but its own sweet self resign, 
Thou loved lute, to be only thine ! 
For what is genius, but deep feeling, 
Wakening; to glorious revealing 1 
And what is feeling, but to be 
Alive to every misery ? 

" I fear," said Mr. Courtenaye, as he en 
tered Weaker Maynard's room, " that you must 
almost have forgotten me ; but I have not been 
well, indeed : to-morrow, I am going down to 
the country ; but I could not leave London 
without coming to see you, and I have some- 
thing, I hope agreeable, to say." 



132 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Walter received his visiter with, obvious 
pleasure. He had, for some time, been fancy- 
ing that Mr. Courtenaye neglected him ; he 
was shy, sensitive, and had of late been suf- 
fering under those tortures 

" The poor alone can know, 
The proud alone can feel !" 

and at such a time how we exaggerate any 
slight ! and neglect, that, by the gay and pros- 
perous, is not even noticed, appears a grievous 
wrong to poverty and depression. 

Norbourne just glanced round the room ; 
but that single glance took in a whole history 
of privation and discomfort. The windows 
were dark with dust ; and rain, scarce dried on 
the seat of one, showed that it had been inad- 
vertently left open. The lamp, on the table, 
had burnt into the socket : Walter had been 
writing all night, and the daylight had stolen 
on him so gradually, that he had neglected to 
extinguish the companion of his task. It was 
now noon, and a cup of half drank coffee stood 
beside him ; but it was cold, the remains of 
the evening before. There were no books, — 
he had parted with the few that he had, but a 
quantity of papers were scattered about. The 
slanting sunbeams kindled the thick air ; long 
lines of dusky and tremulous golden atoms 
mocked the gloom which surrounded them ; 
and Norbourne, as he breathed the thick at- 
mosphere, did not wonder that Walter even 
coughed with difficulty. 

" As busy," said he, " and are you as en- 
thusiastic as ever ?" 

" Ah, no !" exclaimed Walter; " I no longer 
believe in 

' Wonders wrought by single hand !' " 

" And yet," replied Norbourne, " all great 
discoveries have been the result of single en- 
deavour. We owe the Iliad, America, and 
the Protestant faith, to individual effort !" 

" The instances you have quoted," replied 
the other, "are certainly very encouraging! 
Homer past a life in blindness and beggary ; 
Columbus, in vain solicitation and feverish 
disappointment : and Luther's was spent in 
struggle, imprisonment, and danger. The 
benefactors of mankind are so at their own 
expense !" » 

" This is very different," cried Courtenaye, 
" from your early creed ; then you held the 
onward-looking hope, and the internal con- 
sciousness, to be the noblest incentives, and 
.he best rewards, of high endeavour." 

"Then," replied the other, " I believed and 
loped ; now, alas ! there are times when I do 
leither. I would give worlds to recall my 
jarly eagerness of composition, and my reli- 
ance on the mind's influence." 

" You cannot doubt that influence," inter- 
rupted Norbourne : " from our -veriest infancy 
we feed upon the thoughts of the dead ; even 
your own strong and original mind has been 
cultivated by others. I never enter a library 
without being grateful to those whose moral 
existence has formed my own. Our sages, 
&ur poets, have left a world behind, formed of 



all that is good, beautiful, and true in our own. 
Not a life but owes to them some of its hap- 
piest hours ; they are our favourites, our old, 
familiar friends." 

"How happy," said Maynard, "would one 
half the praise and the honour lavished on sn 
author after his death have made him during 
his lifetime ! Let the grave close over the 
hand that has laboured through feverish mid- 
nights, — over the warm heart that beat so 
painfully ; let the ear be closed to that ap- 
plause w T hich was its sweetest music ; — and 
then how lavish we grow of all that was be- 
fore so harshly denied ! Then the marble is 
carved with eulogium ; then the life is written ; 
and thousands are lavish of pity and sympa- 
thy : every thing is given when it is too late 
to give any thing !" 

" But you, my dear Walter," interrupted his 
friend, " are a successful writer; 

4 Your works are charming, for they sell ; 

and you are yourself a welcome guest, flat- 
tered !" 

" You have used the right word," inter- 
rupted the young poet, colouring; "I am 
flattered, because flattery is a sort of com- 
merce, and I give more than I get. My works 
sell ; but look at the amount of labour, and 
calculate how poor is the recompense ! half 
that toil, half that talent, given to any other 
pursuit, would have insured wealth. Then, 
as to society, what do I gain by my admis 
sion there ? First, my spirits, wmich I need 
for my own pursuits, are exhausted in the 
effort to amuse; and, secondly, I have the 
opportunity of contrasting idleness and luxury 
with the toil and privation of my own lot." 

" Then, dear Walter," said Courtenaye, 
" why not accept my uncle's offer ?" 

"Nay," exclaimed the other, "to sell my 
mind, appears to me only renewing the old 
bargain with the devil, selling your soul !" 

" I never did, and never shall, urge the 
subject upon you," answered his companion; 
"but I have another proposal to make to you, 
which involves no sacrifice of political opinion. 
Sir George Kingston is in want of a secretary, 
and caught eagerly at my mention of you. 
Between ourselves, I suspect the office will 
be a sinecure ; but Sir George affects litera- 
ture, and will prove a most liberal patron, 
were it only for the air of the thing." 

" And you have been thinking of me, and 
planning for my benefit ; while, shall I con- 
fess, that I have been reproaching you in my 
secret heart with having forgotten me!" ex- 
claimed Walter, to whose impetuous feelings 
confession was a relief. 

"If you knew," resumed the other, "how 
my last few weeks have been spent, you 
would not blame, but pity me. My dear Wal- 
ter, there is a wretchedness that shuns even 
its nearest friend : but let us talk of yourself. 
I have made your going to Sir George a suffi- 
cient favour, and taken upon myself all the 
needful arrangements. Your salary is high ; 
you are to have apartments in the house ; and 
to be the autocrat of the library, where, I 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



133 



shrewdly suspect, your reign will be undis- 
turbed." 

" How kind you are !" whispered his list- 
ener. 

"And now, will you dress ?" said Courte- 
naye ; "fori have promised to take you to 
breakfast with Sir George. He is impatient 
to secure you, and we are to be in Spring 
Gardens by two o'clock. He will expect us ; 
for I am, what he calls, ' disgracefully punc- 
tual !' " 



CHAPTER XCIV. 

INTRODUCTION. 

,n the ancestral presence of the dead 
Sits a lone power; a veil upon the head, 
Stern with the terror of an unseen dread. 

It sitteth cold, immutable, and still, 
Girt with eternal consciousness of ill, 
And strong and silent as its own dark will. 

We are the victims of its iron rule, 

The warm and beating human heart its tool, 

And man immortal, godlike, but its fool. 

The church clock struck two, an example 
followed, during the next quarter of an hour, 
by half a dozen timepieces, as Courtenaye and 
his companion entered the room where Sir 
George Kingston, half dressed, half lounged, 
the morning away. The walls were hung 
with damask, of a rich Indian red ; he used 
to contend, that pale colours were a mistake 
in a sombre atmosphere like that of Eng- 
land. 

" Very well to subdue the glowing noon of 
Italy with your cold sea-green, but here we 
need a little interior crimson, to remind us 
that there is such a thing as warmth in the 
world." 

Several pictures, all representing human 
and beautiful life, hung round ; and china and 
toys, that a lady might have envied, were 
scattered about. The windows looked over 
the park, and were filled with exotics ; while 
panes of coloured glass threw rainbow gleams 
of coloured light over the alabaster vases, and 
one or two exquisite statues. The breakfast 
table was drawn to the open casement ; and, 
in the large arm-chair beside was Lavinia, 
dressed fancifully, somewhat over richly for 
the morning, but looking both picturesque and 
handsome. Sir George was thrown, at full 
length, on the sofa ; a small table, covered 
with books, drawn close towards him ; among 
which, the plays, poems, and pamphlets of 
Maynard were conspicuous. 

" Punctual to the moment !" exclaimed he : 
"what a bad heart, Courtenaye, you must 
have ! I can understand no other motive for 
a man's being punctual, but a desire of putting- 
all the rest of the world to shame." 

"I had no such magnificent motive," re- 
plied Norbourne, smiling ; " my only one was 
to introduce Mr. Maynard to you." 

" I can forgive punctuality in such a cause," 
said Sir George, with his most courteous man- 
ner; "but I rather feel," glancing at the 

Vol. II. 



table, "as if I were renewing my acquaint- 
ance with an old friend, than making a new 
one." 

Walter could not but feel gratified by such 
a reception. 

" I need not," continued his host, " present 
you to Lavinia, she being your own especial 
creation. Pray, did you make your ' Coquette' 
for her?" 

" Say, rather," interrupted the actress, " that 
I made it for him. But that reminds me that 
our parts are to be cast, in the new opera to- 
day ; mine is to he all sweetness and sim- 
plicity !" 

"Nay," said Mr. Courtenaye, "do not 
leave us so soon !" 

"I cannot afford," said she, laughing, "to 
lose a single air or grace on your account. 
What is the homage of three cavaliers, com- 
pared with that of half the town ?" and, rising 
from her seat, she left the room, humming one 
of those delicious airs, which afterward made 
the Beggars' Opera so popular. 

"That last speech," exclaimed Sir George, 
' Might serve as motto to all womankind ;' 
it is the much and the many for which they 
care !" 

" I am amazed," interrupted Norbourne, 
" to hear you say so ; you, who have so many 
devoted to you, and you only !" 

" That is the very reason they are devoted ; 
if I had only myself to offer, who would care 
for that ? but when the triumph is over half a 
dozen rivals, even my unworthy self becomes 
an object of consideration ! It is not," con- 
tinued Kingston, "that they wish so much 
to have me themselves, as to take me away 
from others !" 

"Do you never," asked Walter, " fear the 
fate of Orpheus ?" 

" O ! that," replied Sir George, languidly, 
"was merely an allegory of my actual exist- 
ence. I, literally, am torn to pieces ; I shall 
be obliged to marry some day, by way of pro- 
tection ! 

' Ay, there are moments when my thoughts disclose, 
A dreadful moment, dark with future woes !" 

at present, however, I have no intention of al- 
lowing any woman to carry so selfish a design 
into execution !" 

" ' Bold were her deed who sought in chains to bind 
The great destroyer of half of 'womankind !' " 

replied Courtenaye. 

" Really, we ought not to broach such me- 
lancholy subjects," exclaimed Sir George, 
" my spirits are not equal to them of a morn- 
ing. Here, LaFleu! bring some champagne, 
and do let us talk of something less alarming ! 
Have you read Pope's last three books of the 
' Odyssey ?' " 

" Yes," answered Maynard, to whom tlio 
question was addressed ; " Pope reverses the 
former system of writing: the ancients traced 
their characters in wax, but his are transcribed 
in honey !" 

" What diverts me the most," continued Sir 
George, " is, Ulysses being always called 
' the much enduring man.' After all his ten 
M 



134 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



years of wandering are past, pleasantly enough, 
the greater portion of them being spent with 
Circe and Calypso — to be sure, it was rather 
tiresome staying so long with the last — how 
he must have enjoyed his flirtation with the 
Phoenician princess 1" 

" Certainly, this is a new view to take of 
Ulysses !" replied Courtenaye. 

" The truth is always a novelty," returned 
Kingston ; " but I have always considered the 
patient Ulysses, the model of a classical co- 
quette : you may get many usef.l hints from 
his career." 

" I shall go home at once," said Norbourne, 
rising, " and begin to study the ' Odyssey' on 
new principles !" 

" The blue-eyed goddess forbid that I should 
interfere with any such laudable intention ! 
but you must return to dinner," said Sir 
George, " and then Mr. Maynard and I will 
tell you how we like each other; net bat what 
I have quite made up my mind on the sub- 
ject." 

The next hour was devoted to making a 
favourable impression on his secretary during 
their tete-a-tete, and in this he completely suc- 
ceeded. Walter could scarcely help being 
pleased with the graceful flattery of his host, 
which, to him, seemed to be so wholly with- 
out motive; but, to be popular, was Sir 
George's passion ; moreover, he fully intended 
to use Maynard's talents to the utmost, and 
he knew enough of human nature to know, 
that when we serve those we like, the service 
is well performed. He showed the stranger 
to his rooms, attended to several minute ar- 
rangements for his comfort, and ended by 
showing him into the library, where every 
luxury of literature was lavished. 

" And now," said he, balancing himself on 
one of the tables, " as I intend we are to be 
friends, I must tell you my faults : or, rather, 
my fault. Do you remember what some one 
wrote over the grave of Madame la Duchesse 
d'Orleans 1 ' Ci-git VoisivetcS idleness being 
the mother of all the vices, these said vices 
being all very accurately represented by her 
daughters. 1 do not know whether idleness 
has been quite so productive with me, but I 
know that it is my besetting sin; I hate being 
obliged to do any thing; I want you to do 
every thing that I ought; to write for me, 
think for me, feel for me !" 

" I perceive," exclaimed Maynard, laugh- 
ing, " that mine is not to be a sinecure office !" 

" 0.'' returned the other, "you may al- 
ways leave, at least, half undone of whatever 
I ask you to do; I only make an exception in 
favour of my love-letters; there you may do a 
little more : in those sort of affairs, it is alwa}^ 
safe to exaggerate !" 

" You do not mean to say," exclaimed the 
secretary, looking the surprise he felt, " that 
I am to write your love-letters ?" 

" Indeed I do !" answered Sir George : " you 
will find it a great deal more amusing than if 
I wanted you to write either pamphlets or 
speeches. The fact is, that 1 am too good an 
actor to succeed as an author. I do assure 



you, that when en scene, I am often surprised 
at my own readiness of resource, but I need 
stimulus. I cannot sit down by myself, and 
fill four sides of paper, which said time might 
be so much more amusingly employed ; no, 
life is not long enough to write letters !" 

" But how," cried Walter, " can I possibly 
know what to say ?" 

"You must invent!" replied the other: 
" fancy that you are in love with the lady 
yourself!" 

" But what I might like to say, may or may 
not suit the circumstances." 

" O," said Sir George, " I shall give you 
the outline, but the filling up must rest with 
yourself. There, sit down in that arm-chair; 
love-letters should always be written in a com- 
fortable position !" 

Walter obeyed ; and, drawing towards him 
the mother-of-pearl inkstand, prepared to be- 

" I have only three affairs," continued King- 
ston, " on my hands at present, of sufficient 
importance to warrant my committing pen, 
ink, and paper, which always appears to me 
an expedient to be reserved for the last extre- 
mity of une grandc passion. To one only of 
these do I propose drawing your attention this 
morning." 

He opened an embroidered portfolio; and, 
from its perfumed depths, took out a letter, 
which he began to read aloud. Involuntarily, 
Walter became interested ; there was an ear- 
nest sadness, and a poetry about it, which 
spoke no common writer. 

" You see," said Sir George, throwing it 
down on the table for Walter to see if he liked 
it, though it never even entered into May- 
nard's head to look at it, " there is scope for 
your genius. She is romantic — clever — needs 
excitement; and, therefore, flavours her affec- 
tion with a handsome seasoning of remorse. 
I shall expect a master-piece from you to- 
night ; till then adieu, and pray feel as much 
at home with me as I do with you. By-the- 
by," added he, turning back from the door, 
" be sure you fill the paper ; women judge of 
the strength of your attachment by the length 
of your letters !" 

Walter drew the papers towards him ; at 
first he hesitated, but the pride of art gradu- 
ally arose. The letter soon became mere 
matter of composition; it was written, the 
writer fully satisfied with his own impassioned 
eloquence, and then put aside for Sir George's 
approval. This completed, Walter leant back 
in his chair, and gave way to a pleasant won- 
der at the change in his own situation. In 
the morning he had scarcely known which 
way to turn ; — poor, harassed, overworked. 
Now, he had a luxurious home, a certain sal- 
ary, and might work little or much, as he 
pleased. 

" Wnat a folly," exclaimed he, " are our 
own exertions ; every thing depends upon a 
lucky chance in this world !" 

Walter was wrong ; but I own I tremble at 
the fatality which sometimes seems to hang 
over our slicrhtest actions. How often do we 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



135 



find ourselves involved in sudden misery and 
unhappiness, by circumstances over which we 
nave no control ! and we ask bitterly ; " What 
have I done to deserve this ?" Not in this 
world will be the answer ! 



CHAPTER XCV. 

RETURN TO COURTENAYE HALL. 

Ah ! never another dream can be 

Like that early dream of ours, 
When Hope, like a child, lay down to sleep 

Amid the folded flowers. 

But Hope has waken'd since, and wept 

Itself, like a rainbow, away; 
And the flowers have faded, and fallen around, 

We have none for a wreath to-day. 
Now, Truth has taken the place of Hope, 

And our hearts are like winter hours; 
Little has after-life been worth 

That early dream of ours. 

Change is the universal prescription for a 
wounded spirit. " It will do you so much 
good," is the constant remark. Perhaps it 
may; but how reluctant is any one who is 
suffering - mentally, to try it! There is an 
irritation about secret and subdued sorrow, 
which peculiarly unfits you for exertion ; you 
are discontented with all that is around you, 
and yet you shrink from alteration ; it is too 
much trouble ; you do not feel in yourself even 
energy enough for the ordinary demands of life. 

This was the case of Norbourne Courte- 
naye. The morning- after her conversation 
with Miss Churchill, Lady March mont had 
written a note, stating its result, to Lord Nor- 
bourne, who had placed the note in his ne- 
phew's hands. Norbourne, for his uncle's 
sake, made a strong- effort to appear indiffer- 
ent; and, by a tacit consent, the plan was 
never made a subject of discourse between 
them again. But he suffered keenly and 
deeply; the more so, because it was no longer 
a duty to subdue his regrets. He had, and 
did, love Ethel, wholly and fondly ; he felt 
that he could never love another, and he 
shrunk from the solitude of his own heart. 

It had been, for some time, necessary for 
him to visit the Hall, and yet he had delayed 
his going-. He shrunk from all that it would 
recall ; he shrunk from change, because he 
felt that monotony was a resource. On his 
arrival, his mother was startled to see how ill 
he looked ; but people who reside entirely in 
the country, are apt to lay a great deal to Lon- 
don, of which that poor, dear, ill-used city, is 
completely innocent. She never doubted that 
a little fresh country air would quite restore 
him ; and when she saw him, as usual, pass 
the great part of every day out of doors, she 
was, for the time, quite satisfied. 

Time was to work wonders ; and, at least, 
*t accustomed her to the change that had at 
iirst appeared so startling in his appearance. 
B-.it could she have seen the listless manner 
in w r hich he wandered through the woods, the 
carelessness with which he would fling him- 
self on the damp grass, her natural anxiety 
would have been alive even to agony. I be- 
lieve that one great reason why the suffering 
©f the mind is so often followed by suffering 



of the body is, that we are so indifferent about 
it, that we do not care to take even those ordi- 
nary precautions which are taken almost un- 
consciously in general. There is nothing in 
life worth attention, not even ourselves. 

One evening, lost in one of those melan- 
choly reveries which had become his chief 
occupation, Norbourne lingered too late on the 
banks of his favourite lake. The twilight had 
been one of unusual beauty ; the rich crim- 
son, which had kindled the waters with transi- 
tory radiance, died gradually into faint violet, 
and the whispering of the leaves had sank 
into a deep silence, unbroken even by the dis- 
tant sheep-bell, which had been one of the 
latest sounds. It was the dark quarter of the 
moon ; but the stars came out, one after an- 
other, upon the cloudless heaven ; those stars, 
sad and soft, which have so much fanciful, 
and so little real, sympathy with earth : not 
in their pure, calm light, can the destinies 
of life be written. Never had Norbourne felt 
more lonely ; there were a thousand thoughts 
and fancies gushing at his heart, which he 
longed to share, but which must now remain 
forever unshared. He looked back to his hur- 
ried and feverish life in London, and felt, how 
much happier was the one that he had formerly 
planned to himself. "With Ethel for his com- 
panion, he would have desired no happiness 
beyond his own hearth, no sphere of utility 
beyond his native hills. 

The evening wore away, and the long grass 
was silvery with dew ; the consequence was 
what might have been expected, — next day, 
he was laid up with a violent cold ; and the 
fever soon ran so high, that delirium came 
on ; and before three days were past, his life 
hung upon a thread. 

Mrs. Courtenaye hung over him in silent, 
despair ; and despair increased by all that es- 
caped from his lips during the delirium of 
fever. Till the present moment, Mrs. Courte- 
naye had believed that her son's attachment 
had been merely a boyish passion ; eager and 
romantic at the time, but leaving no after-trace 
on the character. The delicate silence that 
he had observed on the subject, tended to con- 
firm this impression ; but now that the heart 
was on the lips, uncurbed, and unconscious, 
the. secret of that heart became her own. He 
spoke of Ethel continually ; entreated her to 
forgive him ; deprecated her coldness ; and 
implored her to retract her refusal. 

In putting aside the various papers that 
were about him when taken ill, Lady March- 
mont's note fell into her hands. She read it, 
among others, requiring immediate answer, 
little, till then, supposing that it had been 
kept, with all the bitterness cf memory, for 
months. Its contents were as follows : — 

"Dear Lord Norbourne, — f regret having 
to communicate what has been the result of 
my conversation with Miss Churchill : I am t 
afraid that all women are a little unforgiving, 
when the inconstancy of a lover is to be par 
doned. I see clearly that nothing will induce 
her to listen to Mr. Courtenaye. Ethel is 



136 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



gentle and timid, but there is, also, a degree 
of firmness, for which I did not give her credit. 
The sooner the matter is put an end to, the 
better. Life presents too. brilliant an aspect 
to Mr. Courtenaye, not to console him for a 
single disappointment; that it may be his 
last, is the sincere wish of one who is, 
Most sincerely, your obliged 

" Henrietta." 

The note dropped from Mrs. Courtenaye's 
hand. What ! then her son had still cherish- 
ed his old attachment! He had offered, and 
been refused ! There was that in her own 
nature, which sympathized with the pride, for 
such she held to be the motive, dictating the re- 
fusal. Then, resentment for her son's suffering 
became the predominant feeling. This could 
not last: and, for the first time, she thought 
what Ethel's sorrow might have been — sorrow 
that might well turn to after bitterness. 

To find that you have been deceived, where 
you trusted so entirely ; trifled with, where 
all your deepest and sweetest emotions had 
been called into life, is the most acute — the 
most enduring sorrow of which that life is 
capable. Mrs. Courtenaye started to think 
that she had never considered the matter in 
this light before. 



CHAPTER XCVI. 

THE SICK-ROOM. 

•Tis midnight, and a starry shower 
Weeps its bright tears o'er life and flower ; 
Sweet, silent, beautiful the night, 
Sufficing for her own delight. 
But other lights than sky and star, 
From yonder casement gleam afar; 
The lamp subdued to the heart's gloom 
Of suffering, and of sorrow's room. 

Since the commencement of her son's ill- 
ness, Mrs. Courtenaye had never quitted his 
bedside, but when exhausted nature forced her 
to take that repose from which she shrunk. 
To-night she took her accustomed place ; for, 
during the night, no vigilance could satisfy 
her but her own : any eye but hers might 
close in momentary forgetfulness. 

Down she sat, the. lamp lighted, but its 
flame carefully screened from the sick man's 
face. The little table beside, supplied with 
all that could be needed, was at her side ; her 
losary in her hand, and again she began an- 
other vigil. Norbourne had at length fallen 
into a heavy sleep, and every hope hung on 
the state in which he might awaken from it. 
Mrs. Courtenaye could scarcely restrain her- 
self from starting up in agony, when she 
thought on what the morrow might bring forth. 
The room was dark, but she was accustomed 
to its dim light, and there was not a feature in 
that white face — white as the pillow on which 
if. rested — in which the slightest change was 
not distinctly visible to her. She rose, and 
bent over the sleeper : there was something in 
"the utter helplessness of sickness that remind- 
ed her of infancy. A lapse of year's went by, 
and she did not see the young man laid before 
ber. Vut the little child, that loved no one but 



herself, whose whole world was fashioned by 
herself; she felt that her whole life had been 
devoted to him ; and yet, had her object been 
accomplished ? was he happy ? and the an- 
swer seemed to come, cold and distinct on her 
ear— No ! 

Mrs. Courtenaye had never forgiven her 
husband the deception, or rather the thought- 
lessness, that marked his conduct towards her. 
From the moment that she became aware of 
her real position, a feeling of mingled dislike 
and coldness arose, which no kindness, not 
even submission, on his part, ever softened 
again. She was at once humiliated and im- 
bittered ; but the warm heart, and the stron s 
mind, must have an object; and her energies, 
equally with her affections, had concentrated 
themselves on her son. 

In urging his marriage with Constance, she 
had been actuated, quite as much by considera- 
tion for him, as for herself; but now it appeared 
to her only selfishness ; she had urged him on 
her own account. Of an unyielding and se- 
vere nature herself, she had exaggerated Lord 
Norbourne's determination, who certainly 
would never have acted upon the knowledge 
he possessed ; but now she only thought of 
how her entreaties had wrought with her son. 
She cleared the mist that had gathered before 
her sight, and looked long and earnestly on 
the face of the patient. There were symptoms 
of recovery not to be mistaken ; the feverish 
flush had died away, and the breathing was 
regular ; she ventured to touch the forehead 
with her lips, it was cool, and the pulse was 
subdued. Again she resumed her seat, but 
the expression of her countenance was chang- 
ed ; the working of some strong emotion was 
in the troubled lines of her mouth. Gradually, 
the fine features settled into a lofty and reso- 
lute composure ; the eyes, large and dark, 
filled with a light, spiritual and calm. She 
rested the crucifix on the table ; and, kneeling 
before it, was, for some moments, absorbed in 
earnest prayer. She clasped her hands, and 
raised them towards heaven, when her devo- 
tion was disturbed by the faint movements of 
the invalid. She sprung to the bedside in a 
moment; Norbourne was just awaking. His 
eyes slowly unclosed ; and for the first time 
for many days, he was sensible he saw her 
bending over him ; and the first faint words 
of returning consciousness were, 

" My mother ! my dear mother !" 



CHAPTER XCVII. 

LADY MARCHMONT'S JOURNAL* 

We might have been '.—these are but common words, 
And yet they make the sum of life's bewailing; 

They are the echo of those finer chords, 
Whose music life deplores when unavailing,— 
We might have been ! 

Alas ! how different from what we are, 
Had we but known the bitter path before us ! 

But feelings, hopes, and fancies, left afar, 
What in the wide, bleak world can e'er restore us ?— 
We might have been ! 

It is now a fortnight since I have seen him ! 
How often have I wished that he had been of 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



137 



our party here ; and yet but for this absence, I 
should never have had his letters ; I should 
never have known him as I now do. What a 
world of thought and of feeling have they not 
revealed ! Till now, I never did him justice. 
I have sometimes thought him, in conversa- 
tion, too merely amusing ; too ready to laugh 
at enthusiasm, — at what is most true and gene- 
rous in our nature. How wrong I was ! wit, 
with him, was only the sparkle of the waters 
which hide precious things in the depths be- 
low. I can enter into the sensitiveness which 
is fain to keep that which it prizes most j 
dearly, hidden from a cold and mocking world. 
I enter completely into his scorn of our pre- 
sent state of society, so false, so mean ; and 
yet I was scarcely prepared for this dark mi- 
santhropy, which dissects so unsparing^, and 
throws its cold, searching light, into all the 
miserable retreats of our small vanities and 
absurd pretensions. 

How false we are, how unkind ! I do not 
find that I can quite force myself to follow in 
the track of his glorious aspirations for the 
future, but how I respect him for the belief! 
"Will the time ever come, when men will feel 
that the mind and the heart must work in con- 
cert, and that we must look around and afar 
for our happiness ; that our great mistake has 
been, the narrow circle to which we are con- 
tent to limit good ? Alas ! there is a weight 
upon my spirits ; my wings are of wax, they 
melt in the effort that would seek the heavens. 
But much of this originates in my own pecu- 
liar position : it is a hard one, and a false 
one ! 

Hove 9ir George Kingston; love him with 
all that, is most tender in my feelings, most 
generous in my thoughts. I could be happy 
only to know his happiness. Had we met in 
earlier years, my existence would at once 
have found its object ; there w r ould not have 
been this perpetual struggle between myself 
and my circumstances. Too late do I find 
that affection is woman's only element; to 
love, to look up, is her destiny ; and, if unful- 
filled, nothing can supply its place. Life has 
no real business for her beyond the sweet 
beating of her own heart dwelling in the sha- 
dow of another's. She may crowd her days 
with gayety, variety, and what are called 
amusements ; she will do so only to find their 
insufficiency. She needs the strength of duty, 
and the interest of affection. But I — I trem- 
ble at my happiness ! my life is a struggle 
with my feelings and my circumstances! 
Sometimes I wish that I had never seen him, 
and then I have not courage to deny myself 
what has been such an unutterable source of 
enj oyment. 

It is strange, but I love him best in his ab- 
sence ! then my imagination creates all that 
it wishes ; all that I admire in him grows the 
richer for memory's setting : then I can ima- 
gine an existence that enables me to show my 
utter devotion without a fault. I start back 
with sudden horror, when I remember what 
even he may think of me. The love which 
should be my pride, the dearest hope which 
Vol. II.— 18 



earth can Vaise to heaven, to me is degradation 
and misery. The deceit that I practise to- 
wards Lord Marchmont sinks me to his own 
level. I despise him: alas! I should rather 
despise myself. 

She flung the pen down, and began to pace 
the room with those hurried steps which so 
often indicate the troubled mind, the inward 
suffering — fear, mingled with remorse : there 
was, unconfessed even to herself, a still -and 
hushed dread that the worst was yet to come. 
Lady Marchmont already began to shrink from 
the future. 



CHAPTER XCVIII. 

DISCOVERY. 

Who. that had look'd on her that morn, 
Could dream of all her heart had borne ? 
Her cheek was red, but who could know 
'Twas flushing with the strife below? 
Her eye was bright, but who could tell 
It shone with tears she strove to quell ? 
Her voice was gay, her step was light, 
And beaming, beautiful, and bright: 
It was as if life could confer 
Nothing but happiness on her. 
Ah ! who could think that all so fair 
"Was semblance, and but misery there ! 

"I cannot understand the cause of Sit 
George Kingston's not calling this morning; 
he knows that I am returned to town :" and a 
flush of haughty anger coloured Lady March- 
mont's brow ; but the colour deepened when 
she looked at the timepiece, and had been ex- 
pecting him for hours. How many changes 
had passed over her mind during that time ! 
At first, there had been only that intense and 
passionate delight which fills the very soul at 
the thought of seeing a beloved object. Gra- 
dually came on the wonder of the loving heart, 
that any thing in the world could induce him 
to delay such happiness. Then thoughts, less 
entirely of eager and uncalculating affection, 
intervened : — the flattered and spoiled beauty 
was surprised that she should be kept waiting 
But mortification was of short endurance. 
Henrietta felt too deeply for small vanity, she 
soon grew anxious ; and if there be one torture 
which the demons, who delight in human 
misery, might, rejoice to inflict, it is the 
anxious suspense of love acting upon an ima- 
ginative temperament. It is extraordinary the 
power of creation with which the mind seems 
suddenly endowed, and only to suppose the 
worst. Death, sickness, crime, misfortune, — 
these are the images which start upon the soli- 
tude made fearful with their presence. But 
there mingled among them, for Lady March- 
mont, a spectre darker than the rest — remorse. 
Whatever sorrow might be hanging over her 
head, and her punishment might be greater 
than she could bear, she bitterly acknowledged 
that it would be just. 

At this moment a note was brought in, its 
perfume reached her before itself. She knew 
it was from Sir George. 

" Any answer ?" asked she, with a carelesa 
m2 



138 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



coldness, belied by her flushed cheek and 
trembling- hand. 

" None," replied the servant ; and Lady 
Marchmont was left alone ; only then had she 
courage to open it. It contained a few hasty 
lines : — 

" How have I offended you ? Twice have 
I called this morning-, and each time you have 
been peremptorily denied. What unknown 
crime, Henrietta — if I dare still call you so — 
have I committed ? Shall you be at Lady 
Townshend's masked ball to-night ? In the 
•course of the evening I shall send you some 
flowers ; I implore you to wear them. Not 
but what I should know you under any dis- 
guise ; still wear them as a sign that I may 
hear my fate from your lips. Till then, as 
through life, 

Your devoted servant, 

George Kingston." 

Lady Marchmont read the note in mute 
astonishment. She clasped her hands for a 
moment tightly together, and the blood sprang 
from the bitten lip ; she then slowly, but 
calmly, approached the table and rang the 
hand bell. The servant immediately ap- 
peared. 

" Did you misunderstand my orders ?" said 
she. " I desired Mademoiselle Cecile to say, 
that. I should be at home this morning. 

The man appeared a little embarrassed, and 
replied with some hesitation : — " Lord March- 
mont has, perhaps, forgotten to tell your lady- 
ship that he gave the porter a list of names, 
including all those who were henceforth never 
to be admitted ; and it so happens, your lady- 
ship, that the list includes almost all who 
have called to-da} r ." 

" If such were Lord Marchmont's orders, 
of course they are also mine," replied Henri- 
etta, with desperate calmness. 

The man left the room, and she sank back, 
pale and cold, on the sofa ; but her agony was* 
too great for fainting. There could be but one 
motive for Lord Marchmont's conduct ; and 
yet she felt almost grateful to him. He had 
not exposed her to general comment : Sir 
George Kingston was only excluded among 
others. She had not given him credit for so 
much delicacy ; it touched her to the heart : 
she felt capable of any sacrifice to repay it. 

At that moment she heard Lord March- 
mont's step upon the stairs. A world of agony 
was in the next few moments ; every slow and 
heavy step of her husband fell, like a death- 
blow, upon Henrietta's ear. The door opened, 
and she cowered among the cushions of the 
cou< h. She had resolved to confess all, to 
implore his pardon, to submit never to see Sir 
George again ; but now the words died upon 
aer lips, and there she leant, pale and breath- 
less, with what just seemed to herself strength 
to hear the worst, and then die upon the spot. 
She had not courage to look up. Lord 
Marchmont approached in his usual deliberate 
manner, seated himself in an arm-chair oppo- 
site, and said, — 



" I have some more than usually pleasant 
intelligence this morning — intelligence I was 
not authorized to communicate till wdthin the 
last hour." 

Henrietta could scarcely believe her ears : 
there was any thing but anger or jealousy in 
the, tones of his voice; and when, at last, she 
ventured to catch his eye, there was only his 
usual calm expression of self-complacency. 

"I have just seen," continued he, "Sir Ro- 
bert Walpole, who has honoured me with a 
long and confidential conversation. I now com- 
pletely comprehend his views." 

Bewildered as Henrietta felt, the quotation 
from the old ballad rose to her memory when 
she heard Lord Marchmont talk of compre- 
hending Sir Robert's views, — 

" But what's impossible cannot be, 
And never, never comes to pass ;" 

but she preserved a discreet silence, and his 
lordship continued : — 

"Our admirable and patriotic minister has 
agreed with me in the necessity of drawing 
our party as much together as possible. An 
immense deal may be done by conciliation ; 
and I have promised Sir Robert to give a series 
of splendid entertainments." 

The fact was, that Walpole had been in 
utter despair what to do with their new ac- 
quisition, he was so useless in every way. At 
length Lord Norbourne started the brilliant 
idea of making him dinner-giver to their party. 
People forgive their host being a bore, when 
the fact is all but concealed by champagne and 
venison. 

" It is fortunate," added Lord Marchmont, 
" that I am not jealous, or I should have been 
quite alarmed at Sir Robert's eulogiurns on 
your beauty." 

" I am much obliged," said the countess, 
cold 1 y, who was turning in her mind the best 
w T ay of introducing the interdicted list. 

Lord Marchmont saved her the trouble. " I 
quite forgot to see you this morning before I 
went out. Let me tell you now, while I think 
of it, that I gave the porter a list, this morn- 
ing, of every one of our acquaintance w T ho had 
the least leaning to the other side, that, in fu- 
ture, they might not obtain admittance;" so 
sa3 r ing, he gave his wife also a list of names. 
" I copied them out for you, that you might 
avoid them in public." 

" Why," exclaimed Henrietta, " you have 
included all the pleasantest people that we 
know ; many, too, of your oldest acquaint- 
ances." 

"I cannot," said his lordship, with a so- 
lemn air, " allow my own feelings to interfere 
with my duty to my country: but I know 
that you do not understand these things. Y ou 
must," said he, pausing on the threshold of 
the door, " be content to obey." 

" Obey !" muttered Henrietta, w r ith a scorn- 
ful sneer, as she sank back on the sofa. Still 
she felt too sad for scorn long to be the pre- 
dominant emotion; and she yielded to the 
sadness — it was an atonement. That night 
she resolved to see Sir George Kingston, and 
bid him farewell forever. 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



139 



CHAPTER XCIX. 

THE MASKED BALL. 

Life is made up nf vanities— so smalls 

So mean, the common history of ihc- day,— 

Thai mockery Beems the sole philosophy. 

Thru some stern truth starts up— cold, sudden, strange; 

Ami we are taught what Life is by di spair:— 

The toys, the tritli S, and the p< tty cans, 

INTcli into nothingness— we know their worth*, 

Tin 1 heart avenges every careless thought, 

And makes us feel that fate is terrible. 

Amid iho ninny mirrors called into requisi- 
tion by Lady Townshend'sy&e, not one gave 
back a lovelier likeness than that which re- 
flected the lace and form of Lady Marehmont. 
She was dressed after a picture which had 
impressed her imagination from a child, in 
her uncle's collection. It. was called "The 
Enchantress ;" but the real name, for it was 
obviously a portrait, and that of the artist, had 
long since been forgotten. The stylo of cos- 
tume was peculiar and striking; but it suited 
Bent as much as it had done the former 
wearer. The robe was of black velvet, fitting 
tight to the shape, with large, loose, hanging 
Bleeves, lined with scarlet, silk. Round the 
waist was a rope of pearls, from which hung 
large tassels; and the deep border was of vari- 
ous colours, forming an Etruscan pattern of 
small strange characl 

There were no ornaments on the neck and 
arms; indeed, Lady Marehmont had used up 
the principal of hers to form the curious head- 
f the picture. The hair was formed 
into one thick braid, which went round and 
round the head : amid the folds of this was 
wound a serpent of precious stones, whose 
head, formed of rubies and diamonds, rose out 
of the knot behind, and made a sort of crest. 
Two little wings, about the size of a butter- 
fly's, were on either side of the serpent's head ; 
and the brilliants, (^ which they were com- 
posed, caught every ray of passing light. 

At her side was a bouquet of red and white 
they had been sent that evening, with 
one single line, — " I hope and I fear !" 

The poet who first likened his mistress* eyes 
to the midnight, must have crazed on such orbs 
as those of that young and lovely countess. 
There was the moonlight — clear, melancholy, 
and spiritual; but there was also the shadow 
of the coming storm — the radiance that is of 
the meteor, and the darkness that is of the 
cloud. There was a troubled and unquiet 
brightness in those dark black eyes, which 
I the passionate workings of the fever- 
ed spirit and the beating heart. The cheek 
was flushed to the richest crimson ; and there 
was that quiver about the muscles of the 
mouth which betrays, more than any other ex- 
iibdued emotion. 

Henrietta was under the influence of strong 
excitement; every nerve had been overstrained 
during the day, and they were now braced 
with the forced composure of a desperate re- 
solve. She was too agitated to rest : more 
than once she opened a volume, but only to 
close it hastily again without reading a single 



line; and then, starting from her seat, she 
resumed her hasty walk up and down the 
room. 

The chair being ..imounced. she, fastened 
on her mask, and drew her domino round her, 
it not being her intention to display her 
splendid and fantastic costume till supper, 
when all the gn< si 3 wore ex] ected to unmask. 
On her entrance into the ball- 1 drew 

her dark envelope more closely round ; but in 
her hand there were the red and white roses. 

"Ah, I needed not those signal 1!" 
said a low, sweet voice; and, garbed as a 
Spaniard, which suited well with his Stately 
figure, Sir George Kingston came to h< 
She took his arm in sib nee ; all she had in- 
tended to say seemed like the words of a 
dream ; for a few, a very few, moments she 
could he alive to nothing but the happiness of 
his presence. 

Love has to every one its separate emotions ; 
but there is one sensation common to all — the 
hurried, confused pleasure, which puts every 
thing else aside, of meeting. 

Lady Marehmont heard none of the voices 
around her, saw nothing of the glittering 
crowd ; her eyes were fixed on the ground. 
She did not venture to look at her companion; 
and yet her whole being was absorbed in his. 
While away from him she had framed her 
discourse, she bad arranged the many reasons 
i 11. she had convinced with argument, 
she had subdued him with entreaty ; and now 
that she was at his side, what did she say ? — 
nothing! and is not this a common case? 
Who ev( r said one-half of all that seemed in 
absence so easy to say ? 

The rooms at Lady Townshend's were 
much crowded, and there was something very 
odd in the quaint and strange lot king figures 
that were assembled. Princesses, nuns, 
knights, pilgrims, bandits, and monks, mixed 
together with a superb defiance of the histori- 
cal truths of costume that would nave driven 
an antiquary mad. 

But there always is in my mind something 
at once ludicrous and mournful in a crowd 
congregated for the purpose of amusement. 
What discontent, what vanity, move the com- 
plicated wheels of the social machine! There 
are many pleasures that one can comprehend, 
and even go the length of admitting, that they 
are worth some trouble in endeavouring to ob- 
tain ; but the mania of filling your house with 
guests of whom you know little, and for 
whom you care nothing, is only less incom- 
prehensible than why they should be at the 
trouble of coming to yen. 

The Arabs of the desert, who gather beneath 
the shadow of the palm tree to listen to some 
tale of wild enchantment, have an actual 
pleasure. The moonlight shows their dark 
eyes kindling with eager enjoyment, as they 
hear how the warrior gained his beautiful 
maiden at last. But this is not the case with 
our modern assemblings; no one can accuse 
them of wearing faces of eager enjoyment 
They are blase and languid : to-m nrow they 



140 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS, 



will admit how tired they w r ere of the party 
of the previous night ; but the admission is 
made on their way to another. 

.Lady Townshend's/e/e was no exception to 
the general rule, excepting, perhaps, that a 
masquerade, by having a character for wit to 
support, is a little more wearisome, by being 
more forced than any thing else. 

Lady Mary Wortley, who was there in her 
pretty oriental dress, accurate from the gold 
embroidered slippers to the sprig of jessamine 
in her plaited hair, thought it rather more 
tiresome than usual ; for,' by ill luck, Lord 
Marchmont had stationed himself at her side ; 
and for a dull man to attempt persiflage, is 
more than mortal patience can endure. Glanc- 
ing round, she saw Lady Marchmont and Sir 
George Kingston, whom her quick eye had 
recognised at once, enter a balcony which 
looked towards the garden. 

"I tell you, beau masque" said her lady- 
ship, "you are wasting time upon me that 
might be much better bestowed. There is Sir 
George Kingston busy making love to your 
wife. Don't you think that you had better 
look a little after her ?" 

" O, I am not at all alarmed," replied Lord 
Marchmont. 

" Well," replied Lady Mary, " there is 
some Christian charity left in this wicked 
world. It is quite charming of you to devote 
yourself to the amusement of the town as you 
do. Why, everybody is laughing at your 
blindness." 

" How very ridiculous !" exclaimed he. 

"Is Lord Marchmont talking of himself?" 
asked a mask behind : but wiiile his lordship 
turned round to discover who was his new 
tormentor, Lady Mary effected her escape ; 
and Lord Marchmont, finding himself near no 
one that he knew, began to consider whether 
he might not as well follow her advice. 

Lady Mary's had been just a random asser- 
tion, only thrown out to get rid of a weari- 
some companion ; and yet to what important 
consequences it led ! But it is the inevitable 
consequence of guil fc, it places its punishment 
on a chance ; and that chance is sure to occur. 



CHAPTER C. 



A SCENE AT THE MASQUERADE. 

I do not say, bequeath unto my soul 

Thy memory, I rather ask forgetting; 
Withdraw, I pray, from me thy strong control ; 

Though, that withdrawn, what has life wonh regretting 1 
Alas ! this is a miserable earth ! 

Too late, or else too soon, the heart-beat quickens: 
Hope finds too late its light was nothing worth, 

And round a dark and final vapour thickens. 

The silken folds of the crimson curtain 
which hung over the window, and a stand of 
odoriferous plants, almost concealed the bal- 
cony where Henrietta and Sir George were 
standing. Behind them were the illuminated 
rooms, from whence came gleams of light as 
the curta'ns waved to and fro ; and the sound 



of voices, lost in the music, swept but softened 
towards them. 

Below was the garden, a scene of complete 
tranquillity ; the trees were old and thickly 
grown, the lights from the windows seemed 
to play over their dense foliage, but not to 
penetrate it. 

The air rose fresh and sweet, and Henrietta 
had taken off her mask. The face was pale 
as the moonlight which fell over it, and her 
large, sad eyes were raised towards Sir George, 
with an expression so hopeless, so deprecat- 
ing, that even he shrank from meeting them. 

" You know that I love you," said she, in 
a low, faint whisper, — "love you as those 
love who have but a single object on which 
the affections can fix. I love you miserably, 
desperately !" 

" But you love your own pride better," ex- 
claimed her companion. 

" Pride ! — ah, no !" returned Henrietta. " I 
have no pride but in you. I could be content 
to be a slave, a beggar, for your sake. All 
that I ever read of my sex's devotion seems 
possible — nay, natural, when I think of what 
I feel for you. I should hold my life as no- 
thing could it purchase your happiness." 

" And yet," interrupted Sir George, " you 
can calmly, coldly condemn me to the most 
insupportable misery." 

" I am very wretched," muttered she, rather 
to herself than to him. 

" Rather say capricious and inconstant," 
replied her companion. 

"Alas !" replied she, " I deserve these re- 
proaches for having ever listened to you. Sir 
George, I have done wrong, inexcusably 
wrong ; but the hopeless, the dreary future that 
lies before me, might atone for my fault." 

" And so you will," exclaimed he, " sacri- 
fice me for Lord Marchmont, whom you both 
despise and hate ?" 

"I do despise, I do hate him!" returned 
Henrietta, bitterly ; " but, not the less, I am 
his wife. Listen to me, Sir George. I can- 
not endure the humiliation of my own re- 
proaches ; to-morrow I will return your letters 
I will, at least, try to avoid seeing you ; — but, 
surely, that was a step." 

" It was only the wind in the curtain," said 
Sir George, who, like herself, had started at 
some slight noise. 

"Alas !" exclaimed she, "is not this very 
fear degrading ? Why should I care that my 
words may be overheard ? Why should I 
shrink from discovery ?" 

"Ah," exclaimed her companion, " if you 
loved me with but a shadow of the love that I 
bear towards you, you would not dread a lit- 
tle risk — it is but a little — for my sake." 

"Ah," cried Henrietta, " do you think it is 
merely the consequence from which I shrink ?" 
Ah, if my own heart did but tell me that I was 
right, how little I should care for any thing 
else !" 

" I care for nothing but yourself," inter- 
rupted her companion. 

" Have you no pity for the misery that you 
will inflict upon me ?" 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



141 



Henrietta's voice failed her, she could only 
wring her hands with a passionate gesture of 
entreaty. Sir George saw his advantage, and 
continued : — 

"I know that, it is selfish to urge my hap- 
piness ; but, dearest ! sweetest ! it is so wholly 
in your hands. But, you are pale, my be- 
loved ; come in from the damp air." 

" Y :<u shall find my chair," said Henrietta, 
faintly ; for the emotion with which she had 
contended was becoming too much for her. 
" I must go home." 

" You have scarcely been here half-an-hour ; 
but," said he, making a merit of obedience, 
" I will not urge your stay, I see that you are 
not equal to it. If you did but know how I 
hang on your least look, you Would not dream 
of depriving me even of but one of them." 

The chair was soon found; and, as Sir 
George turned away, he drew a deep breath. 
" On my honour! a grand passion is very fa- 
tiguing. I have half a mind to take her at 
her word — have one last scene of repentance, 
be converted, and there let the matter end. 
But — no : an unfinished conquest is almost a 
defeat. I cannot allow remorse to master 
love — love of which Lam the object: it is not 
being properly appreciated: I must throw in 
more despair. ' This do I, O, Athenians ! for 
your applause,' " exclaimed he, as he turned 
into his club to see if he could find one or two 
pleasant friends for supper. 



CHAPTER CI. 

LORD MARCHMONT'S JEALOUSY. 

You never loved me ! never cared for me ! 
Had I been taken kindly to your heart, 
This present misery were all unknown : 
But I have been neglected and repel I'd ; 
My best affections chill'd, or left to feed 
Upon themselves. I have so needed love, 
I should have loved you but from gratitude, 
If you had let me. 

Henrietta felt quite overcome with bodily 
indisposition as she proceeded homewards. 
Her hands were feverish, her temples throbbed 
with acute pain ; she was wretched, but there 
was confusion in her thoughts ; she seemed as 
if it were impossible to dwell on any one sub- 
ject for even a moment. A dead weight was 
upon her spirits, they had been strained to the 
utmost. , Intending to lie down at once, she 
began unfastening the glittering bands of her 
hair even while going up stairs ; but her hands 
sank down, and she stood fixed on the threshold 
as she entered. 

There sat Lord Marchmont ; having broken 
open her writing-desk, he was looking over 
the letters ; too well did his wife know what 
he would discover. The very epistle that he 
was reading she recognised at once. The 
contents ran thus : — 

"You say that you despise your husband, 
that but for dislike you would forget his very 
existence : your high and generous nature 
avenges itself. It could have no sympathy 
with the true or the noble if it sympathized 



with him. The great fault of his character 
must be its extreme littleness. There is not 
room for the warm blood to circulate, for the 
loftier emotion to expand. You — so sensi- 
tive, so high-minded — what can you have in 
common with him ?" 

The rustle of Henrietta's dress drew his at- 
tention; he looked up, and saw her standing, 
pale and motionless, on the threshold. 

" You are earlier than I expected, madam," 
exclaimed he, starting up, and leading, or 
rather dragging, her forward, " considering in 
what agreeable society I left you ! I am 
sure my house is much honoured by your re- 
turn ; but you do not stay here long : I have a 
great mind to turn you into the streets to- 
night." 

Henrietta felt sinking, but she did not faint; 
the worst was come, and there was that in 
herself which seemed to rise to meet it. In a 
better cause, what fortitude, what endurance, 
would have belonged to her nature ! even 
humiliated, self-convicted as she felt, her na- 
tive pride could not quite desert her. Still, 
the blood curdled at her heart, the lip trem- 
bled ; but it could not yet force itself to speak. 

" And so these pretty letters are addressed 
to my wife," continued Lord Marchmont; "a 
fine return for all my kindness ! and to see, 
too, what you say of me ! I always knew I 
was a great deal too good for you. But I'll 
tell you what, madam, all the town shall know 
of your infamous conduct ; and you shall pass 
the rest of your life in a farmhouse in the 
country." 

" Ah ! any miserable place," murmured 
Henrietta, " so that it be but solitude," 

" Where you could receive Sir George 
Kingston : but I will take care to prevent that,' 
interrupted he. " I overheard all your con- 
versation to-night." 

" If you overheard our conversation," ex- 
claimed Lady Marchmont, " you overheard 
also my remorse. You know that, though 
imprudent, I am not guilty; and that I was 
myself about to break off a correspondence, 
whose fault, whose folly, none could feel more 
bitterly than I did myself." 

" I heard all you said about me," interrupt- 
ed Lord Marchmont, not the least attending to 
what she was saying. " I never knew sucli 
ingratitude ! Look at your house, at year 
carriage; there was nothing in the w T orld that 
you wanted." 

"Yes," said Henrietta, " what you never 
gave me — a heart. Lord Marchmont, I have 
done wrong, very wrong ; but you have been 
wrong also." 

"O, yes! of course," cried he, "lay the 
blame upon me. It is a lucky thing that your 
uncle is dead, he would not like having you 
sent back disgraced on his hands." 

" Thank God that he cannot know my shame 
and misery !" exclaimed the countess, while 
the mention of her uncle brought the tears to 
her eyes ; but they were not allowed to fall, 
they only glistened on the eyelash. " Lord 
Marchmont," continued she, "you yourself 
know that I am what is called innocent; but 



142 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



I do not for a moment extenuate the error I 
have committed. But I have some claims on 
your forbearance. Ask your own heart if it 
has ever shown to me that affection which is 
woman's best safety." 

" How am I to be made answerable for the 
omantic nonsense which Sir George King- 
ston has put into your head ?" asked he, an- 
grily. 

"Ah !" exclaimed she, "what I now urge 
I have felt ever since I arrived in London. 
You have never cared for me, or cautioned me 
against the many dangers which surrounded 
my vain and heedless career." 

" How could I tell that you would turn out 
so badly ?" again he asked. 

"Lord Marchmont," cried Henrietta, " there 
is yet time to save me from utter wretched- 
ness and crime. I am young, very young — 
forgive me, and my whole life shall be de- 
voted to atone for the past, and to show my 
gratitude. 

" And," answered he with, a sneer, " you 
will take care not to be found out next time." 

" I do not deserve this," said she. " Lord 
Marchmont, at your feet, I implore your par- 
don !" and she knelt as she spoke : " give me 
but one proof of your confidence, and my 
whole life shall show it has not been given in 
vain." 

" Madam," said he, throwing her from him, 
" you forget how glad I shall be to get rid of 
you." So saying, he left the room, and she 
heard him order supper as he went down- 
stairs. 

The fact was, that Lord Marchmont had 
long disliked his wife : he did not understand 
her wit, and he feared it. The very admira- 
tion she inspired, displeased him : it gave him 
an uncomfortable feeling as to her superiority. 



CHAPTER CII. 

THE LETTERS. 

It is a weary and a bitter hour 

When first the real disturbs the poet's world, 

And he distrusts the future. Not for that 

Should cold despondency weigh down the soul: 

It is a glorious gift, bright poetry, 

And should be thankfully and nobly used. 

Let it look up to heaven ! 

" It is earlier than I thought," said Walter 
Maynard, as the sound of one of the French 
clocks disturbed the gloomy revery in which 
he had been plunged ; " but I have not spirits 
to go out. Every day I feel more and more 
disinclined to the least exertion; and yet I 
never was in a position that demanded it more. 
Debts, difficulties, surround me on every side ; 
and yet I cannot force myselr to that employ- 
ment which would soon release me from them. 

" The iron has entered into my soul, and it 
weighs me down to earth. I cannot bear 
staying here, the office of Sir George's secre- 
tary is too degrading. To what use am I 
timing the talents once destined to achieve 
*uch lofty purposes ! J am applying them to 



the meanest deceits, — .to gratify the miserable 
vanity of a man, as much my inferior by na- 
ture as he is my superior by fortune. I can- 
not continue to live with* Sir George : I de- 
spise him too thoroughly. Every day I decide 
on leaving him. I act against every sense 1 
have of right in staying ; and yet I lack the 
resolution to leave." 

Walter leant his head upon his arm, and 
remained lost in thought. He did not take 
into consideration his shattered health ; con- 
sumption had already begun its work, and he 
drooped beneath its fever — that fever whose 
reaction is languor. But he referred his dis- 
taste only to the mind, which he felt was ex- 
hausted and depressed within. 

Few know the demands made by the imagi- 
nation on those who are once its masters and 
its victims. Its exercise is so feverish, and 
so exciting ; the cheek burns, the pulse beats 
aloud, the whole frame trembles with eager- 
ness during the progress of composition. For 
the time you are what you create. The ex- 
haustion of this process is not felt till some 
other species of exertion makes its demand on 
the already overwrought frame, the over- 
strained nerves begin to discover that they 
have been wound to the utmost. There is no 
strength left to bear life's other emotions. 

Poverty, the effort made in society; love, 
fretted out of " the lovely land of dreams," by 
being often in the presence, and perpetually 
hearing of the object whose possession is hope- 
less ; — all these combined to wear out May- 
nard's sensitive and shrinking frame. More- 
over, there is a time when every writer asks 
himself, has he not followed the shadow, not 
the substance ? that his noblest hopes, his 
most earnest aspirations, have been given those 
who know not what the gift has cost. 

Fame seems afar off, and cold sunshine ; 
and that eager readiness of thought, which, 
found in the slightest thing matter for some 
graceful fancy, which at once sprang into 
music, seems cold and dead within us. 

There are times when the poet marvels how 
he ever wrote, and feels as if he never could 
write again. Alas ! it is this world's worst 
curse, that the body predominates over the 
mind; and this was just now the case with 
Walter Maynard. 

He was roused from his meditation by a 
light touch on the shoulder : it was Lavinia 
Fenton, of whom he had lately seen but little. 
The fact was, he had carefully avoided her 
society; but to-night he felt glad of any one 
who broke in upon the gloomy shadow of his 
own thoughts. 

" My cold is so bad to-night," said she, 
" that I cannot venture out ; and, not knowing 
what to do with myself, came to see if I could 
find amusement here. I have found you, and 
that is better than nothing." 

" I was just thinking," replied Walter, 
" that I was worse than nothing." 

" Well, it is not every one," answered she, 
laughing, " who forms such a just estimate of 
themselves. I do not think that modesty is a 
virtue very often rewarded in this world; 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



143 



however, I shall take upon myself to reward 
it to-night by drinking tea with you." 

" And I will tell you an idea that has struck 
me," replied he, " as a good ground-work for 
a drama. I do not know how it is, but I need 
more encouragement than I used to do, to 
beprin any thing new. Now, talking over a 
plan, is a sort of beginning; and, careless as 
you are, 3" ou have an intuitive judgment." 

" Because," interrupted the actress, " I see 
things exactly as they are. I calculate my 
effects, but they do not deceive myself; you, 
on the contrary, live in a world of illusions, 
where every thing is called by such an exceed- 
ingly fine name, that' it seems a downright 
impertinence to ascertain what it really is." 

" Why, as you say," exclaimed Walter, 
" an epithet does go a great way. It is not 
so much what a thing is, as what it is call- 
ed." 

Lavinia's only reply was, to hum a stanza 
from the opera, then in its earliest popu- 
larity : — 

' Since laws were made for every degree, 
For others, as well as for you and for me 
I wonder we have not better company 
On Tyburn tree.' 

I am as hoarse as a raven, begging my own 
pardon for the comparison. Now, what has 
led to my train of thoughts to-night is, look- 
ing over Sir George Kingston's loveletters." 

" Does he show them to you ?" asked Wal- 
ter, with uncontrollable surprise. 

" Why, what do you think he keeps them 
for, but, to show ? They are really quite en- 
couraging to me : there is not so much differ- 
ence between the green-room and the drawing- 
room ; only to be sure, my coquetry is paid 
for!" 

"How little real love," said Maynard, 
" there is in the world ! — how many other 
baser feelings usurp its name !" 

" They may," cried Lavinia, " be generally 
classed under two heads, — idleness and vanity. 
There are more love affairs originating in the 
want of something to do, than from any other 
motive. The lover and the physician are 
each popular from the same cause — we talk to 
them of nothing but ourselves; I dare say 
that was the origin of confession — egotism, 
under the fine name of religion." 

" Sir George Kingston is very egotistical," 
said Walter ; " I observe that, let the topic be 
what it will, it winds round to himself!" 

"You would not wonder," returned La- 
vinia, " if you could but know the world of 
flattery which he contrives to obtain. Believe 
me, that a very vain man cannot do better 
than devote himself to our sex ; nowhere 
else will he have his vanity so soothed, and 
so fed." 

" But," interrupted Walter, " it is man's 
part to flatter women !" 

" Not half so much as women flatter men," 
ci^ed the actress. " We are more ingenious, 
more refined and ready, than you are. Be- 
sides, we imply, where you express ; and 
flattery, by implication, is the most subtle and 
penetrating of all. And, lastly, there is more 



of the heart in what we utter; we do feel a 
little of what we say." 

"And you mean to imply," exclaimed her 
companion, " that Ave do not !" 

"Yes," answered she. "I lay it down as 
a rule, the truth of which all experience con- 
firms, that ever}' man behaves as ill as he 
possibly can to every woman, under every 
possible circumstance !" 

" A sweeping censure !" cried Walter. 

" And, like all sweeping censures," said 
she, " if not true of, perhaps, one or two won- 
derful exceptions, it applies strictly to the 
generality. What man has the slightest 
scruple as to gaining the confidence ; making 
himself not only necessary to her happiness, 
but that very happiness itself; and then sa- 
crificing her to vanity, caprice, or any slight 
motive, that would not be held valid for one 
moment in any other matter !" 

" And yet," exclaimed W alter, fi what a 
delicious and a precious trust is th it affection 
which yields its sw T eetest hopes to your keep- 
ing ! you are in the place of destiny, to the 
woman who loves you." 

" Do you know, Walter, that, though I know 
what you are saying is great nonsense," in- 
terrupted Lavinia, " I cannot help liking you 
for the deep, true feeling, you carry into every 
thing. Still, eVen you only confirm me in my 
creed ; the warm emotion, the generous faith, 
only place you in the power of others, and 
power is what we all abuse. You, with your 
kind heart, your lofty talents, are you happ3 r ?" 

" 0, you know I am not !" exclaimed Wal- 
ter. " I feel that I shall never be what I 
have powers to become : I cannot make the 
future my home, as I used to do." 

" A most unsubstantial one !" cried the ac- 
tress : " give me the praise that rings upon the 
ear ; the applause that comes over the foot- 
lights ! But I am still hoarser with talking, 
and here comes the tea; and, to console you 
for my interruption, I will quote your own 
lines : — 

The fairer flowers are those which yield not fruit; 
Our highest thoughts grow never into acts." 



CHAPTER CIII 

A DISCOVERY. 

It i3 a fearful trust, the trust of love. 

In fear, not hope, should woman's heart receive 

A suest so terrible. Ah ! never more 

Will the young spirit know its joyous hours 

Of quiet hopes and innocent delights ; 

Its childhood is departed. 

" The more I see of the world," continued 
Lavinia, sipping her bohea from a little china 
cup, that might have served Titania, " the 
more I am convinced that the principles with 
which I set out in life are the only ^nes to get 
on w 7 ith. You ought to refer every thing to 
yourself — be your own idol. If a lover ruins 
himself for your amusement, you ask, what 
better could he have done with his fortune ? 
If, by any odd chance, he was to dc — what 
they all talk of doing — die for your sake 



144 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



well, it is quite charming to be paid such an 
unusual compliment. It is curious to note, 
after all, that people take you very much on 
your own estimate! Modest)'' is only a proof 
of merit in ' Gay's Fables ;' generally, it is 
taken as a tacit acknowledgement that you 
have nothing of which to be proud. My motto 
of ^ je rrtadoref is only what I expect !" 

" Well, the exaggeration is pleasant 
enough," answered Maynard, smiling. 

" It is truer than you like to admit. What 
makes Sir George Kingston — so false, so in- 
solent, to others — a complete slave to my ca- 
prices 1 Only because I do not care for him ! 
He knows I should only laugh at his deser- 
tion ; and he would not like to be the one who 
was left, which he knows I should do for the 
first thwarted whim." 

"And yet this man," muttered Walter, 
"can inspire deep and devoted attachments!" 

" Not he ! of all the letters in my posses- 
sion, only one set convey to me the idea of 
real affection ; and, odd enough, it is you who 
have inspired it! You know the correspond- 
ence you have been carrying on for Sir 
George." 

"I do," said Walter, colouring; "and 
heartily am I ashamed of it ! Now, I know 
him : 1 must and will put an end to it !" 

" She says," continued Lavinia, " ' but for 
your letters, I should never have known you; 
therefore, never have loved you as I do!' but 
read for yourself," tossing one to him; "if 
Lady March mont's letters have touched even 
me, what effect will they take upon you !" 

" Lady Marchmont !" cried Walter, in the 
most utter astonishment; "is it to Lady 
Marchmont that I have been writing]" 

" To be sure it is !" replied the other : " did 
you not know if?" 

" Sir George," said he, "never mentioned 
the name." 

"It was sheer carelessness on his part, 
then," continued Lavinia, " for I am sure that 
he has no delicacy in the matter. I remem- 
ber Lady Marchmont as if it were but yester- 
day — so beautiful, so proud ! where would her 
pride be, if she could know that her letters 
were in my hands'? And yet they might be 
in worse ; for I, at least, pity her !" 

" Good God !" exclaimed Walter, rising, 
and pacing the room, after reading a few pas- 
sages from the letter he held in his hand, 
" never can I forgive myself! every regret she 
expresses cuts me to the heart !" 

" You do, indeed, seem to take it to heart !" 
exclaimed the actress, an expression of jealous 
anger crossing her features ; "why, it is quite 
a God-send for you ! many a heart is caught 
in the rebound. Tell her you wrote the let- 
ters ; explain Sir George's treachery ; and, my 
life upon it, but you will 

'Bear off the honours of the well-fought day !' " 

"And how," continued Walter, not attend- 
ing to his companion — " how bitterly she re- 
proaches herself! and to think that this earn- 
est, this sorrowful love, has been a toy — an 
•amusement — the result of such heartless 



treachery ! I never can tell her — but I ought 
— I must !" 

" Why, it is the very thing that I am ad- 
vising you to do," cried Lavinia : " the game 
is in your own hands!" 

" How little," said he, still rather thinking 
aloud, than talking, "did I think,- while writ- 
ing these letters, proud of their composition, 
what misery I was inflicting on another, and 
storing up for myself!" 

"And little did I think," muttered Lavinia, 
" that I could have been so mistaken. I have 
always fancied that it was Miss Churchill 
who inspired you w T ith all these fine verses ; 
instead of that, it was Lady Marchmont!" 

And a bitter jealousy took possession of 
her mind. She had grown accustomed to 
look upon Ethel as Walter's passion and in- 
spiration : it was something far off and dis- 
tant, which even she felt was sacred ; but 
Lady Marchmont was a new rival, and come 
too actual, and too near. 

" I will tell you what, Lavinia," said May- 
nard, stopping short in his hurried walk, " you 
must give me those letters ; and, painful as it 
is, I will at once take them to her, and make 
the disclosure !" 

" Indeed I will do no such thing !" replied 
Lavinia, pettishly ; " if Lady Marchmont likes 
to be made a fool of, what business is it of 
mine V 

Walter, who had been engrossed in his own 
thoughts, had not observed what was passing 
in his companion's mind, and stood amazed 
at what appeared to him such an unaccount- 
able change. 

" My dear Lavinia," exclaimed he, earnest- 
ly, " you wrong yourself; you are far too kind- 
hearted to have any satisfaction in the shame 
and misery to which keeping back those let- 
ters will inevitably expose Lady March- 
mont !" 

" What would she care for mine '?" was the 
reply. "Besides, 1 really must look to my- 
self: what will Sir George say V 

" Nothing to you," answered Maynard, " for 
I will take the whole upon myself!" 

" It is of no use talking to me, for I will not 
doit!" cried Lavinia, passionately : "I see 
that you are in love with Lady Marchmont, 
and it is not me that you must expect to help 
you !" 

A sudden light broke in upon Walter; and, 
for a moment, he felt awkward and embar- 
rassed : but he was too deeply penetrated with 
the fault he had committed, too much touched 
with pity for its victim, to give up his point ;■ 
besides, she had a claim upon him for her 
uncle's sake, — that uncle who had been his 
kindest and his first protector ! 

" I am quite tired," said the actress, rising, 
" and shall go to my own room. Good even- 
ing!" 

" Y ou shall not go," replied Walter, gently 
detaining her, "till your better self comes 
back; I thought you were above any such 
petty triumph over another!" 

" You know I am not thinking of any such 
sullenly : " but have 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



145 



the goodness to tell me, why I should help 
you to make love to Lady Marchmont ?" 

" I am sure," cried Walter, " I want your 
help in nothing- of the kind. I do not, I never 
could love Lady Marchmont : you know," 
added he, in a faltering voice, " that I love 
another !" 

It was with bitter reluctance that he said 
this ; he could not bear even an allusion to 
Ethel's name ; but it was the penalty of his 
own conduct: he could not allow Lavinia's 
most unfounded jealousy to interfere with the 
only reparation in his power. The actress felt 
that he spoke the truth; and, ashamed of the 
petulance that she had disp^ed, now sought 
to bring the subject round a little. 

"But why should you interfere in the mat- 
ter ? It will ruin you with Sir George ! — you 
will lose your situation !" 

"Do you think," cried Walter, "that I 
could keep it, after to-night ? I would not, 
for twice his wealth, live with a man I so 
utterly scorn !" 

"But you lose," said she, "his interest; and 
he has it in his power to do so much for you !" 

" I could not submit to an obligation from 
Sir George Kingston !" 

"I admit that you are right," replied La- 
vinia, slowly ; " but I feel an unaccountable 
reluctance that you should interfere in this 
matter." 

" Listen to me for a moment," said Walter, 
" and seriously. Sir Jasper Meredith was 
my first and my best friend. If I possess the 
talents that have placed me in the very situa- 
tion that I hold, I owe their cultivation to him. 
To what use have I turned them ? to destroy 
the happiness of the being dearest to him upon 
earth ! For his sake alone, I would lay down 
my life to restore those letters !" 

" Poor, kind, old man that he was," said 
the actress, " how he would have grieved over 
this ! Well, the grave often saves us a world 
of trouble!" 

"I stand amazed now," continued Walter, 
" at my own recklessness in writing them ; 
but I am so accustomed to invent an existence, 
that I forget the consequence in the interest of 
the composition. Ah, I see that there is no 
wickedness so desperate as deception : we 
can never foresee its consequences !" 

" You shall have the letters," said Lavinia, 
beginning to put them together : " I shall tell 
Sir George that I sent them to their right 
owner in a fit of jealousy, and he will only be 
flattered !" 

. " My dear Lavinia," said Walter, " I thank 
you most cordially; you know not the weight 
you have taken off my conscience ; as to Sir 
George, I shall see him myself when I return 
from Lady Marchmont's." 

So saying, he took the letters ; and, again 
thanking her, hurried away. 

" I do pity her !" exclaimed Lavinia, as she 
went slowly up-stairs ; " the very humiliation 
of the letters being restored, is quite punish- 
ment enough, even for loving Sir George 
Kingston. It is the idol of her own fancy that 
she loves, not him !" 

Vol. II— 19 



CHAPTER CIV. 

THE LETTERS RESTORED. 

Alas ! he brings me back my early years, 
And seems to "tell me what I should have been. 
How have I wasted God's best gifts, and turn'd 
Their use against myself! It is too late ! 
Remorse and shame are crushing me to earth 
And I am desperate with my misery ! 

A golden bribe won at least attention from 
the porter; and Walter knew that Lady 
Marchmont had returned, for her chair was 
being carried away from the door as he got up 
to it. Still the difficulty of obtaining admit- 
tance was great, and Maynard was vainly 
urging the importance of his business, when 
an old domestic, who had formerly lived with 
Sir Jasper Meredith, entered the hall. He 
knew Maynard at once ; but he, too, demurred 
about the lateness of the hour. 

"I know you love your mistress," said 
Walter, drawing the old man aside ; " it is of 
vital consequence to herself that I should see 
her alone for a very few moments !" 

The old man looked at him with a sort of 
startled surprise ; but Walter was too pale 
and too agitated not to be in earnest. 

" Come," said he, " to my room, I will take 
care that you see her ladyship. 

Walter followed him into one of those small 
dark rooms, which so forcibly contrast the 
genera] magnificence of London, marking the 
social distinctions which exist under the same 
roof. The servant lighted a dull lamp, and 
left his visiter to a space that, to his impa- 
tience, seemed endless. 

" I have been waiting," said the old man, 
" till I heard Lord Marchmont go down to 
supper : my lady is now alone in the dressing- 
closet. You see, Mr. Maynard, that I do not, 
for a moment, doubt but that your business 
justifies this unreasonable visit." 

" It does, indeed !" exclaimed W alter, as 
he followed his guide. 

" My lady is alone, for she has come in un- 
usually early, so that Madame Cecile will not 
be returned these two hours, but I will wait 
in the antechamber." 

They knocked at the door. 

" Come in !" said a voice, strange and hol- 
low. 

" Madam," said the old man, " Mr. Walter 
Maynard says that he must see }'ou for a mo- 
ment on the most pressing business." 

Lady Marchmont was still in the same atti- 
tude as when her husband left the room — halt 
knelt, half crouched, on the floor. The me- 
chanical restrsint that we exercise over our- 
selves in the presence of our inferiors, made 
her start from her knee, and s^j, even calmly, 
" O, very well ! show him in." But she did 
not know what she was saying ; and when 
Walter, a moment after, entered, it took hex 
quite by surprise. He had often seen her in 
public places, but she had never seen him 
since the last evening passed beside the little 
fountain ; he seemed like the ghost of her 
youth, suddenly risen up to reproach her. Both 
stood silent, gazing on each other; Waltc 
N 



146 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



was actually lost in admiration of Lady 
Marchmont's transcendent beauty. The black 
velvet robe, with its strange embroidery, suit- 
ed so well her superb figure, and threw into 
such strong relief the dead fairness of her 
neck and arms. Her face was without a 
vestige of colour, but it only showed more 
strongly the perfect outline of her features. 
Pale she was,\ut not like a statue ; it was a 
human paleness — passionate and painful. 
Masses of her rich black hair fell over her 
shoulders, giving that wildness to the look 
which the dishevelled hair always does ; but 
the glittering snake was yet wound round the 
head, and the ruby crest and diamond eye of 
the reptile had a strange likeness to life. 

Lady Marchmont's eyes were unusually 
large ; but to-night the face itself seemed half 
eyes, so dark and dilated were the shadowy 
pupils. But it was the expression of misery 
in her countenance, that riveted the attention ; 
rarely before had so much anguish and beauty 
been combined in the same face. Some in- 
stinct told Walter that she was suffering, and 
he was come to add to it ; still, the sooner 
what he had to say was said, the better, and 
he was the first to break silence. 

" Lady Marchmont," said he, " will pardon 
an intrusion dictated by anxiety on her ac- 
count. Will she permit me to place these 
letters in her own keeping ?" 

Henrietta looked at them with a bewildered 
air ; she knew them, at once, for they were 
only kept together by a riband. A terrible 
fear rushed across her mind ; was Sir George 
ill ? — was he engaged in a duel 1 The idea 
of some danger to him was the on]y one that 
presented itself. 

" Did he — did Sir George Kingston," asked 
she, faintly, " send no message, when he sent 
these letters ?" 

" He did not send them !" replied her vi- 
siter. 

A deep flush, for one moment, suffused her 
neck, arms, face — even to the very temples — 
as she exclaimed, " How did they come into 
your possession.?" 

" Lady Marchmont," returned Maynard, 
" do sit dowm, and listen patiently, if you can, 
to me for five minutes !" 

Henrietta obeyed like a child, indeed she 
could now scarcely stand ; still, there was 
that consciousness about her, which made her 
turn her face a little aside. Walter hesitated, 
when she turned suddenly round : — 

" For mercy's sake, tell me the worst ; I 
can bear it better than suspense ! What has 
happened to Sir George Kingston ?" 

" Do not give yourself any uneasiness about 
one so utterly unworthy of a thought ! Sir 
George Kingston is without one grain of either 
honour or real feeling ! The fact is, I have, 
for some months past, been his secretary, and 
wrote for him the letters which were sent 
you !' 

" You wrote them !" cried Henrietta. 

" I had not the least idea to whom they 
were addressed. I wrote, as I do the pages of 



a romance ; and the Henrietta to whom they 
were addressed, was an ideal heroine !" 

" Sir George did not write them himself!" 

" He rarely read them, only just taking," 
replied the secretary, " a brief outline, lest he 
should betray himself in speaking !" 

" My God !" murmured Henrietta, "how I 
have been deceived !" 

" I do not ask, I dare not hope, for your 
forgiveness," continued Walter ; "but let me 
atone, as far as I can, by warning you against 
Sir George Kingston : he gave these very let- 
ters of yours to amuse the idle hours of his 
mistress !" 

Henrietta gasped for breath ; but she swal- 
lowed down the hysterical emotion, and signed 
with her hand for Walter to go on. 

" I have little more to say ; your secret is 
safe. I will answer for the young actress's 
silence ; it were an impertinence to assure you 
of my own !" 

Henrietta gazed upon him steadfastly ; his 
presence brought back the first, the sweetest 
dream of her life. Her love for Sir George 
Kingston seemed to vanish like a shadow; 
deep in her heart she felt that it was a poor 
fanciful emotion, born of vanity, and that 
craving for excitement, the inevitable result of 
her artificial state of existence. No ; he whom 
she had really loved, stood there before her — 
pale, earnest — with the same dark and elo- 
quent eyes, as when they used to kindle with 
light over the fine creations of the olden poets. 
Loving and beloved by him, how different 
would her destiny have been ! An utter sense 
of desolation came over her ; a terror of the 
future, an overwhelming agony in the present. 
That he, of all others, should be the one to 
witness her humiliation ! 

"I will trespass no longer," said Walter, 
after a moment's pause. " Let me hope that 
the bitterness of this moment will be forgotten 
in scorn. Good-night, dear Lady Marchmont. 
God bless you !" And he pressed the hand 
that she extended towards him. 

He started at the touch, for it burned like 
fire; and, even in that momentary pressure, 
he could feel the pulses beat ! 



CHAPTER CV. 

MIDNIGHT. 

Where is the heart that has not bow'd 

A slave, eternal Love, to thee? 
Look on the cold, the gay, the proud, 

And is there one among them free ! 

And what must love be in a heart 
All passion's fiery depths concealing, 

Which has in its minutest part 
More than another's whole of feeling! 

Henrietta pressed her temples on ths 
cushion, but it did not still their tumultuous 
pain. The door closed after Walter Maynard, 
and it sank like a knell upon her ear. She 
listened to his receding footsteps, and when 
they died away, she still held her breath to 
listen ; there was a deep silence, and she felt 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



147 



utterly alone in the world. Strange how 
vividly ner youth seemed to rise before her ! 
she sat again beside her uncle, while Waller 
Maynard read aloud his boyish translation of 
the Prometheus bound; her uncle's words 
rang in her ear. 

" So does destiny bind us on the rock of 
ife, so does the vulture, Sorrow, prey on the 
core of every human heart!" Then she joined 
the little group that had gathered beside the 
fountain — so gay, so hopeful ; what had they 
not, all of them, suffered since! She had 
witnessed the silent wasting of the heart 
which had banished the rose and the smile 
from the sweet face of Ethel Churchill ; she 
knew that Norbourne Courtenaye was suffer- 
ing all the bitterness of unavailing regret; 
and had she not just looked on Walter May- 
nard — pale, emaciated — with death in his 
face ! 

Slowly her thoughts reverted to herself; 
the blood rushed to her brow. What would 
sfie be to-morrow ? the mark for obloquy and 
ridicule ! disgraced, and for what ? to minister 
to the wretched vanity of one whom she loath- 
ed even more than she scorned. She sprang 
to her feet ; the crimson flood went back upon 
her heart; a strange light flashed from her 
eyes ; her white lips were firmly compressed ; 
and she clasped her hands so tightly, that the 
blood slightly tinged the ends of her fingers. 

If ever an evil spirit be allowed to enter our 
frail human tenement, such spirit would have 
seemed to enter into Henrietta Marchmont. A 
strange tranquillity passed over her ; she rose 
from her seat, and wrote a note ; there was a 
key, which she took from the table, enclosed 
in it. After carefully sealing the parcel, she 
rang ; and when the servant came in, she 
said, — 

" Let this parcel, late as it is, be taken im- 
mediately — I forgot it ; and you may tell Ma- 
dame Cecile, that I am so tired, I shall not 
wait for her: she may go to bed without dis- 
turbing me. Is Lord Marchmont come up 
from supper yet ?" 

"No, my lady. To-night, M. Chloe 
tries the new receipt for stewed mushrooms, 
that Sir Robert Walpole's cook gave him, and 
they are only this moment serving up, for my 
lord was home sooner than he was expected." 

"And he can sit down quietly to decide on 
the merits of stewed mushrooms," muttered 
Lady Marchmont, as the servant closed the 
door, " while I — but no matter, I hope he will 
enjoy his supper !" 

Her eyes flashed, and she laughed aloud; 
Dut she started herself at the strange, harsh 
Sound of her own laugh. 

"Ah, here it is !" exclaimed she, unfasten- 
ing a small key, which hung to the chain that 
she always wore; she then opened a small 
casket that stood where few would have no- 
ticed it; but, nevertheless, fastened for secu- 



rity to its stand. From thence she took two 
small phials, each of a different shape, but 
each containing some clear liquid : one she 
hastily concealed in the folds of her dress ; the 
other she kept in her hand: then, taking a 
lamp from the table, she left the room. Shad- 
ing the light with the sleeve of her dress, she 
proceeded along the corridor, and, with a 
noiseless step, gained a large bed-room on the 
left. She listened for a moment, but all was 
quiet ; and she glided in, pale and noiseless as 
a ghost. 

It was Lord Marchmont's chamber, fitted 
up with all that luxury which marked how 
precious its master was in his own eyes at 
least. Within the purple hangings of the 
bed stood a table, where the night-lamp was 
already burning; and, also, a draught, care- 
fully labelled. 

Lord Marchmont was fond of small com- 
plaints, and his physician's ingenuity was 
often taxed to find a remedy where there was 
no disease. 

Henrietta took the bottle, and swallowed 
part of the contents ; and then filled it up from 
the phial she held in her hand — that hand 
never trembled. Again she withdrew, cau- 
tiously and quietly as she came ; and returned 
to her own room undisturbed. 

She had scarcely reached it before she heard, 
her husband pass by, on his way to bed. She 
sprang to the door, and her heartbeat loudly : 
he might yet come in, and relent in her favour. 
Not so ; the heavy step passed heavily on- 
ward ; and again she sank amid the cushions 
of the chair. There she sat, wan as a statue, 
and motionless, save when a quick convulsive 
shudder, as if of pain, ran through her 
frame. 

It was awful to watch the change one sin- 
gle evening had wrought in that beautiful face. 
The eyes were hollow; the features thin, as 
if suddenly contracted ; and her brow had a 
slight frown, knit either with suffering, or 
rigid determination. 

A clock, striking two in the distance, star- 
tled her ; and, rising, she approached the win- 
dow. The dew had risen heavily on the 
plants in the balcony; and the mornlight 
turned the park below into one sheet of tremu- 
lous silver. All was silent as the grave, 
excepting that hollow murmur, which never, 
even in its stillest hour, quite forsakes a great 
city. The trees stood dark, and n<>t a leaf 
stirred on the heavy branches; but amidst 
them rose the stately abbey, the Gothic archi- 
tecture gleaming, " like ebon and ivory," in 
the clear radiance of the moon. There was 
not a cloud on the deep blue sky : but the 
countess did not look forth to gaze on tlie 
eternal beauty of the night ; she saw nothing 
but the little garden immediately below tho 
window of her room ; and she muttered, in a 
hoarse whisper — " Will he come ? " 



148 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



CHAPTER CVI. 



THE CHALLENGE. 

'Tis a strange mystery, the (lower of words ! 
Life is in them, and death. A word can send 
The crimson colour hurrying to the cheek, 
Hurrying with many meanings; or can turn 
The current cold and deadly to the heart. 
Anger and fear are in them ; grief and joy 
Are on their sound ; yet slight, impalpable:— 
A word is but a breath of passing air. 

Maynard returned home direct from Lady 
Marchmont. To his surprise he learnt that 
.Sir George was at home : such an early return 
was a very unusual thing with him. Walter 
was glad of it; he could not have borne to 
have passed the night without explanation ; 
and hearing that Kingston was in the library, 
he at once hurried there, and found him, seem- 
ingly, alone and unoccupied. 

" Maynard," exclaimed he, as his secretary 
entered, "do find something to say — I am 
dying of ennui" 

" I have much to say," replied the other : 
" whether you may like to hear it, is another 
question." 

The tone of his voice arrested Sir George's 
attention ; a thing not easily done when the 
matter did not concern himself. 

" Why," exclaimed he, " you look as pale 
as if you intended acting a tragedy instead of 
writing one ! Where do you come from ?" 

" From Lady Marchmont, to whom I have 
restored all her letters," replied Maynard. 

"Are you knave or fool, or both?" cried 
Sir George, starting from his seat. " What 
devil could tempt you to do any thing so ab- 
surd ?" _ 

" So right, you mean," replied Walter. 

" And did you, as I suppose you did," asked 
Sir George, " make the most of your writing 
them for me ?" 

" I told her I wrote them every line." 

" The devil you did !" exclaimed the other. 

" And I told her, moreover, that if there was 
a man in the world devoid of one spark of ho- 
nour, or one touch of feeling, that man was 
yourself." 

" Mr. Maynard, this insolence is past bear- 
ing : leave the room this moment, meddling 
fool that you are !" cried Sir George, whose 
surprise had now become rage. " To-morrow 
you shall leave this house forever!" ■ 

" I shall not," replied the other, " wait your 
orders, or to-morrow either : I leave it forever 
to-night!" 

"The sooner the better!" exclaimed Sir 
Georo-e, " impertinent and ungrateful as you 
are !" 

" I am not aware," answered Walter, " that 
there is any impertinence in expressing my 
opinion of your most dishonourable conduct; 
and I am not aware that I owe you any grati- 
tude : will you permit me to ask you on what 
account ?" 

" Tnis is past bearing," interrupted King- 
ston ; " will you, sir, leave the room ?" 

" Not, sir, till you tell me when you will 
give me satisfaction for having made me the 
tool of your heartless designs." 



Sir George burst into a loud fit of contemp< 
tuous laughter. 

Why, do you mean that for a challenge ? 
Really- it is too good your supposing that ] 
should meet you. I thank you; but, really 
must beg to decline the honour." 

" You dare not," replied Walter ; " you 
would shrink from the shame of refusing to 
meet me!" 

" The shame of refusing to meet you ! — . 
from the shame of meeting an equal I might," 
said Kingston, tauntingly; "but it is absurd 
to be challenged by my hired servant — a low* 
bom nobody !" 

Walter set his teeth. "You know that I 
am as much a gentleman as yourself!" 

" In your own opinion," sneered the other. 

" Really, it is very unpleasant to be inter* 
rupted in one's first sleep," said a young man ; 
rising from the sofa where he had been lying, - 
" what are you quarrelling about ? I mean; 
to have slept till supper. Come, let me be 
peacemaker. • 

"Never," said Walter; "but, perhaps, 
Lord Alfred, you will explain to Sir George, 
that his refusing to meet to-night will not tell 
to his credit to-morrow." 

"Lord Alfred," replied Sir George, "will 
also have the goodness to state by whom the 
challenge was given — by my secretary, my 
hireling, my dependant." 

"Not the last," interrupted Maynard; "I 
scorn you too much to depend upon you." 

" Really," replied Sir George, " this farce 
grows tiresome. Mr. Maynard, I order you 
to leave the room." 

" You have no right to order me. Give me 
the satisfaction to which I am so justly enti- 
tled, or I will force you to it." 

"I defy you," replied the other, with a 
sneer. 

" Liar and coward !" said Walter, striking 
him on the face. 

"Mr. Maynard, you are too intemperate," 
cried Lord Alfred, snatching his arm; "what 
can justify such provocation ?" 

" Before I ring for my servants to show you 
to the door," said Sir George, " you will allow 
me to tell you, that I can only be insulted by 
my equal : I cannot go out with any but a 
gentleman !" 

" I wonder," said Lord Alfred, interfering, 
" that you can dream of disputing Mr. May- 
nard's claim to be considered one. I can only 
say, so much do lvalue him, that let him satisfy 
me as to the quarrel, and I will attend him as 
second myself." 

Walter gave him one eloquent look of grati- 
tude, and Sir George turned livid with rage. 

" But little explanation will suffice," said 
Maynard. " Sir George has, by he knows 
what false representations, induced me to 
write letters — loveletters for him. I believed 
that I only gave expression to real feeling — a 
feeling that I at once regretted and pitied. In- 
stead of that, the passion which he feigned tc 
me, as well as to its object, was a mere de- 
ceit, a matter of miserable and vain-glorious 
boasting. He could place the touching and 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



149 



beautiful letters, full of the most confiding 
love and the bitterest self-reproaches, in the 
hands of his mistress, to be tossed about for 
any chance eye ! I have restored the letters 
to one who was the beloved child of my oldest 
and kindest friend !" 

Mr. Maynard, I shall be happy to accom- 
pany you," said Lord Alfred. " Sir George, 
what friend shall I communicate with ?" 

" With none : I will not," said Kingston, 
doggedly, "meet a moon-struck maniac ! — a 
nobody ! — a low-born beggar !" 

" Leave out the epithet," returned May- 
nard, "and lam not ashamed of being the 
last. Sir George Kingston, my father served 
with yours, and he was the superior officer. 
His death-wound was received while defend- 
ing his friend, Sir Edmund Kingston." 

" I see I must give you the lesson myself 
that I meant you should have received from 
my servants," replied Sir George, with an in- 
solent laugh. "There is no time like the 
present for these sort of things : Shelburne," 
said he to a gentleman, who entered at that 
moment, " you must take a little exercise be- 
fore supper. Mr. Maynard has suddenly set 
up for a squire of dames. His romances have 
got up into his head, and he needs bleeding ; 
so come with me. The park is lonely enough 
just now, and we can return to supper." 



CHAPTER CVII. 

THE DUEL. 

The moonlight falleth lovely over earth ; 
And strange, indeed, must be the mind of man 
That can resist its beautiful reproach. 
How can hate work like fever in the soul 
With such entire tranquillity around? 
Evil must be our nature to refuse 
Such gentle intercession. 

The garden of Sir George Kingston com- 
municated with the park ; and through it the 
four gentlemen passed, brushing the dew from 
the drooping roses as they went. The night 
was singularly lovely : 

" Such and so beautiful was that fair night, 
It might have calm'd the gay amid their mirth, 
And given the wretched a delight in tears ;" 

but it had no soothing influence over human 
anger. Not an eye rested on the moon, whose 
sad, spiritual light has so little in common 
with the world on which it looks. 

None listened to the low, soft music in the 
trees, every leaf of which, instinct with sepa- 
rate harmony, was like a soft note on a mys- 
terious lyre. None of the four spoke till they 
arrived at a space open to the moonlight, but 
yet sheltered by the elms. There was little 
chance of being overlooked or interrupted. 
The park was locked ; there was no entrance 
unless from the gardens of the houses ; and 
from the houses themselves they were at a 
distance, besides having the elms between 
them. 

" I will allow you to beg pardon even now," 
said Sir George, insolently. 



WalteT made no reply but by withdrawing 
his sword from the sheath ; and in a few mo- 
ments the seconds had placed them, and stood 
to see fair-play. 

I can understand the feeling of the duellist 
when really fierce and bitter — there are inju- 
ries only to be washed out in blood ; but I 
have always thought, that the seconds must, 
or ought, to feel very uncomfortable. They 
stand by in cold blood to watch the glittering 
steel, whose shimmer may every moment be 
quenched in blood. If the eye be dropped foi 
an instant, the next it may look on death, and 
death in its most fearful shape— one human 
being dying by the rage, the evil passion, or 
the unforgivable fault of another. 

The suspense in the present instance was 
of short duration. Maynard was no match 
for Sir George. The clicking of the swords 
smote on the silent night, the moonlight 
glanced from the blade ere it reached the 
dewy grass ; but, ere a bird disturbed from its 
roost w r as out of sight in the air, Walter had 
fallen ; and the grass, silvery with dew and 
moonlight, ran red with human blood. 

" Will you beg my pardon ?" said Sir 
George, setting his foot on the body of his 
prostrate enemy. 

Walter could only look denial and defiance ; 
and Sir George had raised his arm to plunge 
his sword again through the enemy at his 
feet, when a female figure darted from behind 
one of the trees, and arrested his arm. 

The surprise gave Walter time to spring up ; 
he did so, but staggered with weakness, and 
leant for support against one of the elms. 
Still Kingston called upon him to take up his 
sword ; but Lord Alfred interfered. 

" It would be murder in cold blood : I will 
not stand by and witness it. One of you, at 
all events, has had enough :" and he went to 
Maynard, who leant, pale and faint, with the 
blood slowly welling from his side. " It is 
not much, however," said the kind-hearted 
young nobleman, as he stanched the wound 
with his handkerchief. 

Lavinia, for she was the intruder, had watch- 
ed the whole proceeding; her keen eye was 
for an instant softened with anxiety ; but 
whatever might be the feelings which were 
passing through her mind, she showed no out- 
ward sign. If she was pale, it was hidden by 
her rouge; and her lip curled with its usual 
careless smile. 

"And what the devil brought } T ou nere ?" 
cried Sir George Kingston. 

" What the devil brought you ?" replied 
she, mimicking his manner. 

" Well," said he, " I suppose I must excuse 
it, on account of the devotion it shows to my- 
self." 

" It shows no such thing," answered she, 
with the most provoking carelessness. " It 
was sheer curiosity brought me here — a few 
hints from actual life are always useful in my 
profession ; and I wanted to see a real duel." 

" I hope you are satisfied," said Sir George , 
" and now, I suppose, you will return with 
myself and Mr. Shelburne to supper." 
n 2 



150 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



"You are wrong in all your suppositions 
to-night," replied she: " I am going away at 
once; the coach is waiting for me now. I 
was coming down-stairs to get into it, when I 
saw you all hurrying off — I guessed the cause, 
and thought I might as well see you fight." 

"Who has a coach waiting]" asked Al- 
fred, this being the only part of the dialogue 
which had caught his attention. "Will they 
let it set down Mr. Maynard at the inn where 
he tells me he was to sleep ?" 

" 0, certainly," replied the actress, " pro- 
vided he will promise not to die on the way." 

"Madam!" exclaimed Sir George, almost 
breathless with anger, " I insist upon know- 
ing the cause of your extraordinary conduct!" 

" Extraordinary, do you call it]" returned 
she, with a look of comic surprise ; " there is 
nothing extraordinary in any one's getting 
tired of you ; and I am very tired indeed." 

"Impertinent fool!" muttered Kingston, 
between his clenched teeth, feeling the more 
enraged because he saw Shelburne could 
scarcely repress his laughing. 

" Lord, Sir George !" continued she, taking 
an air of arch simplicity, and looking very 
pretty, " one would think no one had ever 
tired of you before; and yet you must have 
found it a very common occurrence. You are 
neither amusing nor interesting: how can you 
wonder that women find you very tiresome V 

Lavinia knew the object of her sarcasm 
well— 

" She was wreaking 

More revenge in bitter speaking" 

than any thing else could have done. A wo- 
man's tears would have been to him a triumph ; 
her reproaches would, at the very worst, only 
have bored him ; but a sneer touched Achilles 
on the heel. He shrank from being ridiculed ; 
he knew he had no ready wit to turn it. 

" Do let us go home," exclaimed he, turn- 
ing emphatically to his companion. 

" It is so late that I must wish you ' good 
night !' " replied Mr. Shelburne, who, late as 
it was, secretly did not despair of finding 
some one to whom he could tell the adven- 
ture in which he had so suddenly found him- 
self engaged. Why, it was worth while sit- 
ting up all night, if it were only to narrate Sir 
George's unceremonious dismissal by the 
pretty actress. 

" Surely," said Lavinia, extending her 
hand, "you have too much gallantry, Mr. 
Shelburne, not to put me into the coach." 

Lord Alfred and Maynard were already 
nearly out of sight ; of course, Mr. Shelburne 
could only take the hand offered, and not sorry 
so to do, as he hoped to hear a little more. 

" O," said Sir George, " I see that I am 
to congratulate Mr. Shelburne on being my 
successor." 

"No such thing," replied Lavinia; "I ne- 
ver allow my peace of mind to run any risk, 
which it would do with Mr. Shelburne after 
yourself — the contrast would be too dan- 
gerous." 



CHAPTER CVIII. 

THE ASSIGNATION. 

God, in thy mercy, keep us with thy hand 

Dark are the thoughts that strive within the heart, 

When evil passions rise like sudden storms, 

Fearful and fierce ! Let us not act those thoughts',' 

Leave not our course to our unguided will. 

Left to ourselves, all crime is possible, 

And those who seem'd the most removed from guiU 

Have sunk the deepest ! 

Sir George bore the annoyances of the 
night as a very vain man does totally unac- 
customed to mortification. He was frantic 
with passion ; he longed to kill somebody, 
but he did not know who. He took a com- 
mon resource in such cases — he stormed at 
his servants ; but, on entering the house, con- 
solation awaited him. A parcel was placed 
in his hands, which had been left with most 
particular directions that it should be given 
to him immediately. He was half-inclined, 
from pettish obstinacy not to open it ; but cu- 
riosity pervaded : and curiosity, like virtue, 
was its own reward. 

It contained a key, and a note from Lady 
Marchmont, entreating him to forgive what 
she called her petulance that evening at the 
fete ; and bidding him come to tell her that 
she was still loved. He was to enter through 
the little garden gate, and, ascending by the 
balcony steps, would, in five moments, reach 
the dressing-room, where he would find her 
alone. 

There was a postscript — " By-the-by, a 
secretary of yours has made a great merit of 
giving me the letters I wrote to you : of course 
he stole them : we must concert s6me means 
of securing his silence." 

" So I owe her submission half to fear — a 
useful lesson as regards women in future. I 
believe there is nothing like making them 
afraid of you; but," continued he, his hand- 
some face darkening with every evil passion, 
" it adds to my triumph to think that I owe it 
to the very means that fool took to prevent it ! 
I will take care that he knows it." 

Sir George could understand no other mo- 
tive for Maynard's conduct than his liking 
Lady Marchmont himself — a higher or more 
generous cause never even suggested itself. 

" I must attend to my toilet a little ; but, 
no," added he, " the very carelessness will be 
a proof of haste ; and, now I think of it, I 
am very late :" so saying, he threw his cloak 
round him, and hurried across the park. 

Lady Marchmont had passed another hour 
of miserable suspense. The moonlight was 
waxing cold and faint, and the chill air of the 
morning began to rustle among the trees ; and 
the mist, which rose from the dewy grass, 
spread like a thin veil, rendering all distant 
objects confused. A streak of wan and sickly 
light, began to glimmer in the east ; and again 
Lady Marchmont clenched her hands toge- 
ther, and asked — " Will he come ]" 

The cold wind lifted her long hair from her 
neck ; but she felt it not. Suddenly she 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



151 



started ; she pressed her hands to her burning- 
eyelids to clear their sight : but — no ; she 
was not deceived : a figure, as yet indistinct 
as a shadow, was hurrying across the park. 
The colour deepened on her cheek, the light 
flashed from her eyes ; but neither colour nor 
light were such as are wont to welcome the 
expected lover's arrival. 

*' He must not find me waiting on the bal- 
cony," whispered she, with a mechanical con- 
sciousness of feminine pride; "yet, what 
does it matter]" added she, with a bitter 
laugh. 

However, she again resumed her seat in 
the arm-chair, and busied herself about a lamp, 
over which some coffee was boiling. She 
looked very different now to what she had 
done while seated on that very chair when 
Maynard came. 

She had taken off hei: velvet robe, and was 
carelessly wrapped in a white silk night- 
gown, fastened with violet ribands. It was 
one she had worn in half-mourning, and had 
all the coquettish elegance of derate parure. 
The serpent was unbound from her hair, 
which was partly gathered up with a violet 
band — part left loose on her shoulders, as if 
she had stopped in the middle of her graceful 
task. She was pale no longer, her cheek 
burned with the clear feverish red of the 
pomegranate, and gave that peculiar light to 
the eyes, which is only given by the contrast 
of the crimson. Deep as it was, it grew yet 
deeper ; for Sir George Kingston entered the 
room. 

" Thus, let me thank you ! thus, pour out 
my happiness !" exclaimed he, throwing him- 
self at her feet. 

She averted her face, but that was only na- 
tural timidity. 

" Ah !" cried she, suddenly, " your cloak is 
quite wet with morning dew : you are a lag- 
gard, Sir George !" 

" I have not had your note half an hour," 
replied he : "I flew to you the moment I re- 
ceived it." 

" I fancy," said she, with a smile, " that 
we are both a little tired : you must have a 
cup of coffee with me before Ave begin to 
talk." 

Sir George saw that she was embarrassed, 
and secretly enjoyed it. 

" You will not let me pour out the coffee," 
said she, withdrawing her hand ; " there, tell 
me if my picture is like me." 

He rose, and the instant his back turned, 
she emptied into his cup the contents of a lit- 
tle phial, that she took, with the rapidity of 
thought, from the folds of her dress. 

" I 3annot look at a picture," exclaimed he, 
'* while I can gaze on the original." 

" Well," replied she, " your coffee is now 
ready." 

He took the cup and drank it down — glad 
of it ; for having to play the part of an ardent 
lover, he felt more sleepy than was quite suit- 
ing to the character. The coffee revived him ; 
and snatching Lady Marchmont's beautiful 
hand, he pressed it to his lips. " How can 



I ever," whispered he, drawing nearer toward 
her, " ever thank you enough V 

" 1 do not know," said Henrietta, starting 
from her seat, and drawing herself to her full 
height, " that you have much to thank me 
for; but, follow me softly." ' 

She took the lamp, and led the way through 
a suite of apartments, till she stopped in a 
large bed-room, dimly lighted by a night- 
lamp, and the one she carried. 

" This is the third time that I have been 
here to-night," muttered she; and, hastily 
withdrawing the heavy curtain, exclaimed— 
" Look there !" 

Sir George did look, and saw the face of 
Lord Marchmont; and saw too that it was 
the face of a corpse. 

" I cannot stay here," continued she, in the 
same hollow whisper, and led the way back 
again to the dressing-room. 

Sir George followed her mechanically; one 
look at the bed of death was enough ; the pale, 
rigid countenance, startled him like a spectre. 

"I would, not have come," was the first 
thought that rose in his mind, " if I had had 
the least idea of such a scene. How unlucky 
Lord Marchmont should have died to-night !" 

The countess led the way through the 
noiseless rooms with a step so cautious, that 
it did not waken the slighest echo, and her 
companion was as careful as herself. They 
regained the apartment without interruption ; 
and, after closing the door quietly, Lady 
Marchmont set the lamp down on the table. 
Its faint gleam, almost quenched by the day- 
light, fell upon her face, and her companion 
started at its strange and fearful expression! 

" Lord Marchmont," said Henrietta, " over- 
heard our conversation this evening. To- 
morrow he would have denounced and de- 
graded me ; to-night he has died, and by my 
hand !" 

Sir George made an involuntary step nearer 
to the window — the selfish ever the predomi- 
nant feeling. 

"You cannot suppose," exclaimed he, 
" that I would marry his widow ! his mur- 
derer !" 

Henrietta gazed upon him, with the fire 
flashing from her large black eyes. 

" And. what do you suppose I sent to yon 
for ?" 

Sir George stood silent, and she rapidly 
continued : — 

" I sent for you that I might know the 
sweetness of revenge ; that I might tell you 
how I scorned, how I loathed you ! Do you 
think that I am not perfectly aware of the 
mean treachery of your conduct ?" 

" Maynard is" — faltered Sir George Kings- 
ton. 

" What you are not — a person in whom bev 
lief may be placed. Now I understand the 
contrast between yourself and your letters. 
But it is of no use talking now; the servants 
will soon be stirring, and it would be rather 
awkward to be found here." 

" For you, perhaps, madam," sneered Sir 
Georgre. 



152 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" Rather for yourself," replied she, with the 
greatest composure; "you might be impli- 
cated in the charge of murder." 

Sir George hastily approached the balcony ; 
and Lady Marchmont said, " while in her eye 
the gladiator broke," so fierce even was the 
expression of her beautiful face, — " I do not 
think that Sir George Kingston will boast to- 
morrow of his interview with me to-night" 

He hurried down the steps, and a wild hys- 
terical laugh rang after him. There was 
something in the sound that startled even the 
careless and hardened Sir George Kingston. 
Still, before he got half way across the park, 
vanity again floated on the surface. 

" What a pity," muttered he, " that I shall 
not be able to tell to-night's tete-a-tete ! She 
has taken good care to prevent it." 

She had taken more care than he suspected. 
Even while he spoke a fiery pain darted, like 
a bird of prey, on his heart; he gasped for 
breath ; and when the agony was over, felt ut- 
terly exhausted. He staggered for support 
against a tree near. By a strange coincidence, 
it was the very one against which Walter May- 
nard had leant not above an hour or so before. 
The blood was yet red on the grass ; and Sir 
George Kingston felt a sickness seize upon 
him as he caught sight of it. 

Again his whole frame was wrung with 
convulsive pain ; this time the spasm was in- 
stantly folio wed by another. He strove to 
call for aid ; and he heard his voice die away 
on the silent night. He was alone — helpless ; 
a few acres of green grass made a solitude, 
vast as a desert, around him. Every moment 
he grew more incapable of moving : yet he 
knew he might cry aloud for assistance in 
vain. He gazed around — strange shapes 
eemed to flit by, then grow into gigantic 

adows ; a sound of rushing waters was in 
ears, and he gasped with a burning 

St. 

Suddenly a terrible fear flashed across him, 
and as it flashed, he felt that it was the truth. 
The cup of coffee that he had drank at Lady 
Marchmont's, had she drugged that too ? Lord 
Marchmont's white, rigid face seemed to be 
painted distinctly on the air ; and then endow- 
ed with a strange consciousness, opened its 
dull eyes ; and Sir George felt that his doom 
was sealed in that look. The suffering grew 
more acute ; his knees failed under him, and 
he sank heavily on the ground. 

Still, life was strong within him; he strug- 
gled with his agony ; he thought if he could 
but reach home he might have aid, and live ; 
but, even while he struggled, there was that 
within which told him his struggles were 
vain. He w 7 as growing delirious with the in- 
ternal torture, with the intolerable burning 
thirst; yet his delirium turned upon real ob- 
jects ; the pleasures of existence crowded upon 
his imagination — he saw his youth, as it were, 
distinct before him; he thought of his wealth, 
it e-ould not now buy him even a cup of cold 
water; then beautiful forms, but all with 
fiendish eyes, gathered round him : some of- 
fered him golden fruits ; others, purple wine : 



he stretched his parched mouth towards them, 
and they melted into the wan air with a mock- 
ing laugh. 

Consciousness returned again; he saw th6 
first red of the morning beginning to colour 
the clouds ; a sort of stupid wonder passed 
through him, that he had never thought them 
so lovely before. He strove to keep his heavy 
eyelids open, to fix them on the blue sky ; he 
felt that if once they closed, never would they 
open again. 

At that moment, a bird fluttered from the 
bough overhead, and sprang, with a song, into 
the air. A gleam of sunshine broke forth, as 
if to light its early path. Sir George moaned 
aloud in envy ; he would have been thankful 
to be that poor bird. That song w'as the sig- 
nal for a thousand others ; every bough grew 
in a moment alive ; the sunshine became more 
golden, and a rich purple flushed -deepening 
every instant in the east. 

Again a fierce spasm shook Sir George's 
now weakened frame ; it forced from him a 
womanish shriek ; he w T as glad to hear it : a 
wild hope came, that it might bring some 
chance wanderer to his help ; and, in that 
hope, he filled the air with frantic cries. 

He cried in vain ; he w^as dying in the midst 
of that crowded city, helpless, and alone. O, 
for a human face to have bent over his own ! 
He ceased his shrieks suddenly, he found that 
he exhausted his strength ; the morning had 
now broken, and if he could but live a little 
longer, some one must pass ; and, so strong 
was the craving for humanity, that it was as 
if, let any one come near, and he must be 
saved. But the cold dews rose heavily on 
his forehead, a feeling of suffocation was in 
his throat, while his eyes swam, and the ob- 
jects near begar io whirl round with frightful 
velocity. 

He raised his nand to clear the mists from 
his sight, but his strength failed in the effort, 
and his hand dropped heavily to the ground 
with a noise that, to his own ear, sounded 
like thunder ! Painfully, he forced his hot 
eyelids to unclose, and his distended orbs 
sought for some object whereon to fix ; they 
met the patch of grass, yet red with the blood 
of Walter Maynard. It seemed to rise in 
judgment against him ; he could not take his 
eyes away from the guilty colour which began 
to spread ; it rose, colouring the heavens with 
its fearful hue, till the very azure was died 
with scarlet. Then it grew dark ; a darkness 
filled with shadows — shadows from other 
years. 

Every evil thought that had ever arisen 
within him, now assumed some palpable form. 
Pale faces looked upon him with sad re- 
proaches ; wasted hours, misused gifts, stood 
around like spectres. For the first time in his 
indulged and evil life, he thought of judgment 
and of an hereafter. He remembered his God, 
but only to fear him. He started ! that awful 
terror mastered even the extremity of pain ; 
the drops poured down his face; his eyes 
glared fearfully round, seeking shelter, and 
fmdinof none. The effort was too much , he 



EtHEL CHURCHILL. 



153 



sank back with one last cry of despair, and in 
that despair he died ! 

The birds sang gayly overhead; the morn- 
ing- sun dried up even the tears that night had 
left on the leaves. The clouds first reddened, 
and then wandered, white and pure, over the 
sky ; voices rose from the wilderness of streets 
around, and another day came, busy and anx- 
ious, to awakening humanity. The cheerful- 
ness of the morning brought its own glad tone 
to the spirits of the early walkers in the park. 
The first that entered were going en their way 
with a song, when the singing voice suddenly 
changed to a cry of horror, for the dead lay 
before their feet. His eyes, wild and staring — 
there had been no friendly hand to close them ; 
his features convulsed with fearful agony. 
Sir George Kingston was stretched a corpse ! 
He — the rich, the luxurious, the flattered — 
nad died by the common pathway like a dog ! 



CHAPTER CIX. 

THE CHAMBER OF DEATH. 

Ah! sad it is to see the deck 

Dismasted of some noble wreck . 

And sad to see the marble stone 

Defaced, and with gray moss o'ergrown ; 

And sad to see the broken lute 

Forever to its music mute. 

But what is lute, or fallen tower, 

Or ship sunk in its proudest hour, 

To awe and majesty combined 

In their worst shape— the ruin'd mind" 

The morning air waved to and fro the chintz 
curtains of a large, and, for a London one, a 
very cheerful-looking room, whose windows 
opened to the Thames. It was high-tide, and 
every wave seemed freighted with a separate 
sunbeam ; the sails of the small boats, as they 
darted rapidly along, shone with the purest 
white ; and those that rowed past, flung up a 
shower of glittering sparkles at every stroke 
of the oar. On the sill of each window were 
placed pots, full of roses ; and their sweet 
breath floated into the room. 

In a large arm-chair, so placed as to com- 
mand every thing that went by, the view only 
broken by the waving leaves of the rose trees, 
sat Mrs. Churchill. On one side was an em- 
broidery-frame, which, from the delicate finish 
of the wreath, indicated that 3 r ounger e}"es 
occasionally aided the old lad}\ On the other 
was a small table, with an exquisite breakfast- 
service of Dresden china, from which she was 
sipping her chocolate. Placed opposite, on a 
low seat, was her grand aughter, a huge book 
propped on her knee, from which she was 
reading aloud. Perhaps there was a charm 
in that sweet voice, which gave its own un- 
conscious fascination to the long-drawn pages ; 
but there was, also, the still stronger charm 
of habit. 

Mrs. Churchill liked the interminable laby- 
rinths of the Cyrus and the Cassandra, be- 
cause she had liked them in the days of her 
girlhood. Youth identifies itself with the 
romance ; it is the heroic knight, or the lovely 
ady, of which it reads ; it lives amid those 

Vol. II —20 



fine creations ; its sweetest hours are given to 
dreams which soon 

" Fade into the light of common day." 

It would have seemed ludicrous to a com- 
mon observer to mark the aged woman listen- 
ing- by the hour to these high-flown gallantries ; 
but it was not them that she heard, it was the 
remembrances that they brought. The old 
live more with memory than the young. 
Every page in that ponderous tome had some 
association with life's brightest hours : she 
lived them over again, while the murmur of 
that fair girl's soft tones fell sweet upon her 
ear. Ethel's graceful figure, seated at her 
grandmother's feet, completed the picture ; and 
any one who had looked casually into that 
cool and cheerful chamber, would have thought 
it a very shrine of household happiness. And 
Ethel, if not happy, was calm — almost content; 
every day brought its duties, sweetened by 
affection; and, in her grandmother's comfort 
she found her own. 

Mrs. Churchill had given up urging Ethel 
into a round of gayety, which suited neither 
her health nor her spirits. She could not but 
feel the tender care that watched her least 
look, yet was always as submissive as it was 
anxious. She had been a long time in dis- 
covering that Ethel was no longer a child ; 
but she now softened down a thousand preju- 
dices by daily counsel with one who was a gen- 
tle and intelligent companion. Ethel resolutely 
turned her thoughts from the past ; and, if she 
could not look to the future, at least she forced 
them to occupy themselves with the present. 
The bitterness of a first great despair had 
passed ; but the traces would linger, despite 
every effort. Her step was no longer buoyant, 
and her laugh was no longer heard rising sud- 
denly, like the notes of a bird; she had a look 
of weariness, when she tried any of her old 
amusements. Unless at her grandmother's 
request, she never went near the spinet ; she 
nursed no flowers for her own room; and 
when she read, it was slowly ; she could not 
keep her attention to the page. You gazed 
on her, and saw 

<; 'Twas a pale face that srem'd undoubtedly 
As if a blooming face it ought to be!" 

But the bloom and the gayety had gone to- 
gether: there was sweetness and endurance; 
but they are sad, when the only expre^ion 
worn by youth. 

She was just pausing for breath after a longer 
speech, even than usual, of the heroine's, 
when the door opened, and Madame Cecile, 
Lady Marchmont's maid, rushed into the 
room ! 

" O, my lady !" exclaimed she ; " for pity's 
sake come to her, Miss Churchill !" and, sink- 
ing into a chair, gave way to a violent burst 
of hysterics. 

It was long before Ethel's soothing or ques- 
tions could extract any thing like an answer, 
till Mrs. Chuichill took the matter into her 
own hands, and tried the effect of a little ju- 
dicious scolding The effect was most sal a 



154 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



tary ; and, amid starts and screams — for the 
poor girl was fairly frightened out of the small 
portion of sense that, at any time, belonged 
to her — they learned that Lord Marchmont had 
been found dead in his bed ; and that Lady 
Marchmont was, with the shock, in a state of 
almost insanity ! 

" We can do nothing with her ! she won't 
even let me put up her hair under a cap !" said 
Madame Cecile. 

Ethel wrung her hands in dismay; but in- 
stantly recovering, exclaimed, " 0, let me go 
to her at once ! may I not, dear madam ?" 

Mrs. Churchill gave consent without hesi- 
tation ; and a chair being sent for immediately, 
Ethel hurried as fast as she could to March- 
mont House. All was in that confusion which 
follows any sudden calamity : the servants 
were hurrying in all directions, apparently for 
no other purpose than that of getting in each 
other's way. As she went up stairs, a suc- 
cession of frightful screams made her hurry 
breathlessly to the room^from whence they 
came. It was Lady Marchmont's dressing- 
room ; and there she found her surrounded by 
physicians, two of whom held her, while the 
surgeon made a vain attempt to bleed her : it 
was impossible in her present state. 

Ethel stood — pity, anxiety — alike merged 
in astonishment at the change which a single 
night had wrought. Henrietta's long hair 
flowed unbound, but it was white as the shoul- 
ders over which it swept. Age and youth 
seemed to have met together : there was the 
skin, fair and smooth, but the mouth was 
fallen, and the features thin and contracted. 
The large black eyes seemed to have gone 
back into the head, and a dark hollow circle 
was round them ; while the change in the co- 
lour of the hair, once so glossily black, now 
turned to silver, gave her countenance some- 
thing that seemed to Ethel almost supernatu- 
ral. As soon as Henrietta saw her, with a 
sudden spring she released herself from re- 
straint; and, flinging her arms round her 
friend, though it was obvious she did not know 
her, exclaimed, — 

"Ah ! you look gentle, I will go with you; 
save me from these horrible men, who want 
to drag me to prison !" 

But while speaking, her hands relaxed their 
passionate clinging; the wild black eyes 
closed heavily, and she sank fainting on the 
floor ! 

"It is a merciful insensibility," said the 
eldest physician ; " but, if she revive, I fear 
the awakening — it will be terrible !" 

" I will watch by her," cried Ethel; and, 
for many, many long and dreadful nights did 
she watch by her bedside : even to herself 
she would not guess what might be the im- 
port of those frightful ravings ! 

Fearful were the lessons that the young and 
gentle Ethel learnt in the house of mourning. 
She saw Lord Marchmont borne away to his 
grave, unfollowed by a single regret, and for- 
gotten as soon as the coffin was closed. The 
selfish man left behind him neither sorrow nor 
affection ; lie was summoned away, and his 



place knew him no more. But the bedside 
of Lady Marchmont had a darker lesson than 
the grave, the ravings of insanity revealed the 
fiery world of that beating and passionate 
heart. Ethel could only feel too fearful, too 
humbled, for judgment ; but she wept, eren 
while she prayed, beside her early friend. 



CHAPTER CX. 

POVERTY. 

It is an awful thing how we forget 

The sacred ties that bind us each to each. 

Our pleasures might admonish us. and say, 

Tremble at that delight which is unshared; 

Its selfishness must be its punishment. 

All have their sorrows, and how strange it seems 

They do not soften more the general heart : 

Sorrows should be those universal links 

That draw all life together. 

"It is of no use asking me to stay," said 
Lavinia to the manager : " you know that I 
never do any thing but what 1 choose !" 

" You need not tell me that," interrupted 
the other ; " but, if you had any sense, you 
would choose to do what I ask. I have pro- 
mised the Duke of Bolton that you should sup 
with us to-night." 

" I would not come," replied the actress, 
" if it were only to teach you not to make 
promises for me ; but I cannot waste any 
more time talking to you !" 

"His grace will go frantic with disappoint- 
ment!" continued the manager; "that last 
ballad of yours completel} 7, turned his head ! 
Indeed, if you would but play your cards 
properly, there is no saying what might 
happen !" 

" Well," cried she, " since you have so 
brilliant an idea of my future prospects, per- 
haps you will, on the strength of them, ad- 
vance me another week's salary !" 

"Indeed I will not!" replied her compa- 
nion; " you are already more in advance than 
I ever before allowed any of my company to 
be; and, as to your prospects, why you are 
throwing them away !" 

" Well, well, it does not matter, and I 
won't keep you from supper. You may tell 
the duke, that we value things in proportion 
to the trouble that they give us, and that is 
the reason why I always give as much as I 
can!" 

So saying, she hurried off; but the tears 
were in her eyes, and her hand trembled as it 
drew T her cloak round her. She was soon in 
the dimly lighted streets, made more dreary 
by a small heavy rain that was falling. Life 
is full of strange contrasts; and who that 
could have seen — weary, yet walking as fast 
as she could, for she had a long way to go; 
faint, for of late she had debarred herself 
common necessaries; cold, for the rain soon 
pierced her thin cloak — who w 7 ould have be- 
lieved that she was the brilliant actress who, 
not an hour since, was the gaze of every 
eye, while the whole house rang with ap- 
plause? 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



155 



" Ah, there is still light !" muttered she, 
as she stopped before a shop, whose shutters 
were, however, closed, but through which 
came the glimmer from within. She paused 
for a moment on the threshold, as if reluctant 
to enter. 

" The only memorial I shall soon have of 
him — nis gift!" said she, in a low sad whis- 
per ; and then, with the haste of one who 
makes a sudden resolution, with which they 
are almost afraid fea trust themselves, she rap- 
ped loudly at the door. There was a mo- 
ment's silence, then whispering within, and 
a voice asked — 

"Who's there]" 

" O !" replied Lavinia, " you know me 
very well; let me in, I have a locket you 
must take to-night, or you shall not have it 
to-morrow !" 

It was a locket that Walter Maynard had 
given her immediately after her appearance 
in his comedy; one of the incidents turned 
upon a locket, and she had made, what is 
theatrically called, a hit in the scene. A 
heavy step approached the door ; a sound was 
heard, as of a falling chain ; then bolt after 
bolt was withdrawn, and at last the actress 
was admitted, and the door was instantly 
closed after her. It was a pawnbroker's 
shop, that last receptacle of human wretched- 
ness — .wretchedness that takes the most 
squalid and degrading form; over the door 
might be written Dante's " Lasciate Speran- 
za!" for, truly, hope never enters there. 

The various articles exhibited in the win- 
dows during the day, had been removed for 
greater security, and there only remained a 
blank. But the glass cases on the counter 
still sent forth a sort of dull glitter; they 
were filled with various ornaments, some 
pretty, though mostly tarnished by time, but 
each telling some little history of a happier 
hour. Still this was the least oppressive por- 
tion of the establishment; ornaments, even 
though hallowed by affection, are vanities ; 
and, though even vanity be reluctantly parted 
with, it is but a brief pang. I believe there 
is not a woman in the world that would hesi- 
tate to part with the most costly toy in her 
possession, to save but an annoyance from the 
object she loved : but there were, collected 
together, evidence of far heavier sacrifices. 
There were cords passed along the ceiling, 
from whence hung articles of wearing apparel 
of the most common description, things that 
spoke of every day use, and there was one 
whole line of little children's frocks ; more- 
over, in one corner appeared, piled up, a large 
heap of blankets. 

There is something fearfully wrong in what 
we call our highly civilized state of society, 
when poverty can be permitted to take the 
ghastly shapes of suffering that it does. It 
is enough, if we did but think, to make the 
heart sick, when we know the misery, the 
abject misery, which surrounds us in this vast 
city ; and we might tremble to consider how 
much might be prevented — prevented both by 
individual and by general exertion. We are 



seated, perhaps leaning, in an easy chair, out 
feet on the fender, doing nothing or some light 
work, which is only an amusement; our meals 
have gratified not only hunger, but taste; we 
are under the pressure of not one single want; 
and yet, within an hundred yards from our 
door, there is a wretch dying of cold and 
h a n ger ! 

No one can deny the wide and ready bene- 
volence which prevails in our country; but 
while the misery exists, that no one can deny 
does exist, there must be some want of either 
will or judgment. Too many people confound 
charity with donation ; they are satisfied with 
having given the most ready vent to the gene- 
rous impulse; they have gratified at once a 
high and a low feeling — the kindness, and, I 
fear, also the ostentation. That is not charity 
which goes about with a white pocket hand- 
kerchief in the hand, and is followed by a 
flourish of trumpets! No, charity is a calm, 
severe duty ; it must be intellectual, to be ad- 
vantageous. It is a strange mistake that it 
should ever be considered a merit ; its fulfil- 
ment is only what we owe to each other, and 
is a debt never paid to its full extent. 

It is a most difficult art to give; for if, in 
giving, we also give the habit of dependence, 
our gift has been that of an evil spirit, which 
always proves fataL What we should seek 
to give are, habits, not only of industry, but 
of prudence: to look forward, is the first 
great lesson of human improvement. In the 
assistance hitherto offered to those in need, 
the self-respect of the obliged has been too 
much forgotten : we have degraded, where 
we should have encouraged. The remedy 
lies with time, and w r ith knowledge ; but there 
must be much to redress in the social system, 
which has luxury at one extreme, and starva- 
tion at the other. 

Lavinia approached the counter with her 
usual careless air ; and, laying down the 
locket, named its price. There were two men 
in the shop — brothers, from their obvious like- 
ness — sallow, with sharp features, to which 
no possible change could bring any other ex- 
pression than a sort of dull cunning. The 
eyes were small, and of a dead filmy black; 
they said nothing, even when fixed upon you. 
One of the brothers never moved from the 
high desk at which he was seated. He gave 
one cautious glance at the visiter; and, after 
that, never looked from his paper. The other 
took the locket, examined it. carefully, and 
laid it down, saying, in a voice that closely 
resembled the hissing of a snake — 

" You ask too much !" 

"Nay," replied the actress, "it is worth 
far more !" 

" W T e may keep it by us," replied the pawn- 
broker, " for months ; there is no demand for 
such articles." 

" But," exclaimed she, eagerly, " I shall 
soon redeem it!" 

" So you all say," returned the man, with 
imperturbable coolness. 

** Ah !" cried Lavinia, " I will answer fo? 
redeeming it in a month '" 



15G 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



" We hear the same story every day," was 
the answer. 

" But I shall have plenty of money in a few 
weeks !" interrupted Lavinia. 

" Then you will not care for your old orna- 
ments : you will go and bu) r new P' replied 
the man. 

The actress laughed out, with something 
of the recklessness that was part of her na- 
ture. The man looked up in dismay from his 
desk, the one behind the counter opened his 
small blaci eyes with a gaze of stupid won- 
der — laughter was there such an unfamiliar 
sound. 

"Well," continued she, "there is a good 
deal of truth in what you say ; so, what will 
you give me V 

The man named about a tithe of the value 
of the article ; her countenance fell as she 
said, in a hollow whisper, " I suppose I must 
take it!" 

The pawnbroker took the locket, carefully 
put it aside, slowly counted out the money, 
still more slowly filled up the small printed 
ticket, and then passed money and card into 
Lavinia's hand, to whose impatient temper 
the delay had seemed interminable. She hur- 
ried off, and the door was closed; and, bolt 
after bolt, drawn after her. The rain poured 
in torrents, and she was wet through before 
shu arrived at the door of the small inn in the 
city, which was her destination. 

" I must dry myself," said she, approach- 
ing the kitchen fire, "before I go into his 
room." 

She took off her cloak, wrung the rain from 
her long and dripping hair ; and, while doing 
so, caught sight of herself in the small piece 
of glass which, put like a slate into a wooden 
frame, hung on a nail. 

"I have forgotten to w r ipe off my rouge," 
muttered she ; " a pretty figure I look, with 
these red streaks !" she took her handkerchief 
and removed the stains, then you saw that the 
cheek was pale and hollow. She stood be- 
fore the fire for some time, though every ges- 
ture betrayed her impatience. When the 
landlady came in, she called her, and placed 
in her hands a small sum of money. " This 
is last week's bill !" 

The woman half hesitated to take it, but 
she was very poor herself; as she took it she 
said, with great kindness, " I have been 
sitting with him, but he is very bad to- 
night!^ 

Lavinia started ! " I am quite dry, the 
damp can do him no harm now ;" so saying, 
she hurried up the narrow staircase to a small 
room, where, on a wretched bed, lay Walter 
Maynard ! 

There was the end of all his glorious fancies 
-of all his lofty aspirations. The poetry, 
which had so often made real life seem like a 
dream, had now reached its last dark close. 
Never more would the voice of the charmer, 
Hope, reach his ear, charm she never so 
wisely Poor, neglected, and broken-hearted 
Walter Maynard was dying. 



CHAPTER CXI. 

THE USUAL DESTINY OF THE IMAGINATION 

Remembrance makes the poet: 'tis the past 
Lingering within him, with a keener sense 
Than is upon the thoughts of common men, 
Of what has been, thaCfills the actual world 
With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes 
That were, and are not ; and the fairer they, 
The more their contrast with existing things; 
The more his power, the greater is his grief 
Are we then fallen from some noble star, 
Whose consciousness is an unknown curse 
And we feel capable of happiness 
Only to know it is not of our sphere. 

The first sickly gleam of daylight came in 
through the uncurtained window, deadening 
the dull yellow glare of the candle that, hav- 
ing burned through the night, was fast sinking 
in the socket. The chill and uncomfortable 
light showed the full wretchedness of the 
scene over which it fell ; the walls w r ere only 
whitewashed, the whiteness long since ob- 
scured by dust and smoke, and broken away 
in many places. The bare boards looked as 
if they had not been scoured for months; and 
a deal table, and tw T o rickety chairs, were all 
the furniture, except the miserable pallet on 
which Walter Maynard lay dying; and this 
was the end of his impassioned hopes, and oi 
his early and glorious dreams ! 

The change that a few weeks had wrought 
in him was awful : the features were almost 
transparent, and with a strange beauty, like a 
spirit's ; and yet with that look which be- 
longs to death, and death only. He was 
awake, feverish, and restless; and the clear, 
shining eyes had that sort of fixed brilliancy, 
which life, even in its brightest moments, 
never gave. The door opened so softly, thai 
even he did not hear it. Lavinia looked in; 
and, seeing that he was already roused, en- 
tered with his coffee ; it was the only thing 
for which he retained the slightest liking : 
perhaps there was some lingering association 
with the pursuits once so precious ; the haunt- 
ed midnights, when he had been accustomed 
to drink it. 

" How have you slept ?" said she. 

Walter smiled faintly, but his reply was 
interrupted by coughing; he signed to the 
window, which she opened, and then turned 
hastily away, for she could not bear the sight 
of the churchyard below. Maynard was now 
in the same house where he had come by 
chance on his first arrival in London ; he was 
now occupying the room above the very one 
where he then slept. Remembering it as a 
cheap, out-of-the-way place, he had come 
thither the day after the duel to die, uncared 
for and unknown. But Lavinia had found 
him out ; and, for weeks, had been his devoted 
nurse, though even she was startled at the 
extreme destitution of their situation ; but, for 
his sake only, not for her own. 

" O, Walter !" exclaimed she, after a long 
silence, during which she had either watched 
his difficult breathing, or turned aside to dash 
away the tears that, in spite of herself, would 
fill her eyes. There is an awe about death, 



ETHEL CHURCHILL 



157 



even in the face the most familiar to us; it 
has already taken its likeness from the here- 
after, so dreadful and so dark. "I cannot 
bear to see you perishing thus; you have 
many friends, do let me apply to them'?" 

" Friends !" answered Walter, bitterly, " I 
have no friends. While I could work for them, 
or amuse them, they were glad enough to flat- 
ter and caress me ; now that I am broken in 
health and spirits, that my soul has worn itself 
out in their service, who of all that have owed 
pleasant hours to my pages will care that the 
hand which wrote now lies languid, scarcely 
able to trace its own name !" 

" Do not talk thus," said she. 

« Why not ?" interrupted Walter, " it is the 
truth. I loathe, I despise my kind ; I grieve 
over the labour that I have wasted on them. 
I should regret every generous hope, every 
lofty emotion, did I not think they must rise 
up in bitter mockery against them." 

Lavinia looked bewildered ; she could as 
little understand this outburst of impassioned 
anger, as she understood his former bursts of 
hopeful enthusiasm. She knew nothing of 
the irritability inseparable from an imagina- 
tive temperament ; feeling every thing with 
the keenest susceptibility, and exaggerating 
every thing. The excitement of even those 
few words was too much, he sank back, faint- 
ing, on his pillow. It soon, however, passed 
away, and he roused again. 

"Lavinia!" exclaimed he, hastily, "there 
are some people sent into the world to be mi- 
serable; and miserably do they fulfil their 
fate. If you see one eager, hopeful, and be- 
lieving, who holds the suffering of his kind 
his noblest reward — over whom even the words 
of those whom he despises have influence — be 
assured that you see one predestined to the 
most utter wretchedness." 

"I am sure," returned Lavinia, not know- 
ing very well what to say, " it is never worth 
while caring much about other people." 

"How wretched," continued Walter, "has 
my whole life been ! I look back upon my 
sad and unloved childhood, when I felt the 
unkind and cold word w*ith a sorrow beyond 
my ears. Then came a youth of incessant 
labour — labour whose exhaustion none can tell 
but those engaged in it. How often has the 
pen dropped from my hand for very weariness, 
and the characters swam before my aching 
sight ! How often have I written when heart- 
sick, forcing my imagination, till the reaction 
w 7 as terrible !" 

" Dearest Walter, do not talk, you are not 
equal to it," interrupted his companion. 

" O, no; it does me good. I cannot bear," 
returned he, "to be here thinking over thoughts 
that fret my very life away.° Alas ! how I 
grieve over all that was yet stored in my mind! 
Do you know, Lavinia" continued he, with 
all the eagerness of a slight delirium, " I am 
iar cleverer than I was; I have felt, have 
thought so much ! Talk of the mind exhaust- 
ing itself! — never! Think of the mass of 
material which every day accumulates! Then 
experience, with its calm, clear light, corrects 
Vol. IJ. 



so many youthful fallacies ; every day we feel 
our higher moral responsibility, and our greater 
power. What beautiful creations even now 
rush over me! — but, no, no ! — I am dying ! — 
I shall write no more !" and his voice sunk, 
as he gasped for breath : " and she," murmured 
he, after a long pause, " whom I have so idol- 
ized — a thousand hearts beat at the tender 
sorrow of which she was the inspiration ! yet 
she will never know how utterly she has been 
beloved. Even now her sweet face swims 
before me ; methinks that I would give worlds 
to gaze upon it once again ; to carry the image 
into eternity with me !" 

A peculiar expression crossed Lavinia's 
face, and she rose from her seat ; her move- 
ment recalled Walter from his temporary ab- 
straction. 

"You are not going yet?" asked he ; for 
now he clung, like a sick child, to the presence 
of his kind attendant. 

" I am going," replied she, " earlier to-day, 
that I may come back the sooner ; the rehear- 
sal will be very short ; and now, dear Walter, 
try and compose yourself." 

" You are very, very kind," said he, in 
broken accents ; and after placing water and 
a restorative medicine near him, the actress 
left the room. She left the chamber of death 
and of desolation, to rehearse the jests of a 
comedy. 



CHAPTER CXIL 

A REQUEST. 

Trace the young poet's fate 
Fresh lrom his solitude— the child of dreams, 
His heart upon his lip, he seeks the world 
To find him fame and fortune, as if life 
Wore like a fairy tale. His sons has led 
The way before him ; flatteries fill his ear, 
And he seems happy in so many friend3. 
What marvel if lie somewhat overrate 
His talents and his state ! 

" She sleeps now heavily, nor will she 
waken for some hours ; every thing depends 
upon that awakening," said the physician. 

"You have, then, hopes'?" asked Ethel. 

" That the body," replied the other, " may 
recover; but not the mind. Young lady, it 
would be wrong to deceive you ; Lady March- 
mont is, I fear, irrecoverably insane." 

She leant against the bed, pale, sick with 
the shock of his words; yet mingled with a 
strange and fearful relief. Insanity, with no 
further cause, would account for Henrietta's 
frantic ravings ; and when she thought how 
gifted, hoW clever she was, it seemed impos- 
sible that such a mind could pass away in a 
single night. She hoped ; she could not help 
hoping. 

When the physician went away, she ap- 
proached the bed, and gazed upon Henrietta 
sleeping. How wan, and how attenuated was 
that beautiful face! the cheek fell in, with a 
complete hollow ; and the black eyelashes, as 
they rested upon it, only served to show still 
more forcibly its deadly whiteness. 



158 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



She had been restless at first.; and some of 
the silvery gray hair fell over the forehead. 
Ethel put it softly back, and started to feel 
how the hot pulses throbbed beneath her touch. 
She carefully drew the curtains; and, leaving 
orders to be sent for should there be the slight- 
est change, returned home. 

It was a great relief to her oppressed spirits 
to find that her grandmother had an old friend 
come to pass the day with her, so the Cas- 
sandra was left in repose for that morning at 
least. She sought the little chamber peculi- 
arly appropriated to her own use ; and, seating 
herself by the window, sank into a sad and 
listless revery. 

It is a mood whose "profitless dejection" 
there are few among us but what have known. 
It is the result of the overstrained nerves, 
the worn-out frame — something of bodily 
weakness must mingle with it. We turn 
away from the future, we are too desponding 
to look forward. Every sorrow of the past 
seems to rise up, not only as a recollection of 
suffering, but as if each were an omen of 
what is to come. We feel as if even to wish 
were a folly ; or, worse, a tempting of fate. 
We have no confidence in our own good for- 
tune; it seems as if the mere fact of wishing 
were enough to have that wish denied. A 
fretful discontent gnaws at the heart, the worse 
for being ashamed to confess it. 

But Ethel soon felt the error of giving way 
to this utter discouragement : she made it a 
duty to struggle against it. She rose from 
her seat; and, flinging open the casement, 
strove to divert her attention by looking out 
upon the river. She turned hastily away ; she 
had no sympathy with the sunshine — the 
movement — the seeming cheerfulness of the 
world below. She took up her work, but that 
was no mental stimulus ; she laid it down, 
and, going to her little bookcase, took down 
the first book that came to hand. 

It was a favourite volume which she opened 
— "Fugitive Poems, by Walter Maynard." 
She had always taken an interest in one whom 
she had known from earliest childhood ; and 
of late the melancholy in herself had harmo- 
nized with that which was the chief character- 
istic of his writings. She soon became inte- 
rested : her sadness took a softer tone ; for now 
it seemed understood, and met with tender 
pity. And this is the dearest privilege of the 
poet — to soothe the sorrowing, and to excite 
the languid hour ; to renovate exhausted na- 
ture, by awakening it with the spiritual and 
the elevated ; and bringing around our common 
hours shadows from those more divine. 

Ethel was, however, interrupted by the 
appearance of her maid bringing her chocolate, 
and a message that a young person below was 
very anxious to see her. 

" Show her up immediately," was Miss 
Churchill's reply, who was, however, a little 
startled when she found that her visiter was 
her former attendant, Lavinia Fenton. But 
her first glance at the young actress was 
enough : she was pale, thin, and the trace of 



tears were yet recent on her cheeks. She had 
been very wrong to leave her mistress as she 
had done ; and to Ethel's quiet and secluded 
habits her having gone on the stage seemed 
absolutely awful; but she was obviously suf- 
fering; and the only question was, how that 
suffering could be assisted 1 

Ethel approached her kindly, and made her 
sit down and take some refreshment, before 
she would even ask her what was her present 
business. 

" I do not come on my own account," ex- 
claimed Lavinia, eagerly: " believe me, Miss 
Churchill, I remember all your former kind- 
ness, and know too well the difference be- 
tween us, not to know the best way I can 
mark my sense of it, is never to come near you." 

" O, Lavinia!" exclaimed her young mis* 
tress; "how could you leave us 1 we used to 
be so fond of each other ! surely I shall be 
able to prevail upon you to leave your present 
mode of life. Tell me, what can we do for 
you?" 

" Nothing," said the girl, touched to the 
very heart by Ethel's kindness; "I could not 
come to you if I had been starving in the 
streets. Now I do not come for myself." 

"On whose account, then ?" exclaimed her 
listener. 

Lavinia hesitated, she had persuaded her- 
self into her visit; the whole way she had in- 
vented speeches, she had quite settled how to 
meet any possible objection ; but now her 
voice failed her, her frame shook with strong 
emotion, and it was some moments before she 
could reply. 

"Ah, madam! I wish you could have wit- 
nessed the scene which I have just left. I 
am come from the death-bed, in hopes that 
you will grant the last earthly wish which 
seems to haunt it." 

" Could you doubt one moment that I 
should 1 ?" interrupted Ethel: "only tell me 
what it is ?" 

" Do you remember," asked the actress, 
" Walter Maynard ]" 

"Do I remember him !" exclaimed Ethel, 
her eye unconsciously falling on the volume 
which she had just been reading, and which 
still lay open on the table, — "It would, in- 
deed, be difficult to forget him." 

The quick glance of the actress followed 
her look. " Ah !" said she, " you have been 
reading his works : he will write no more 
beautiful verses to you ; for he is dying — 
dying, too, in miserable want !" 

"My God!" cried Ethel, springing from 
her seat, "let us go to him! — what can we 
do 1 Let me find my grandmother !" 

Lavinia gently detained her. " Walter 
Maynard," continued she, " is far beyond all 
human help ; his days — ay, his very hours — 
are numbered : but you may fling over them 
one last gleam of human happiness." 

"I!" cried Ethel. 

" You — you whom he has loved so long, sc 
truly ! You saw it not, you thought only of 
another; but Walter Maynard loved your very 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



59 



shadow; and such have you been to him 
through life." 

Ethel stood breathless with surprise ; she 
looked back to Walter with the affectionate 
regard which lingers around one whom we have 
known in early life, and have never seen since. 
Of late, her imagination had dwelt upon him 
with that picturesque interest with which we 
are apt to invest the writer whose pages appeal 
to our feelings. 

Lavinia saw her emotion, and added, "Not 
that your name ever passed his lips ; save in 
the muttered wish of this morning, he never 
spoke of you. If you could see him now — so 
changed, so pale — you would pity him." 

"Pity him!" exclaimed Ethel, no longer 
able to suppress her tears. 

" You will come, then 1 ?" asked the actress. 

" Yes, the instant I have spoken to my 
grandmother;" and, ringing the bell, desired 
that her chair might be sent round immedi- 
ately. 

" It is a long way off," said Lavinia, " and 
I must hurry away. I always dread what 
may have happened during my absence," 

"Is he so very ill V interrupted Ethel. 

" Lady, he is dying," replied the other. 
Then, laying the address, with written direc- 
tions, on the table, she hurried away, leaving 
her young mistress in a state of the most pain- 
ful agitation. 

Ethel could scarcely believe, after the ac- 
tress had left her, but what she had been in a 
dream. " Good heavens !" exclaimed she, 
"what a precious thing love is ! what a gift 
of all hope, all happiness, into the power of 
another ! — and yet, how often is it bestowed 
in vain ! wasted, utterly and cruelly wasted ! 
Well, if he loved me, there has been a sad 
and bitter sympathy between us. Can he 
have been more wretched than I have been 1 ?" 
and, covering her face with her hands, she 
gave way to a passionate burst of weeping. 

It was so long before she recovered, that 
her chair was ready first : and, startled at the 
announcement, she hastened to ask her grand- 
mother's permission for her visit. It was in- 
stantly granted ; for Mrs. Churchill had alwa} T s 
liked YV alter, and had taken a personal satis- 
faction in his literary success. It was a com- 
pliment to her discernment. If ever we forgive 
another's celebrity, it is w T hen it fulfils our 
own prophecy. But to have him, who had 
been a. little child playing at her feet, dying 
in desolation and misery, roused every kindly 
feeling. She hurried Ethel to put on her 
cloak, and saw herself to the packing up of a 
basket ; containing one or two medicines in 
which she placed implicit faith, and a note 
from herself, begging him to come at once to 
her house to be nursed. 

The bustle over, a glow of self-satisfaction 
in spite of her sorrow, diffusing itself; and, 
taking one of his volumes, she went to her 
own chair, and soon found herself shedding 
tears over the strange mixture of real and ideal 
misery. 



CHAPTER CXIII. 

THE DISCLOSURE. 

Young, loving, and beloved— these are brief words 
And yet they touch on all the finer chords, 
Whose music is our happiness; the tone 
May die away, and bo no longer known, 
In the sad clumges brought by darker years, 
When the heart has to treasure up iis tears, 
And life looks mournful on an alter'd scene — 
Still it is much to think that it has been 

Ethel was yet bathing her eyes with elder- 
flowers, preparato^r to going, when her de- 
parture was again delayed by another visiter. 

" Tell her," exclaimed she, " that I am just 
going to a dying friend — ask if she will see 
my grandmother." 

The servant obeyed, but returned almost 
instantly, saying, "that the lady said, she 
must entreat Miss Churchill to see her for 
ten minutes, she would not detain her longer. 
Indeed, madam," continued the maid, " I 
think 3'ou had better go down, for she is quite 
the lady, and seems so miserable at the idea 
of your not seeing her." 

" Perhaps," said Ethel, " I had better see 
her, a few minutes cannot much matter. I 
know by myself," added ske, in a lower tone, 
"that sorrow is impatient." 

On entering the parlour into which the visi- 
ter had been shown, she saw a tall figure, 
wrapped in a dark mantle, with her back 
towards her, in one of the recesses of th.3 
windows. The noise of her steps, light as 
they were, attracted the stranger's notice, who, 
turning round and letting her mantle fall as 
she did so, showed a tall and stately figure, 
dressed in what appeared to be some convent- 
ual costume. Her face, though thin and pale. 
bore the traces of great former beauty; and, 
although Ethel was sure that she had never 
seen the lady before, yet there was something 
in her features strangely familiar. 

The colour came rapidly into her cheek : 
her heart told her the face now before her 
brought the memorj'' of one still too dearly re- 
membered — it was Norbourne Courtenaye that 
it recalled ; the likeness was, despite the 
difference of sex and age, singularly striking 

What a vain thing is forced forgetful ness ! 
For months Ethel had sedulously banished one 
image from her thoughts, and she fancied tnat 
she had succeeded : alas ! even a chance and 
casual resemblance sufficed to make hei 
tremble with emotion. To such emotion she 
had long made it a rule not to give way. She 
steadied her voice ; though, with all her reso- 
lution, it was a little tremulous ; and, entreat- 
ing her visiter to be seated, asked what were 
her commands. 

The stranger appeared almost to forget that 
it was her business to speak : she fixed hei 
dark, penetrating eyes on the beautiful girl, 
who stood, blushing and confused, at the 
scrutiny. 

" Perhaps," said Ethel, a little apprehen- 
sively — for the garb of her companion made 
her think that; perhaps, she was some Jacobite 



160 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



emissary — " it was my grandmother whom 
you wished to see ?" 

"No, no," it was yourself !" exclaimed the 
stranger, eagerly, as if startled by Ethel's 
voice. " Pardon me, young lady, but I am 
not well ; and to myself my errand is a pain- 
ful one." 

" Pray do not stand," said Ethel ; and, 
drawing a large arm-chair, took the stranger's 
hand, and gently forced her to be seated. 

" Pray sit by me," continued the lady; and 
Ethel placed herself in the window-seat, won- 
dering at her singular visiter, in whom, how- 
ever, she could not help feeling interested. " I 
ought to tell you my name," exclaimed the 
stranger, breaking silence by an obvious effort, 
"I am Mrs. Courtenaye." 

Ethel started to her feet, turning deadly 
pale, and sank again on her seat; and her 
visiter seemed almost startled at the effect 
which her words had produced. Miss Church- 
ill had, however, for months subjected her 
feelings to a discipline too severe to be wholly 
overcome by them now. Her features became 
cold and calm ; and theie was a slight touch 
of haughtiness in her manner, as she said, 

" May I be permitted to ask the cause why 
Mrs. Courtenaye honours me with a visit ?" 

" Because the happiness of my only child is 
in your hands — because," exclaimed she, "I 
have recently stood by the bed that was every 
hour expected to be that of death, and, during 
the delirium of fever, yours was the only name 
upon Norbourne's lips." 

"Mrs. Courtenaye," replied Ethel, rising, 
"it is useless to prolong an interview which 
can only bo humiliating and painful to both." 

" Listen to me," cried Mrs. Courtenaye, 
catching her hand, and detaining her. 

" Nay," replied her companion : " I can 
understand and pity your feelings ; but you 
must, also, respect mine. I entreat you not 
to enter on a subject which inflicts on me — I 
will tell you frankly — inflicts on me a degree 
of pain of which you have little idea." 

"You do love him, then?" cried Mrs. 
Courtenaye. 

"Madam," returned Ethel, again attempt- 
ing to leave the room, " you can have no pos- 
sible right to ask the question." 

" I am wrong," exclaimed the other ; "but 
solitude has made my habits abrupt, and my 
very anxiety defeats my object. All that I 
implore is, that you will listen to me patient- 
ly — listen to. me, lady, but for five minutes." 

What could Ethel do but resume her seat ? 
and Mrs. Courtenaye continued, — 

"Do tell me, before I proceed, whether 
there was any other motive for your rejection 
of Norbourne's renewed address than resent- 
ment's for his former inconstancy ?" 

" Do not call it resentment," cried Ethel ; 
" perhaps it will save a continuance of this 
to me most distressing conversation, if I say, 
that Mr. Courtenaye's conduct has been such 
that I never could permit myself to regard 
him with, if you will force it from me, my 
once trusting affection." 

" You do not know," interrupted Mrs. 



Courtenaye, "the circumstances in which he 
was placed." 

" I believe that I do," returned the other, 
coldly. 

Mrs. Courtenaye looked amazed ; a suddeis 
fear, that her story was not the profound se- 
cret that she supposed it to be, came over her, 
and she asked faintly — " What do you sup- 
pose those circumstances to have been 1 ?* 

"Embarrassments," returned Ethel, with 
an expression of as much scorn as her sweet 
face would express, " from which his cousin's 
wealth set him free." 

"0, you are quite wrong!" cried his mo- 
ther; "no love of fortune, nor of ambition, 
could have tempted Norbourne to desert you. 
Little, indeed, do you know his high and 
generous nature, when you suppose that he 
could be actuated by an interested motive." 

" Was it, then," asked Ethel, faintly, "love 
for his cousin ?" 

" No," replied Mrs. Courtenaye, " it was 
love for his mother." 

" I do not know," exclaimed Miss Church- 
ill, a little natural pride increasing her indig- 
nation, "why you should have objected to his 
union with one who, in fortune and family, 
was his equal in every way; and who loved 
him — how deeply, how dearly, my own heart 
only can tell ! But why do you thus seek to 
stir up again feelings, with which you have 
each so cruelly trifled?" 

" Reproach me !" said Mrs. Courtenaye, 
"I deserve it; but do not blame Norbourne 
Never has his heart changed from its entire 
affection for you ; and little do you know the 
wretchedness that he has endured." 

"Madam, you might have spared us both 
this. ' I pity him ! I pity myself!" exclaim- 
ed she, struggling with the tears she could no 
longer suppress; " but my love and my esteem 
must go together, and you obliged me to tell 
you that Mr. Courtenaye has forfeited the last.' 

"But I can restore it to him," cried Mrs 
Courtenaye; "I have already delayed my 
explanation too long : you are an orphan, 
Miss Churchill ; but have you never thought 
how sweet it would have been to have had a 
mother — one who knelt, blessing your pillow, 
every night, and watched your steps during 
day ] Suppose that you had such a parent, 
that you knew you had been from your birth 
her only object in the wide, cold world, would 
you not have made some sacrifice for her 
sake?" 

" Any, even to my life !" returned Ethel, 
in a faltering voice. 

" Suppose," continued Mrs. Courtenaye, 
" that that mother had knelt at your feet; told 
you that her life, and, far more precious than 
life, her honour, were in your hands, and im 
plored you to save them, would you not have 
yielded to her frantic entreaties i" 

" I would !" cried Ethel, but her voice was 
scarcely audible. 

Mrs. Courtenaye then rapidly sketched her 
previous history ; and, long before it was end- 
ed, Ethel had bowed her face in her hands, 
and was weeping bitterly. 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



161 



!" exclaimed she, " true and generous 
as ever ! how I have misjudged him !" 

" The atonement is in your own hands," 
said Mrs. Courtenaye ; " you will let him see 
you this evening?" 

" If he loves me still," whispered Ethel ; 
but now she felt deep in her own heart, that 
affection knows no change, nor shadow of 
turning 



CHAPTER CXIV. 



Over that pallid face were wrought 
The characters of painful thought; 
But on that lip, and in that eye, 
Were patience, faith, and piety. 
The hope that is not of this earth, 
The peace that has in pain its birth ; 
As if, in the tumult of this life, 
Its sorrow, vanity, and strife, 
Had been but as the lightning's shock 
Shedding rich ore upon the rock : 
Though in the trial scorch'd and riven 
The gold it wins, is gold from heaven. 

The window of Walter Maynard's small 
and wretched chamber looked into a church- 
yard, the same on which he had gazed the 
night of his arrival in London. It was one 
of those dreary burial places, where nothing 
redeems the desolate aspect of mortality. 
The square, upright tombstones were crowd- 
ed together as if there were not room for the 
very dead. It may be a weakness, though 
growing out of all that is most redeeming in 
our nature — the desire that is in us to make 
the city of the departed beautiful, as well as 
sacred. The green yew that flings down its 
^ shadow, the wild flowers that spring up in 
the long grass, take away from the desolation, 
they are the type and sign of a world beyond 
themselves. Even as spring brings back the 
leaf to the bough, the blossom to the grass, 
so will a more glorious spring return to that 
which is now but a little human dust. 

Suddenly, Walter Maynard turned from the 
window, out of w r hich he had been gazing 
long and silently : " And there," exclaimed 
he, " I shall be laid in the course of a few 
days, it may be hours. I loathe those dull, 
damp stones. Do you care where you are 
buried?" said he, turning suddenly to La- 
vinia. 

" Not the least ! W T hat difference can it 
make ?" asked she. 

"It is strange," continued he, "that the 
profession of both has its existence in opinion, 
and yet you care nothing for what is abstract 
and picturesque in it." 

"You have cared only too much," replied 
she, gazing upon him sadly. 

" Not so," returned he earnestly, a last 
gleam of enthusiasm kindling up his large 
clear eyes; "I have not cared enough. 
Deeply do I feel at this moment, when the 
scattered thoughts obey my bidding no longer, 
and the hand, once so swift to give them tan- 
gible shape, lies languid at my side, that I 
have not done half that I ought to have done. 

Vol. II.— 21 



How many hours of wasted time, how many 
worse than wasted, now rise up in judgment 
against' me! And, 0, my God! have 1 suf- 
ficiently felt the moral responsibility of gifts 
like my own ? Have I not questioned, some- 
times too rashly, of what it was never meant 
mortal mind should measure ? Have I not 
sometimes flung the passing annoyance of a 
wounded feeling too bitterly on my pages ? 
I repent me of it now!" 

He paused, for the dews gathered en his 
forehead ; but again the transient light kin- 
dled in his face, till it was even as that of an 
angel. Earthly passion, whether of anger or 
of sorrow, had faded from that pure white 
brow ; the eyes looked back the heaven on 
which they gazed — they were full of it. 

" 0, my Creator!" exclaimed he, clasping 
his thin, wan hands, " I am not worthy of the 
gifts bestowed upon me ! Let me not forget 
that, though this worn and fevered frame 
perish, the soul ascends hopeful, meekly 
hopeful, of its native heaven; and my mind 
remains behind to influence and to benefit its 
race : may what was in aught evil of its crea- 
tions be forgotten ; may aught that was good, 
endure to the end. There is a deep and sacred 
assurance at my heart, that what I have done 
will not be quite in vain. Even at this last 
moment, I feel it is sweet to bequeath my me- 
mory to the aspirations and sympathies of my 
kind." 

He leaned back — pale, faint, but calm ; 
and, at that moment, Lavinia, who had been 
occupied by anxious expectation of Miss 
Churchill's arrival, was called from the room. 

" Can you," said she, on her return, " re- 
ceive a visiter whom, only yesterday, you 
were wishing to see?" 

An instinct of the heart seemed to tell Wal- 
ter who the visiter was, and a faint colour 
came, for a moment, over his face. 

" She has come !" exclaimed he; " let me 
look upon her, and die happy !" 

He strove to rise, but the next momen* 
Ethel's gentle hand forced him to be seated, 
as, in a broken voice, she said, " 0, Walter! 
was it kind to let your old friends find you 
thus?" 

He looked at her with a sweet, calm smile, 
as he answered, " They find me happy !" 



CHAPTER CX\. 

PARTING. 

That is love 
Which chooseth from a thousand only one 
To be the object of 1 hat tenderness 
Natural to every heart; which can rpsign 
Its own best happiness for one dear sake; 
Can bear with absence ; hath no part in hope, 
For hope is somewhat selfish : love is not, 
And doth prefer another to itself. 

" Do not," whispered Walter, as he watch 
ed Ethel's eyes glance round the room, and 
then turn mournfully on himself, "do not pity 
the poverty which surrounds me; but for that 
I should have lost the greatest happiness life 
o2 



162 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



has known. It is to your gentle charity that 
I owe this visit, that my last look will fall on 
the face which has to me been, through life, 
my most sweet and sacred dream. Fairest 
and dearest, if I leave behind me aught of 
passionate feeling-, and of true emotion, it is 
to your inspiration that I owe it." 

Another visiter disturbed them: and softly, 
but hastily, Norbourne Ccurtenaye entered 
the room. 

" O, Walter !" exclaimed he, " did our true 
friendship deserve that you should let me find 
you thus'.' I have found you, too, with such 
difficulty—" 

He broke off abruptly, for he caught sight 
of Ethel. There was, however, no time for 
indulgence of individual feeling; for, over- 
come by the exertion just made, Walter had 
sunk back in his chair fainting. In a few 
moments he revived, but a change had pass- 
ed over his countenance— death was in every 
feature. Once more his large dark eyes light- 
ed with transient lustre, as he gazed earnestly 
on Ethel and Norbourne, who stood before 
him. 

"Do you remember," said he, in a voice so 
hollow and so low, that the accents were 
scarce audible, " the last evening that we 
spent beside the little fountain 1 Why should 
coldness have taken the place of that love 
which I then believed was so happy, so per- 
fect? What could have parted you 1 At this 
moment, though your looks are averted, there 
is love in them, that love which nothing else 
can supply. I pray of you, let no worldly 
motive, no false pride, no vanity, come be- 
tween your affection !" 

He was holding a hand of each ; and, feebly, 
he put. them together. Norbourne started, for 
he felt that Ethel did not withdraw hers. He 
looked at her for a moment; her eyes dropped, 
but in that sweet and conscious look Ire read 
a new world of hope and love. 

" God bless you !" said Walter. " Lavi- 
nla ! my kind, my generous nurse !." added 
he, in accents more and more broken, "may 
your kindness to me be requited tenfold ! Ah ! 
if my dying words might in aught avail, you 
would leave — ' 

But his words died in a strange gurgling in 
the throat ; the eyes suddenly became fixed ; 
the mouth fell ; once he stretched out his 
hands convulsively, but they instantly relaxed, 
and his head sunk on Norbourne's arm. They 
raised him ; and, carrying him to the bed, laid 
him there. Pale, tranquil, and sweet, his face 
looked sleep, not death. They knelt by the 
bedside, at first too awe-struck for sorrow; 
prayers, not tears, seemed fitted to the scene : 
they felt as if around them were the presence 
of Heaven. 

And so perished, in the flower of his age, in 
the promise of his mind, the high-minded and 
gifted Walter Maynard. He died poor, sur- 
rounded by the presence of life's harsh and 
evil allotment, but the faithful and affectionate 
spirit kept its own to the last. Depressed, 
sorrowful, he might be, as he went on a hard 
path wearily; but he died honeful and loving. 



His poet's heart clung to this world, but to 
leave it a rich legacy of feelings and of 
thoughts ; his spirit welcomed death, the eter- 
nal guide to the mighty world beyond the 
grave. 

How many beautiful creations, how many 
glorious dreams went with him to the tomb ! 
but the unfulfilled destiny of genius is a mys- 
tery whose solution is not of earth. It is but 
one of those many voices wandering in this 
wilderness of ours that tell us, not here is our 
lot appointed to finish. W"e are here but for 
a space and a season ; for a task and a trial, 
and of the end no man knoweth. The earthly 
immortality of the mind is but a type of the 
heavenly immortality of the soul. Peace be 
to the beating heart and the worn spirit that 
had just departed, "where the wicked cease 
from troubling, and the weary are at rest!" 



CHAPTER CXVI. 

THE END. 

Farewell! 
Shadows and scenes that have, for many hours 
Been my companions; I part, from ye like friends- 
Dear and familiar ones— with deep sad thoughts, 
And hopes, almost misgivings 

" Forgive me," said Lord Norbourne, as he 
led the bride into the little chapel, where, at 
his desire, the marriage was to take place, " if, 
with vain confidence in myself, I, too rashly 
took the happiness of others into my own 
keeping. Forgive me for the sake of my lost 
Constance, whose place to me you will fill, 
while this life lasts !" 

Ethel could not speak, but her look was 
enough. Mrs. Courtenaye was not at her son's 
second marriage; unyielding, yet generous, 
she was one of those spirits to whom self-sa- 
crifice is a relief. The faith of solitude and 
penance suited her mind ; and she had entered 
one of those convents which, quiet and se- 
cluded, existed yet in England. In her eyes 
the sacrifice was atonement, and an offering 
for others. Sincere and enthusiastic in her 
belief, the prayers that, for years, she offered 
for her son's happiness, made her own. 

Both Mrs. Churchill and Lord Norbourne 
lived to an extreme old. age; the last, with a 
happiness around his latter days, that had 
never belonged to his earlier years. The loss 
of his youngest and most beloved child had 
been to him the bitterest feeling of his life ; 
but it had worked in him for gcod. Sorrow 
had subdued, and affection had softened, his 
nature ; his sweet child had been his good 
angel. Her latest prayer was' fulfilled even 
in this world ; and her father found, beside the 
hearth of her husband, the interest and the 
solace of his old age. 

Lavinia Fenton's history belongs to that of 
her time. In spite of Miss Churchill's en- 
treaties, she continued on the stage ; and her 
success in Polly, of the Beggars' Opera, is 
well known. She ended by becoming Duch- 
ess of Bolton ; one of those strange instances 



ETHEL CHURCHILL. 



163 



of mere worldly prosperity, which set all 
ordinary calculation at defiance. 

The conclusion of Lady Mary Wortley 
Montague's career is, also, matter of history; 
one of its grave, sad lessons. Clever — beau- 
tiful — with every advantage of nature and for- 
tune, her youth was a vain search after happi- 
ness, under the mistaken name of pleasure. I 
do not know a moral picture more degrading 
than the weakness which, for years, made her 
shrink from the sight of a looking-glass ; nor 
any thing more disconsolate than her long resi- 
dence, during her advanced life, in a foreign 
country, remote alike from the sphere of her 
duties and her affections. Brilliant — witty — 
searching into human nature, as her letters 
undoubtedly are, there is a fearful deficiency 
in all higher feeling and nobler motive ; the 
only redeeming point — but how much, indeed, 
does that redeem — is her tenderness for her 
daughter. We owe, also, to Lady Mary the 
introduction of inoculation — the moral courage 
she displayed ; the blessing conferred by her 
exertions may well silence the harsh judgment 
which suits so little with our narrow and finite 
intelligence. 

It was just such an evening, by 

"Departed summer tenderly illumined," 

as the one on which our narrative commenced, 
that Norbourne and Ethel stood beside the 
little fountain, whose scattered silver fell over 
the blue harebells around. 

They had been married at Norbourne Park, 
but they mutually wished to pass the first few 
weeks of their wedded happiness in the place 
which had witnessed the commencement of 
their love. We can bear to look back on past 
suffering when in the very fulness of content. 
Norbourne had been leaning for some time 
watching the soft shadows, that, as they 
passed, gave each a new aspect to the land- 



scape around, before Ethel joined him. She 
came down the same winding path, through 
the wilderness, by which Henrietta had joined 
them the night before she went to London. 

" You look pale, dearest," said Norbourne ! 
" these daily visits to Lady Marchmont, in 
her wretched state, are too much for you." 

"Not so," replied Ethel ; "you would not, 
I am sure, wish me to shrink from what I 
hold to be a duty, though a painful one. Poor 
Henrietta has no friend in the world but my- 
self. Hopeless as her madness is, though she 
knows me not, my presence soothes her; and 
with me she is gentle as a child." 

" Incurable insanity !" exclaimed Nor- 
bourne, " violent or melancholy, it is an awful 
visitation on one so young, so beautiful, and 
so gifted !" 

" God grant," said Ethel, " that her suffer- 
ings in this world may be her atonement in 
the next. As far as human skill can say, 
years, long years, are before her. To us, 
Norbourne, she will be as a sister, is itnot so?" 

Her husband's only answer was to clasp 
still closer the hand that he held in his. 
" You must come with me," said he, after a 
few moments' silence ; " you will now know 
why I would not let you go through the 
churchyard this week." „ 

They turned into the little path that led to 
the church, whose Gothic windows were kin- 
dled by the setting sun. Even the dark yew 
trees were lighted up as if by some lustrous 
and spiritual presence. His wife saw that 
beneath the one to which they were approach- 
ing, a monument had been newly erected. 

"It was his last wish," said Norbourne, 
" not to be buried in London." 

" Ethel looked up, and read on a white 
marble tablet the brief inscription of— "Sa- 
cred to the Memory of Walter May 
nard " 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



165 



ADDEESS. 



There is one page in every work, which, 
to me at least, is replete with anxiety and em- 
barrassment. Whether to affect an indiffer- 
ence I cannot feel, or to express a hope on 
which I do not rely — whether to deprecate 
censure which is not to be deprecated, or to 
excite a sympathy not to be excited — I never 
know what to say in my preface. To authors 
experience must rather bring distrust than 
confidence: they are no judges of their own 
efforts ; the portion whereon they believe their 
utmost exertion has been bestowed, and of 
which they anticipate that the result will be 
most favourable, may prove a complete failure. 
In the following tales, I have carefully endea- 
voured to concentrate the interest of the story, 



and to shun digression. How far I have sue 
ceeded, it is impossible for me to decide 
There are few "partial friends," now-a-days, 
whose previous praise or advice gives you a 
foretaste of the critical futurity that awaits 
you : your manuscript goes from the desk to 
the press, and from the press to the public, to 
stand or fall by a judgment which " casts no 
shadows before." I only venture to hope for 
a continuance of the kindness which has 
hitherto been my encouragement and reward. 
I have often trespassed upon it, but for that I 
do not apologize ; the public can scarcely be 
displeased that my industry and imagination 
are exerted to the utmost in its service. 



167 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



THE ENCHANTRESS. 



Water — the mighty, the pure, the beauti- 
ful, the unfathomable — where is thy element 
so glorious as it is in thine own domain, the 
deep seas ? What an infinity of power is in 
the far Atlantic, the boundary of two separate 
worlds, apart lik,e those of memory and of 
hope ! or in the bright Pacific, whose tides 
are turned to gold by a southern sun, and in 
whose bosom sleep a thousand isles, each 
covered with the verdure, the flowers, and the 
fruit of Eden! But, amid all thy hereditary 
kingdoms, to which hast thou given beauty, 
as a birthright, lavishly as thou hast to thy 
favourite Mediterranean] The silence of a 
summer night is now sleeping on its bosom, 
where the bright stars are mirrored, as if in 
its depths they had another home and another 
heaven. A spirit, cleaving air midway be- 
tween the two, might have paused to ask 
which was sea, and which was sky. The 
shadows of earth and earthly things, resting 
omenlike upon the waters, alone showed 
which was the home and which the mirror of 
the celestial host. 

But the distant planets were not the only 
lights reflected from the sea; an illuminated 
villa, upon the extreme point of a small rising 
on the coast, flung down a flood of radiance 
from a thousand lamps. From the terrace 
came the breath of the orange plants, whose 
white flowers were turned to silver in the 
light which fell on them from the windows. 
Within the halls were assembled the fairest 
and noblest of Sicily. 

Every one, they say, has a genius for some- 
thing — that of Count Arezzi was for festivals. 
A king, or more, the Athenian Pericles, might 
have welcomed his most favoured guests in 
such a chamber. The^walls were painted in 
fresco, as artists paint whose present is a 
dream of beauty, and whose future is an im- 
mortality. Each fresco was a scene in Arca- 
dia ; and the nymphs, who were there gather- 
ing their harvest of roses, were only less love- 
ly than the Sicilian maidens that flitted past. 
Among these was one much darker than her 
companions; her eastern mother had bequeath- 
ed to her her black hair and her olive skin; 
in her eye was that brightness, and on her 
cheek was that freshness, which belong only 
io the earliest hour of youth — the blush had 
been too fleeting to burn, the smile too clear I 
to cast that shadow which even light flings 
as it lengthens. But to-night the colour was I 

Vol. II.— 22 



heightened, the eyes wore a deeper shade, toi 
the hue of the downcast lash was upon them, 
and the sweet half-opened mouth was too 
earnest for a smile. 

Lolah was listening to those charmed words 
which change the girl at once into the woman 
— we step not over the threshold of childhood 
till led by Love. Alas, this knowledge is al- 
most always heralded by a sorrow ! That 
morning had Lolah heard from her stern uncle, 
that the love she bore to her cousin Leoni di 
Montefiore was a childish toy, and as such 
was to be put away ; and all her happiness 
had been destroyed by having to reflect upon 
it. Poor Lolah! how hard it is to teach the 
young that life is made up of many parts ; 
and that wealth, rank, power, are more to be 
desired than affection ! To-night she was 
listening to Leoni — and who ever thought of 
the future when the present has first taught 
us we love and are beloved 1 ? — still, her eyes 
were filled with tears, and her heart beat 
heavier than usual. Leoni spoke of hope ; but 
is not hope only a more gentle word for fear? 
And yet, with that mysterious contradiction 
which makes the fever of human existence, 
neither would have renounced the certainty 
of the other's affection for the careless content 
of yesterday. Strange, that ignorance should 
be our best happiness in this life, and yet be 
the one we are ever striving to destroy! 

Leoni and his cousin stood in one of the 
deep windows ; she leaning as if to inhale the 
fragrance of an Indian rose, and mark a flower 
which, brought from a far land, seemed more 
delicate than its bright companion. A pedes- 
tal of the green malachite stood beside, and 
on it a vase carved with the sacrifice of Iphi- 
genia ; these shut them out from the rest of 
the dancers. 

" My father," exclaimed Leoni, " gave his 
daughter to her father ;" — then a bitter thought 
of the wasted heritage, which had made his 
noble name a fetter rather than an aid, for a 
moment caused the lover to pause. 

" Holy mother! — but my uncle has just en- 
tered the room ; let me go, ere he finds me 
talking to you." 

Lolah waited not for an answer; another 
moment, and she had passed her slender arm 
through that of one of her companions, and 
was lost in the crowd. It was so sudden, 
Leoni scarcely believed she was gone : sure- 
ly her sweet low sigh was on the air — no ! it 
P 169 



170 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



was but the breath of the Bengal rose. His 
eye wandered round ; it fell on the sculptured 
vase, and there stood the Grecian father, a 
witness to the sacrifice of his youngest and 
loveliest child. 

" Even so, my gentle Lolah, will the altar 
be thy tomb." 

Leoni started, for a figure now stepped from 
the shade of the column : not only his last 
words, but their whole conversation must have 
been heard. 

" Yes, Don Leoni," said the intruder, re- 
plying rather to his thoughts and look, "I 
have heard your discourse; pardon me when 
I say it was wilfully overheard. It is long 
since I have hearkened to the eager and happy 
words of young affection, and I listened as if 
to music ; and, like music, they have died in 
hearing." 

Leoni thought he would as soon that the 
dialogue had not been quite so attractive — 
strange, that it should be so to the cold and 
proud Donna Medora ! 

Again his companion answered to his 
thoughts — ." You marvel at my speech ; I 
could wonder myself at this still lingering 
sympathy with the base lot of humanity: but 
mortal breath and mortal frame cannot quite 
break away from mortal ties. Don Leoni, I 
pity you — I wish to serve you : I know not, if 
in giving you wealth I give you happiness ; 
but wealth I can give. This is not the place 
for such words as mine must be. Breathe not 
in living ear what I have said : my power to 
serve you depends on your silence. Come 
to-morrow to our palazzo." 

Medora turned from him, and descended the 
terrace. The weakness of our nature — -how 
soon any strong emotion masters it ! Leoni 
stood breathless with surprise and hope ; he 
had once or twice before seen Donna Medora, 
and he had heard much of her. Young- — she 
had seen but three-and-twenty summers deepen 
into autumn ; beautiful — for it was as if Hea- 
ven had set its seal on her perfect face, — -her 
lift; was one of sadness and solitude. The 
cathedral where she knelt, the poor whom 
she aided, the sick-room of her aged father, 
and her own lonely chamber — these w T ere the 
haunts of Medora. When about seventeen, a 
severe illness had stricken her even unto 
death ; almost by a miracle she was restored 
to life, but never to youth — the shadow of the 
grave, to which she had so nearly approached, 
seemed to rest upon her. Her glad laugh 
never again made the air musical as with the 
singing of a bird in spring; her light step 
forgot the dance ; and her lute was given to 
another. The sympathy she once had for joy 
was now kept entirely for sorrow ; but the 
mother who died in her arms, the father whose 
long and sickly age she soothed and support- 
ed, thought her nature had, in so nearly ap- 
proaching heaven, caught something of its ele- 
ments. And Lolah, who, as a distant relative, 
sometimes visited Don Manfredi's chamber, 
said that Medora was almost an angel ; and 
added — "I should think her quite one, but 



that I do not fear her, and that she seems 
unhappy." 

It was reported that love and religion had 
held a bitter conflict in her heart. Before hei 
illness she had been betrothed to a young ca- 
valier ; on her recovery she refused to fulfil her 
engagement, alleging that the instability of 
life had taught her the vanity of human ties : 
all she now asked, was to devote what re 
mained of existence to her aged parents. Re 
monstrances, prayers, were alike unavailing ; 
and the young Count Rivoli became one of 
the Knights of Malta. Some years had since 
passed ; and in the gay and hurrying circle of 
Palermo, Medora's name was rarely men- 
tioned. 

Leoni dwelt upon her promise of assistance ; 
but the more he reflected, the more hopeless 
it seemed. How could she give wealth, the 
daughter of one of Sicily's poorest nobles ? 

Our young Sicilian was naturally of a dar- 
ing and reckless temper ; and resolving to 
hope, without analysing why or wherefore, he 
re-entered the saloon. He danced no more 
with Lolah ; yet he had the satisfaction of 
seeing her look sad and languid while dancing 
with another. But how restless was the night 
that followed ! Hope is feverish enough at 
all times ; what must it be when stimulated 
by curiosity ! 

The first blush of morning awakened Leoni 
from his light slumbers: he looked out; the 
hue of the sky was that too of the sea; the 
waves of the Mediterranean floated on as if 
freighted with roses; yet how Leoni wisfcad 
they were glittering with the clear colourless 
light of noon ! Never say that time is of equal 
length : the movement of the hours is as irre- 
gular as the beating of the heart which mea- 
sures them. A year of ordinary life, if count- 
ed by hopes, fears, and fancies, was in that 
lingering morning. At length, noon sounded 
from many a turret ; and, regardless of the 
heat, the young count hurried to the palazzo. 

When he reached the pier, a crowd, of boat- 
men offered their services. 

'.' What, ho ! Michele and Stefano ! I have 
tried the swiftness of the Santa Catharina be- 
fore now. Remember, I am as impatient 
as—" 

" Your lordship always is," replied Stefano, 
who, having an answer always ready, always 
answered. 

Leoni jumped into the boat, whose celerity 
showed that the wax taper her pious rowers 
offered to Santa Catherina yearly on the day 
of her fete, was not thrown away; though 
perhaps, the activity of the brothers who rowed 
did as much as their piety towards sending 
the little vessel swiftly through the waters. 

"You want to land," said Michele, "at 
San Marco's steps ?" turning the head of the 
boat to the accustomed landing-place. 

The steps to which San Marco lent his name 
had been worth many a sequin to them ; for 
the winding path to the left led to Lolah's villa 

" No, no," replied Leoni ; " to the Nymph's 
Cove." 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



171 



" Signor," returned Michele, "those steps 
lead only to Count Manfredi's garden." 

" And it is thither I am going'." 

The boatmen exchanged looks of astonish- 
ment bordering on dismay, which was not di- 
minished by the silence of the usually gay 
cavalier. Montefiore leant back in the boat: 
as the interview drew nigh, a feeling of fear — 
not fear, that was what none of his house had 
ever yet known — but of awe, stole over him. 
Many a mood had that morning passed through 
his mind ; disbelief — but surely the sad se- 
riousness of such a one as Donna Medora 
could never stoop to mockery! — then hope, 
like a sweet summer shower, when dark 
clouds break away into sudden light — till 
all his thoughts fixed on one mysterious 
circumstance — that he was the only person 
who had seen her the preceding evening. 
The Count d'Arezzi himself was not aware 
that she had been among his guests. 

"While musing on the singularity of this, 
they arrived at the landing-place, and found 
the Senora's page in waiting. Dumb from 
his birth, the boy Julio had been brought up 
in the Manfredi family, where his weak frame 
and want of language had exempted him from 
all but the lightest tasks. 

" What, would the Senora Lolah say to this 
visit ?" cried Stefano, the moment his master 
was out of hearing. "The lady Medora is 
beautiful as an angel ; I marvel we never 
rowed cavalier hither before." 

" We never have ; but /have, and in an evil 
hour. Well had it been for my first master if 
he had never looked on a face so fair and so 
false. I remember when I was wont of an 
evening to row the Count Rivoli to this very 
spot. We used to see a white veil waving 
among the trees — it was the senora watching 
his approach : they were very happy then. 
But I know not how it was, unless it be the 
inconstancy of women; for change is as na- 
tural to them as it is to the sea. The Lady 
Medora was taken dangerousty ill : during 
her fearful sickness, never was truer lover 
than my master ; the shrine of Our Lady 
was laden with gifts ; and night after night 
he paced beneath the window of her room, — 
till she who lay dying above, could scarcely 
look paler than he who watched below. And 
yet, on her recovery she refused to wed him. 
She declared, that, in her danger, she had 
made a vow not to marry. They say the 
young count knelt at her feet, but in vain ; 
and for her sake he forswore the face of wo- 
man and his native country. Count Rivoli 
is now a Knight of Malta. What has the 
Senora Medora to do with another lover ?" 

" Well, yonder gallant's step is not much 
like a lover's," replied Stefano, as a bend in 
the path enabled them to see the slow and 
thoughtful pace at which Leoni followed his 
guide. 

The boy who led the way walked feebly 
and languidly, and Montefiore hurried him not. 
The gloom of the neglected garden added to 
that on his spirits ; and the wild eyes and 
pale face of his dumb attendant seemed to fix 



his attention painfully. It was a countenance 
whose unhappiness was catching; for Leoni 
thought how terrible was his lot, debarred 
from that noblest privilege of humanity, inter- 
change of thought, and its sweetest inter- 
change of feelings ! The boy stopped sud- 
denly at the door of a summer-house, so hidden 
by the dark branches of the pine trees around, 
that the stranger might have passed it by un- 
noticed. They entered together ; the page 
approached his mistress, pointed to the visiter, 
and then left the room. 

Without rising from her own seat, Medora 
signed to Leoni to take the one opposite. At 
first she seemed so absorbed in thought, that 
even his entrance was insufficient to rouse her; 
she evidently hesitated to speak, as if she had 
not yet resolved on the purport of her words. 
Her young and impetuous companion found 
the silence very oppressive ; but even his 
impetuosity was subdued by the gloom around 
him. 

Panelled with the scarce woods of other lands, 
whose cornices were carved in quaint wreaths 
of flowers, mingled with crosses of divers 
shapes and the family arms, it was obvious 
that a rich though barbarous taste had here 
once lavished its wealth. But Time had, as 
usual, laughed the works of man to scorn; 
and pomp, amid its decay, sickened over its 
vanity. The colours were all merged in the 
heavy black of age ; the gildings were tar- 
nished ; and the cornices broken ami defaced. 
The temple, of which but a few fallen columns 
remain — the mighty city, whose stately frag- 
ments are strewed in the desert — are solemn, 
not sorrowful. But the desolation of yesterday 
comes home to every man's heart — to-morrow 
its portion may be his own ; and the faded 
tapestry, the discoloured floor, and the moulder- 
ing painting, speak of sorrow which still 
exists, and poverty which is still endured. 

Leoni gazed round the gloomy banquet- 
room, and remembered a festival which had 
been given there; he was a child at the time, 
and perhaps his memory lent something of its 
own gayety to the scene. But he was roused 
from his revery by Medora's voice. 

"My silence, count," said she, "must 
seem strange ; but when )'ou have heard the 
story I am about to reveal, you will not marvel 
that I hesitate to speak words which are even 
as those of Fate. You love, and you are be- 
loved ; surely you might be happy. There is 
but one obstacle, that of wealth. Leoni, I 
can make you rich — rich as the fabled kings, 
who poured forth gold like water : dare you 
accept the offer ?" 

" On what conditions ?" exclaimed Leoni, 
almost unconsciously clasping the cross of the 
order which hung at his neck. 

" On none," returned his companion. " Fear 
not my conditions, but your own use of the 
wealth I can bestow. Dare you take your 
destiny into your own hands ? But I will 
place my life before you, and then judge for 
yourself." 

Medora rose from her seat. 

" Not here, where the unchnrmed air mighl 



s 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



bear away my words, dare I tell my history. 
Count Leoni, you have heard of wondrous and 
fearful secrets, whose spell is over stars and 
over spirits ; you have heard of mortals to 
whom immortal power is given — such power 
is mine. You deem you are speaking- to your 
cousin — would that you were ! I have but the 
borrowed likeness of her whose life long since 
reached its appointed boundary. Give me 
your hand, and in a few minutes we shall be 
in my own dwelling, amid those immeasura- 
ble deserts where only my story may be com- 
municated. Do you consent to accompany 

Leoni answered by taking the hand extend- 
ed towards him. Even as he touched it, a 
dense vapour filled the room ; he felt himself 
raised with a sudden and dizzy velocity ; he 
leant back ; the cloud was as the wave on 
which a swimmer floats, borne by no effort of 
his own ; and a pleasant sensation of sleep 
came over him. He was roused by the light 
touch of his companion, and startled into con- 
sciousness. They were standing on the top 
of a mighty tower; one of those, whose 
height, seen from below, seems to reach even 
unto the heavens — but the summit once gain- 
ed, we only find what an immeasurable up- 
ward distance remains. A hot, bright noon 
filled the air with light, but not with fertility ; 
for far as the eye could reach — and the clear 
cc-'ourless atmosphere seemed to extend the 
sight even to infinity — spread an arid desert, 
as if sand were an element, and only shared 
its empire with the sky. But immediately 
around the tower lay the giant ruins of a once 
glorious city ; one of those built when the 
world was in the strength of its youth, and 
reared buildings which were the work of cen- 
turies, and yet but the work of a life : the 
cradle and the grave were then far apart. 
Now the shadow of the last rests upon the 
first, and all life groans beneath the weight 
and darkness thereof. Then the marble of 
the quarry and the gold of the mine lay on the 
surface; the fertile soil of the East yielded 
forth its abundance ; and the labour which 
was in man's destiny, needed not to be all 
given to that sad and perpetual strife with 
hunger which belongs to our worn-out and 
weary age. 

It seemed, however, as if Time had long 
paused in his work of destruction ; the vast 
masses of carved granite, the broken columns, 
the shattered walls where once four chariots 
drove abreast, all remained as they had done 
for ages. Year after year the burning sun- 
shine forbade the rain to fall, and speedily 
dried up the dews of night; no green moss, 
no creeping plant, as in his native Italy, hid 
the ruin which they were aiding: the bare 
whitp marble shone distinct from the sands. 

Leoni turned to his companion; her face 
and garb were wholly changed : she stood 
upon her native tower, and had resumed her 
native shape. As Medora, she had been so 
like his own Lolah — a slight, low figure, 
whose grace was that of childhood ; the same 
sweet pleading eyes; alike, save that hope 



gave its gladness to the face of Leila, while 
that of Medora had all the mournfulness of 
memory. But the glorious beauty of the be* 
ing at his side, though it wore the shape, had 
scarce the semblance of mortality. The faca 
had that high and ideal cast of beauty which 
made the divinities of Greece divine ; for the 
mind was imbodied in the features. The 
large blue eyes were of the colour of the 
noon, when heaven is full of light ; they 
looked upon you like the far-off shining of 
some vast and lonely planet. Her garb and 
turban had an Oriental splendour ; a silver 
veil mingled with her rich profusion of hair, 
which was bound by strings of costly pearls 
Round her arm was rolled a band of gold, and 
on her hand she bore a signet of some stranga 
clear stone, covered with mystic characters. 
Her height and step were like a queen's, such 
as might have beseemed the young Empress 
of Palmyra, ere she walked in the triumph oi 
the Roman conqueror. 

" I may not enter," said she, " the hall oi 
my father's tomb but in mine own shape : fol 
low me." 

Casting the golden sandals from her feet 
she led the way down a flight of black marblt 
steps. They paused at the foot of the tower , 
two enormous doors flew open, and though it 
was the bright light of noon he had left be 
hind, Leoni stood dazzled at the glory of the 
hall. The crystal roof was traversed by a 
shining zodiac, lit by a pale unearthly flame ; 
the black marble floor was covered with in- 
scriptions in gold, but they were in unknown 
ciphers : Leoni observed, however, that they 
were similar to those on the girdle and the 
border of his companion's robe. The gigantic 
pillars which supported the vast dome were 
also of black marble, covered, in like manner 
with golden hieroglyphics. Between them 
were immense vases, each one a varying mo- 
saic of precious stones, and filled with the 
same pale flame which lighted the zodiac 
above. In the centre of the hall stood a huge 
crystal globe, and upon its summit a funeral 
urn of the purest alabaster, on which neither 
figure nor sign was graven. Around were 
were placed seven silver tripods, whereon 
were burning odoriferous woods, which filled 
the air with their perfumes. 

"In yonder urn," said Medora, "lie the 
ashes of my father. I have obtained that gift 
in search of which his life was spent ; and 
yet I would that our mingled ashes were 
strewn on those elements we have mastered, 
and in vain." 

She now seated herself on a radiant throne 
opposite, and Leoni leant on the lion's skin at 
her feet. We have said tfrat Leoni was of a 
race to whom fear was unknown, yet he felt 
his heart beat quicker than ordinary, and his 
glance quailed before the melancholy and 
spiritual beauty of the eyes now shining upon 
him. 

" You see in me," said his mysterious com- 
panion, "the only living descendant of those 
Eastern Magi to whom the stars revealed theit 
mysteries, and spirits gave their power. Age 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



173 



after age did sages add to that knowledge 
which, by bequeathing to their posterity, they 
trusted would in time combat to conquer their 
mortality. But the glorious race perished 
from the earth, till only my father was left, 
and I his orphan child. Marvels and know- 
ledge paid his life of fasting and study. All 
the spirits of the elements bowed down before 
him ; but the future was still hidden from his 
eyes, and death was omnipotent. His power 
of working evil had no bounds, but his power 
of good was limited ; and yet it was good that 
he desired. How dared he put in motion 
those mighty changes, which seemed to pro- 
mise such happiness on earth, while he was 
ignorant of what their results might be ? and 
of what avail was the joy he might pour out 
on life, over whose next hour the grave might 
close, and only make the parting breath more 
bitter from the blessings which it was leaving 
behind ? 

"I was no unworthy daughter of such a 
sire ; I advanced in these divine studies even 
to his wish, and looked to the future with a 
hope which many years had deadened in him- 
self, but from which I caught an omen of ulti- 
mate success. Alas ! he mastered not his 
destiny : I have said before, his ashes are in 
yonder urn. A few unwholesome dews on a 
summer night were mightier than all his 
science. For a time I struggled not with de- 
spair : but youth is buoyant, and habit is 
strong. Again I pored over the mystic scroll 
—again I called on the spirits with spell and 
with sign. Many a mystery was revealed, 
nany a wonder grew familiar , but still death 
remained at the end of all things, as before. 
One night I was on the terrace of my tower. 
Above me was the deep blue sky, with its 
stars — worlds filled, perchance, with the in- 
telligence which I sought. On the desert 
below was the phantasm of a great city. I 
looked on its small and miserable streets, 
where hunger and cold reigned paramount, and 
man was as wretched as if flung but yester- 
day on the earth, and there had been as 3 T et no 
time for art>to yield its assistance, or labour 
to bring forth its fruit. I gazed next on scenes 
of festivity, but they were not glad ; for I 
looked from the wreath into the head it encir- 
cled, and from the carcanet of gems to the 
heart which beat beneath — and I saw envy, 
and hate, and repining, and remorse. I turned 
my last glance on the palace within its walls ; 
but there the purple was spread as a pall, and 
the voice of sorrow and the cry of pain were 
loud on the air. I bade the shadows roll 
away upon the winds, and rose depressed and 
in sorrow. I was not alone : one of those glo- 
rious spirits, whose sphere was far beyond the 
power of our science, whose existence we ra- 
ther surmised than knew, stood beside me. 

" From that hour a new existence opened 
before me. I loved, and I was beloved — love, 
to which imagination gave poetry, and mind 
gave strength, was the new element added to 
my being. Alas ! how little do the miserable 
race to which I belong know of such a feel- 
mg ! They blend a moment's vanity, a mo- 



ment's gratification, into a temporary excite- 
ment, and they call it love. Such are the 
many, and the many make the wretchedness 
of earth. And yet your own heart, Leoni, and 
that of my gentle cousin, may witness for my 
words, there are such things as truth, and 
tenderness, and devotion in the world ; and 
such redeem the darkness and degradation of 
its lot. Nay, more — if ever the mystery of 
our destiny be unravelled, and happiness be 
wrought out of wisdom, it will be the work 
of love. 

" It matters little to tell you of my blessed 
ness ; but my very heart was filled with the 
light of those radiant eyes, which were to me 
what the sun is to the world. Yet one dark 
shadow rested on my soul, beyond even their 
influence. Death had been the awful conqueroi 
with whom my race had so often struggled, 
and to whom they had so often yielded. A 
mortal, I loved an immortal, and the fear of 
separation was ever before me ; yet a long and 
a happy time passed away before my fear 
found words. 

" It was one evening we were floating over 
the earth, and the crimson cloud on which we 
lay was the one where the sun's last look had 
rested. Its gleam fell on a small nook, while 
all around was fast melting into shade. Still, 
it was a sad spot which was thus brightened — 
it was a new-made grave. Over the others 
the long grass grew luxuriantly, and speckled, 
too, by many small and fragrant flowers ; but 
on this, the dark-brown earth had been freshly 
turned up, and the red worm writhed restlessly 
about its disturbed habitation. Some roses 
had been scattered, but they were withered ; 
their sweet leaves were already damp and dis- 
coloured. All wore the present and outward 
signs of our eternal doom — to perish in cor- 
ruption. 

" The shadows of the evening fell, deepen 
ing the gloom into darkness — the one last 
bright ray had long been past, when a youth 
came from the adjacent valley. That grave 
but yesterday received one who was to have 
been his bride — his betrothed from childhood, 
for whose sake he had been to far lands and 
gathered much wealth, but who had pined in 
his absence and died. He flung himself on 
the loathsome place, and the night-wind bore 
around the ravings of his despair. Wo for 
that selfishness which belonged to my morta- 
lity ! I felt at that moment more of terror 
than of pit}^. I thought of myself: Thus must 
I, with all my power, my science, and loved 
by one into whose sphere death comes not, 
even thus must I perish ! True, the rich 
spices, the perfumed woods, the fragrant oils, 
which would feed the sacred fire of my fune- 
ral pyre, would save my mortal remains from 
that corruption which makes the disgust of 
death even worse than its dread. A few odo- 
riferous ashes alone would be left for my urn. 
Yet not the less must I share the common 
doom of my race, — I must die ! 

" ' Nay, my beautiful !' said the voice, 
which was to me as the fiat of life and death, 
so utterly did it fill my existence ; ' why 
p2 



174 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



should we thus yield to a vague terror ? Listen, 
my beloved ! I know where the waters of 
the fountains of life roll their eternal waves — 
I know I can bear you thither and bid you 
drink from their source, and over lips so hal- 
lowed, Death hath no longer dominion. But, 
alas ! I know not what may be the punish- 
ment. Like yourselves, the knowledge of 
our race goes on increasing, and our experi- 
ence, like your own, hath its agonies. None 
have dared what I am about to dare, and the 
future of my deed is even to me a secret. 
But what may not be borne for that draught 
which makes my loved one as immortal as my 
love !' 

" I gazed on the glorious hope which light- 
ed up his radiant brow, and I said to him, 
* Give me an immortality which must be thine.' 
Worlds rolling on worlds lay beneath our feet 
when we stood beside the waters of ]ife. A 
joyful pride swelled in my heart. I, the last 
and the weakest of my race, had won that 
prize which its heroes and its sages had found 
too mighty for their grasp. A sound as of a 
storm rushing over ocean startled me when I 
stooped to drink, the troubled waves rose into 
tumultuous eddies, their fiery billows parted, 
and from amid them appeared the dark and 
terrible spirit of necessity. The cloud of his 
awful face grew deeper as it turned on me. 
4 Child of a sinful and a fallen kind !' said he, 
and he spoke the language most familiar to 
my ear, which yet sounded like that of another 
world, ' who have ever measured by their own 
small wisdom that which is infinite — drink, 
and be immortal ! Be immortal, without the 
wisdom or the power belonging unto immor- 
tality. Drink S' 

" I shrank from the starry waters as they rose 
to my lip, but a power stronger than my will 
compelled me to their taste. The draught 
ran through my veins like ice. Slowly I 
turned to where my once-worshipped lover 
was leaning. The same change had passed 
over both. Our eyes met, and each looked 
into the other's heart, and there dwelt hate — 
bitter, loathing, and eternal hate. I had 
changed my nature ; I was no longer the gen- 
tle, up-looking mortal he had loved. I had 
changed my nature ; he was no longer to me 
the one glorious and adored being. We gazed 
on each other with fear and abhorrence. The 
dark power, whose awful brow was fixed 
upon us like Fate, again was shrouded in the 
kindling waters. By an impulse neither could 
control, the Spirit and I flung ourselves down 
the steep blue air, but apart, and each mutter- 
ing, ' Never ! never !' And that word ' never' 
told our destiny. Never could either feel 
again that sweet deceit of happiness, which, 
if it be a lie, is worth all truth. Never more 
could each heart be the world of the other. 

" Our feelings are as little in our power as 
the bodily structure they animate. My love 
had been sudden, uncontrollable, and born not 
of my own will — and such was my hate. As 
tittle could I master the sick shudder his 
image now called up, as I could the passion- 
ate beating of the heart it had once excited. I 



stood alone in my solitary hall — T gazed on 
the eternal fire burning over the tomb of my 
father, and I wished it were burning ovet 
mine. For the first time I felt the limitations 
of humanity. The desire of my race was in 
me accomplished — I was immortal ; and what 
was this immortality ? A dark and measure- 
less future. Alas, we had mistaken life for 
felicity ! What was my knowledge ? it only 
served to show its own vanity ; what was my 
power, when its exercise only served to work 
out the decrees of an inexorable necessity ? 
I had parted myself from my kind, but I had 
not acquired the nature of a spirit. I had lost 
of humanity but its illusions, and they alone 
are what render it supportable. The mystic 
scrolls over which I had once pored with such 
intenseness, were now flung aside ; what could 
they teach me ? Time was to me but one 
great vacancy ; how could I fill it up, who had 
neither labour nor excitement ? I sat me 
down mournfully, and thought of the past. 
Why, when love is perished, should its me- 
mory remain ? I had said to myself, So long 
as I have life, one deep feeling must absorb 
my existence. A change — and that too of my 
own earnest seeking — had passed over my 
being ; and the past, which had been so pre- 
cious, was now as a frightful phantasm. The 
love which alters, in its inconstancy may set 
up a new idol, and worship again with a plea- 
sant blindness ; but the love which leaves the 
heart with a full knowledge of its own vanity 
and nothingness, — which saith, The object of 
my passion still remains, but it is worthless 
in my sight — never more can I renew my early 
feeling — I marvel how I ever could have loved 
— I loathe, I disdain the weakness of my for- 
mer self; — ah, the end of such love is indeed 
despair ! 

" Do you mark yonder black marble slab, 
which is spread as over a tomb ] It covers 
the most silvery fountain that ever mirrored 
the golden light of noon, or caught the fall 
of the evening dew, in an element bright as 
themselves. The radiant likeness of a spirit 
rests on those waters. I bade him give dura- 
tion to the shadow he flung upon the wave, 
that I might gaze on it during his absence. 
The first act of my immortality was to shut it 
from my sight. There must that black mar- 
ble rest forever. 

" Why need I tell you of the desolation with 
which centuries have passed over my head? 
At length I resolved to leave my solitude, tc 
visit earth ; to seek, if I could not recall, my 
humanity; to interest myself in my species, 
and help even while I despised them. The 
thousand hues of sunset were deepening into 
the rich purple of twilight, when I paused 
over a Sicilian palace. Lemon and orange 
trees crowded the terrace, and their odours 
floated upwards towards an apartment where 
every casement was flung open for the sake 
of air. One emaciated hand stretched out on 
the purple silk coverlet, the other extended 
towards an aged female beside, reclined a 
young and beautiful girl ; she was dying. A 
week of fever had done tne work of years 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



176 



life hid burnt fiercely out; and the fragile 
tenement, wasted and worn away, lay in that 
languid repose which is the harbinger of death. 
The long - black hair hung in pall-like masses ; 
it had been loosened in the restlessness of 
pain. Her mother kept bathing the sunken 
temples with aromatics, but they throbbed no 
longer, and the sufferer motioned to her to 
desist. She now asked rest rather than re- 
lief; but life yet put forth its last energy in 
affection, and clasping her mother's hand, she 
turned her large soft eyes to her father. He 
stood watching her, as though, while he 
watched, life could not escape. Suddenly, a 
slight convulsion passed over the face of the 
dying girl ; she gasped as if for air, and raised 
herself on her pillow without assistance, but 
sank back with the effort ; — she was dead. A 
wild scream broke from the mother, and she 
fell senseless by the bed. The father caught 
the lifeless hands of his child, and, mad with 
despair, implored her not to leave him. Loud 
sobs came from the further part of the cham- 
ber : there was now no one to disturb by that 
passion of sorrow. 

" Human misery is an awful sight. The 
old nurse approached the corpse; she smooth- 
ed the long dark hair — she placed a chaplet 
of roses on the brow, and a few fresh flowers 
in the lifeless hand. The rich light from the 
open casement fell on the white dress, and 
still whiter face, with a mocking cheerfulness. 
The aged creature could restrain her grief no 
longer ; she rushed to a darker part of the 
room, and wept. A thought struck me : over 
the departed I had no power ; but I could 
spare the agony of the living. Yes, I would 
take upon myself human relations, would 
bind myself by human ties — I would be to 
them even as a daughter. The next moment 
I had assumed the shape of their child. 

" Far in an unfrequented track of the south- 
ern seas lies a small island ; there are aged 
trees and early blossoms ; and amid them 
myriads of shining insects and bright-winged 
birds make the solitude glad with life ; but 
they are its sole inhabitants. Once, driven 
away by a tempest from its ordinary course, 
a ship discovered the little isle. The Spani- 
ards landed ; they took possession in the name 
of the Madonna, and with pieces of gray rock 
piled up a cross. Human eye has never since 
dwelt on that lovely and lonely shore; but be- 
neath the shadow of that cross lie the mortal 
remains of your cousin Medora. Gradually I 
allowed some sign of returning life to appear; 
the old nurse, who was bending over the body, 
was the first to exclaim, 'Bring a looking- 

flass, for there is breath within those lips.' 
'he slight cloud left on the mirror was as the 
very atmosphere of hope; eyes dim with 
weeping, cheeks pale with watching, were 
lighted up on the instant. 

"I felt a new and keen happiness in the 
happiness I had given. It needs not to tell 
how I gradually recovered, and how the pa- 
rents, whose very life seemed bound up in 
their child's, were never weary of gazing on 
their recovered treasure. But a grief of which 



I had not dreamt awaited me. Medora had 
been betrothed to a young Sicilian nobleman. 
The moment an interview was permitted, the 
lover was at my feet, full of that hope and 
that joy he was never to know again. You 
are aware how the marriage was broken off, 
on the plea of a vow to the Virgin made in 
the extremity of danger; but you know not 
the agony I inflicted, or that I endured, in 
listening to the passionate despair of Rivoli ; 
and when he said, ' Your death I might have 
borne — it was the will of God, and life would 
have lived on a hope beyond the grave ; but 
thus to find you changed to me, to think that 
you can hold our love an offence in the sight 
of heaven, and that I, who have loved, and 
who do love you so unutterably, that I should 
be the first sacrifice you offer up — this, Me- 
dora, is more than I can bear !" 

"In listening thus, how I repented me of 
my rash interference with the course of hu- 
man life ! If I had given joy, I had also 
caused more sorrow ; and, worse, I had rea- 
son to question whether the grief of the mar- 
riage thus broken off did not imbitter, despite 
of all my care, the brief period of Donna Ma- 
ria's life. 

" I have now little more to say of myself. 
The last few years have been devoted to Don 
Manfredi's declining age ; wearisome has the 
task been, and still I have clung to it. I own, 
yet shun, the fatal truth, that my lot is but an 
awful solitude, without duties or affections — 
those ties and blessings of humanity. And 
now for the wealth I offer } r ou : I know not 
of its consequences, but I know those conse- 
quences can be but in your own acts. I do 
no more than a mere mortal might. On this 
interview there is imposed the condition- 
secrecy ; on the possession of riches there is 
none. The spirits of riches are the first and 
the meanest which yield to science : it shall 
be my care that they reach you in simple and 
ordinary channels. Speak !" 

" Give me," exclaimed Leoni, " give me 
wealth ; give me Lolah !" 

A purple cloud filled the glorious hall; 
again stupor overwhelmed him ; again he 
awakened, and there he was in the lonely 
summer-room, and Medora, with her pale 
childlike face and black garments, at his 
side ; but he met the large dark eyes filled 
with a strange wild light, and he knew it was 
no dream. 

" Leave me now," said Medora ; " but on 
your life be silent. Life and secrecy are one. 
Farewell!" 

Dizzy with expectation, Leoni returned to 
the boat. The clock of San Francisco's ab- 
bey struck; he had been away but one hour. 
Pallid and abstracted, there was something in 
his look that effectually silenced the boatmen; 
nay, they remained in gloomy stillness after 
he had left them. 

" He has met with a refusal," at length 
said Stefano. 

" Rather say, that there is evil in yon 
dreary palazzo and that pale girl, and that 
their influence is on him. The lady Medora 



176 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



is kind and generous, but there is a curse fol- 
lows her ; and when did ever gift of hers turn 
to good?" 

" The notary Signor Grazie awaits your 
pleasure," said a domestic, on Leoni's en- 
trance to his palace. 

The notary's business was soon told. The 
Marchese Ravenna, a distant relative of the 
young count, had made him his heir; and 
boundless was the wealth the aged miser left 
behind him. That evening saw Leoni a wel- 
come guest at his uncle's ; and but a few 
weeks fled past, ere orange flowers bound the 
bridal tresses of his gentle cousin. The same 
day died Count Manfredi ; and, as if her life 
were one with his, Donna Medora breathed 
her last at the very moment of her father's 
death. 

" One, two, three ; so late, so very late," 
exclaimed the Countess di Montefiore, " and 
Leoni still from home ; there was a time when 
I dreamed not of keeping these solitary vigils." 

Wearily Lolah arose from the velvet otto- 
man, and again the hour was struck by one of 
their own clocks, a few minutes later than the 
abbey; and it was succeeded (for the time- 
piece was a rare device of a skilful artist) by 
a sweet and lively air — one of those Neapoli- 
tan barcarolles which, like the glad music of 
Memnon's lyre, seemed inspired by the morn- 
ing sunshine. 

"Mockery," sighed the youthful watcher, 
' for the flight of time to be told in music !" 

She began to pace the room, that common 
esource of extreme lassitude, when sleep, to 
.vhich the will consents not, hangs heavy on 
the eyelids. Truly, night was made for sleep; 
since to its wakeful hours belongs an oppres- 
sion unknown to the very dreariest hours of 
day. The stillness is so deep, the solitude so 
unbroken, the fever brought on by want of 
rest so weakens the nerves, that the imagi- 
nation exercises despotic and unwholesome 
power, till, if the heart have a fear or a sor- 
row, up it arises in all the force and terror of 
gigantic exaggeration. 

The countess had long since dismissed her 
attendants ; yet the pearls still braided her 
hair, which hung nearly to her feet, in two 
large plaits ; and a white silk robe, carelessly 
fastened at the waist, shrouding her whole 
figure in its loose folds, gave her something 
of that ghostlike appearance with which our 
fancy invests the habitants of another world. 
And truly, with her pale cheek and melan- 
choly eyes, she looked like a spirit wandering 
mournfully around the scene of former plea- 
sures. Yet what luxury was there not gather- 
ed in that gorgeous room'? The purple silk 
curtains excluded the night-dews, while they 
allowed the air to enter freighted with odours 
from the orange trees on the terrace below. 
The nuns of the Convent of St. Valerie, so 
celebrated for their skill in embroidery, had 
exerted their finest art in transferring all the 
flowers of spring to the white velvet ottomans : 
you might have asked, which was real — the 
rose on the cushion, or that which hung from 



the crystal vase 1 The jewels lavished on the 
toys scattered round, had been held a noble 
dower by the fairest maiden in Sicily. On 
the walls were pictures, each one a world of 
thought and of beauty. The Grecian land- 
scapes of Gaspar Poussin, who delighted in 
the graceful nymph, and the marble fane 
which recalled a mythology all poetry, as if 
in his dreams he had dwelt in Thessaly. The 
rugged scenes w T hich Salvator Rosa loved to 
delineate — the forest, dark with impenetrable 
depths ; the bare and jagged rock, rough as if 
nature had forgotten it ; the aged pine riven 
by the lightning, and beside it some bandit, 
desolate and stricken as the tree by which he 
stood, but with a cruel defiance in his looks, 
as though he longed to resent all the inju- 
ries he had received from a few. Near at 
hand hung one of the glad earths and sunny 
skies in which the more buoyant spirit of 
Claude Lorraine revelled, as if its native ele- 
ment w r ere sunshine. There were portraits, 
too, the noble and the beautiful of her race ; 
faces which told a whole history — and yet 
Lolah marked them not. 

But one twelvemonth had she been a bride, 
and her husband's presence was unfamiliar to 
his home. Day after day did some unkind 
friend — for when do friends not delight in the 
sorrow of the prosperous ] — come to her with 
tales how the count's wealth was lavished on 
others less lovely than herself. And even that 
very evening had her father been with her, 
telling her that no wealth could hold out 
against Leoni's reckless prodigality — against 
his mad passion for gaming. In pity to the 
gentle creature, who could only lean on his 
bosom and weep, he might not tell her that 
the husband of her love was an object of 
universal suspicion, and that sorcery and 
the once stainless name of Montefiore were 
coupled together. He left her w T ith those 
words of fondness which are never, and those 
words of comfort which ever are, said in 
vain. W 7 retched she had long been, but not 
till to-night had she owned the truth even to 
herself — owned that all her dreams of hap- 
piness, all the fairy creations of her fancy, 
had melted away, like the gardens and palaces 
she had seen painted on the air in the bay of 
Naples. 

Weak, selfish, and vain, Leoni's was the 
very nature which wealth corrupts; he looked 
upon it but as the source of self-gratification. 
He forgot that the power with which the rich 
man is endued, is a sacred duty, whose neg- 
lect brings its own punishment ; and that he 
who seeks pleasure with reference to himself, 
not others, will ever find that pleasure is only 
another name for discontent. At first Lolah 
was the idol of his heart — she became his 
bride — and a few happy w T eeks were passed 
in retirement and bliss ; but Leoni soon looked 
beyond the small circle of the heart. They 
went to Palermo, and there he took delight in 
magnificence ; his vanity exulted in glittering 
display, it was gratified by envy and wonder. 
Fete succeeded fete, till he himself grew wea- 
ry of his prodigal hospitality : he craved for 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



177 



variety; and Lolah's timid and gentle temper 
was ill fitted to be the check he needed. Gam- 
bling 1 soon became a habit; his enormous 
losses were an excitement; he knew he could 
repair them with a wish — he cared not, there- 
fore, for the money he lost; but he desired to 
conquer fortune, and held success to be the 
triumph of skill. In the early part of his 
career, that evil and grudging feeling with 
which people regard great and sudden wealth, 
exhausted itself in prophecies of the certain 
ruin to which the young spendthrift count was 
hastening; and when those prophecies were 
not fulfilled, their utterers were disappointed; 
they viewed it as a sin that he had proved 
their omens untrue. In sad truth, half our 
forebodings of our neighbours are but our own 
wishes, which we are ashamed to utter in any 
ether form. 

Gradually, the crowds at the Montefiore pa- 
lace grew less noble ; those whose conse- 
quence was diminished by its splendour, were 
the first to turn away; their example was fol- 
lowed by those who had nothing to gain ; then 
went those who are ever Jed by example ; — 
till the palace only gathered the dissipated 
and the dishonoured; the needy, who made 
want their plea, for even they needed an ex- 
cuse ; and the gamester, who was reckless 
whither he went, so that he indulged his pas- 
sion. Old friends one after another became 
cold, and new friends were insolent and fami- 
liar. All this cut deep, and Leoni plunged 
still more madly into every possible excess; 
and when all other aids to forgetfulness failed, 
the red wine-cup was drained for oblivion. 

Pale and sad the young countess passed the 
weary hours in her splendid solitude ; she felt 
the loss of friends less than Leoni, for had she 
not lost her husband 1 That evening had, 
however, been spent from home ; it was the 
time of the carnival — she had been to a 
masque as an Indian maiden ; and now sat up 
for Leoni's return, half in girlish vanity, half 
because she could not bear the day to close 
without seeing him: she knew that he would 
let himself in by a private portal, which he 
had had expressly made, and that he must 
cross that chamber on his way to his own. 
Chilly and fatigued, she again drew the rich 
flower-wrought cashmere around her; for a 
moment she sat, her cheek resting on her 
hand ; at length she leaned back on the otto- 
man, and sunk into disturbed and half-con- 
scious slumber. She was roused by a noise — 
and starting up to meet Leoni, saw a stranger 
in the act of putting aside the curtains of the 
window through which he was entering. Ex- 
cess of terror made her speechless for a mo- 
ment; when the man, who was in the garb of 
a boatman, said, 

" For the love of the saints, be calm, lady! 1 
would lay down my life in your service ; just 
hear me." 

Lolah now recognised Stefano, who had be- 
fore their marriage brought her many a note 
and flower from Leoni. 

"Is the count within]" asked he anxiouslv. 
Vol. II— 23 



"I expect him every instant; but tell me 
your business at this strange hour." 

Stefano hesitated. 

" Perhaps it were best I should, and yet — 
do you know' where I could find his excel- 
lency ?" 

Lolah shook her head mournfully. 

"Lady, I must then tell you all;" and he 
looked aside, and spoke hastily, as if unwill- 
ing to watch the misery his words must cause. 
" Lady, to-morrow this palace will be seized 
by the officers of the Inquisition, the count — 
now St. Rosalie punish his enemies ! — is ac- 
cused of sorcery — to-morrow he will be ar- 
rested. My brother is one of their servants ; 
but the count is our old patron — he gave me 
a hint — I rowed hither — by means of a fish- 
ing-hook I fastened a rope to the balcony, and 
sprung up : I know every room of the palace, 
and thought to take my chance of meeting the 
Count Leoni ; my boat lies below — a ship will 
sail from the bay at the break of day — they 
need sail fast, for they have better wine 
aboard than they would wish to have known 
in Palermo." 

" Holy Virgin ! if my husband should not 
return !" exclaimed Lolah, wringing her hands 
in agony. Stefano had not a word of comfort 
for such an emergency. Suddenly the coun- 
tess rose from her seat : " I will trust in the 
blessed saints for his return : what is the latest 
period that we can escape"?" 

" It will not be light this half hour, and I 
will answer for his safe pilotage while dark ; 
but if the day once break, the fishermen will 
be abroad, and there will not be a chance of 
escape." 

Lolah sank on her knees, and remained for 
a few moments with her face hidden between 
her hands in earnest prayer. Rising from the 
ground, she hastily addressed Stefano. 

" Will you remain here and wait as long as 
you dare for the count's arrival ? I will re- 
turn in a few minutes ; I only go to make some 
brief preparation for our flight." 

" Your flight ?" ejaculated the boatman, 
" you are in no danger." 

" It matters not," answered she passion- 
ately ; " I will not leave my husband's side." 

Ten minutes had scarcely elapsed, when 
she reappeared in a plain, dark, travelling dress, 
and dragging with her a large horseman's 
cloak. 

"This will conceal him, as he must stay 
for no change of apparel. But can it be so 
long ? why, it is a quarter of an hour since 
you told me we had but half a one ?" and 
the gay and fairy chime of the timepiece told 
four o'clock. 

" It is very dark still," said she, looking 
from the window. 

" Yes, lady, it is very dark, the moon set 
an hour ago; but do not you lean out, the 
night-dew is falling heavily." 

Again Lolah turned to the timepiece, the 
hand marked that five minutes more had passed 
away ; she looked to Stefano, but he only 
shook his head and muttered some indistinct 



178 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



sound. A little rosary of coral and of the 
many-coloured lavas of Vesuvius hung- at her 
waist — she prized it, for it was her dead mo- 
ther's gift to her in her earliest childhood, and 
it was linked with the hope and affection of 
other years: her hand trembled so that she 
could not count the beads, but she repeated 
the prayers, at first audibly, and then the 
words died away in faint murmurs ; at length 
she herself knew not what she was uttering. 
Her cheek, which had been pale as the fune- 
real marble, burned with crimson, her lips 
were white and apart — the fever of her mind 
had communicated itself to her frame. With 
an unsteady step she again approached the 
balcony — " Tell me," said she,' faintly, " is 
there a gray streak amid those clouds ? I can- 
not see." 

" Lady, it is still dark ; hist !" at this mo- 
ment, a distant step was heard in the corridor ; 
nothing but hearing, made intense by anxiety, 
could have caught it. 

" Mother of God ! I thank thee, it is Leoni !" 

She sprang forward ; but her head grew 
dizzy, and she leant for a moment against the 
table for support. Leoni entered the room, 
haggard with his excited vigil, his cloak dis- 
ordered, his rich vest left open at the throat, 
as if in the agitation of the gaming-table he 
had loosened it to give himself air ; a contrac- 
tion, seemingly habitual, darkened his fore- 
head ; he was young still, but the expression 
and colours of youth were gone. He advanced 
moodily and abstractedly, when his eye was 
caught by the appearance of Stefano, who had 
lost not a moment in fastening the coils of the 
rope to the balcony. 

" Robber !" shouted he ; but the hand which 
sought his sword, was arrested by Lolah's 
light touch on his arm. 

" Be still, for your sweet life's sake," said 
she, in an earnest whisper, that fixed his atten- 
tion at once ; " yonder faithful creature has 
risked his for yours ; we must fly, or to-mor- 
row dawns for you in the dungeons of the In- 
quisition; all is ready for flight, only come." 

Leoni turned still paler ; then rallying with 
the high courage of his race, exclaimed, 
"Who dares accuse me? and what is my 
crime ?" 

"That matters not," said Stefano; "my 
bi other gave me the hint ; you fly to-night, or 
are a prisoner in the morning. In the name 
of the good St. Rosalie, don't stand talking; 
you have lost time enough already ; we have 
settled every thing while waiting for you ; — ■ 
as if any good Christian ever kept such 
hours !" but these last words were muttered 
in an under-tone. 

" Come, my husband, there will be oppor- 
tunity enough for explanation ; fling this cloak 
round you, and follow me," said the coun- 
tess, stepping onwards. 

"Never, Lolah," rejoined Montefiore, star- 
tled by the danger, which a conscious feeling 
in his own heart foreboded was true ; " never 
shall you be exposed to the hardship and dan- 
ger of such a flight, for me, so worthless, so 



neglectful !" But she was already at the foot 
of the ladder. 

" Come, Signor ; ten minutes more, and we 
are lost!" 

Leoni followed, though almost unconscious- 
ly ; and in an instant more, Stefano was steer- 
ing his boat into the bay. 

" Lolah, why are you here ?" burst from 
him in the bitter accents of self-reproach, as 
he felt her head sink on his shoulder. 

" Nay, my Xeoni," said the low sweet 
voice on which he once hung with such pas- 
sionate love, " where should I be but where 
rests all my earthly happiness ? with my head 
on your heart, Leoni, love mine, I am very, 
very happy !" 

Gently his arm enfolded the confiding and 
childlike form that rested upon him, and all 
the memory of their early tenderness gushed 
into his thoughts ; while she, with a woman's 
engrossing devotedness, forgot every thing 
but that her husband was once more her own. 

" You must just pass for two runaways," 
said Stefano, " who have bribed me to row 
you beyond a powerful noble's reach, and who 
mean to stay from Palermo, til], for the daugh 
ter's sake, the lover is forgiven." 

" Whither are we going ?" asked Monte- 
fiore. 

" On board yonder vessel, which bears a 
smuggling cargo ; and pray you, at the port- 
where she stops, lose no time in embarking 
for another. Do you remember the Marchese 
di Gonzarga ?" 

" Ay, the stripling ! the sweeping away of 
whose ducats is the only instance of luck that 
ever awaited me at that accursed rouge-et-noir 
table." 

" I doubt you owe something of your pre- 
sent plight to him ; he is nephew to the Grand 
Inquisitor." 

" And. my husband is then the victim of his 
vile revenge !" cried the countess, in a tone 
of delight. 

Stefano made no answer : the next moment 
they were close to the ship, and he, fastening 
the boat to its side by a rope, sprung on board, 
to be spokesman for the party. Lolah trem- 
bled as the fragile bark rocked to and fro be- 
neath the dark stern of the vessel, from which 
hung a lantern, whose dim light showed what 
she deemed their perilous position. Leoni. 
might have felt the beating of the heart pil- 
lowed on his own; but he had himself been 
so long the sole object of his thoughts, that 
his wife's fear, not being shared by himself, 
never entered his mind. 

"How provoking it is that I should have 
lost my last rouleau ! I have not -a ducat ; 
and you hurried me so, that I had no time td 
bring away any thing !" exclaimed he, pee- 
vishly. " What the devil terms shall we 
come to with these rascals, without money ?" 

" I have here three rouleaux," said the 
countess; "I should have brought away 
more gold, but for its weight — I therefore pre- 
ferred my diamonds, as to their sale we must 
look for our future support." 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



179 



A smile passed over Montefiore's face ; 
dearly did Lolah love his smile ; but now 
rather, a thousand times rather would she 
have met his darkest frown. 

" All is settled ; you are to give the captain 
fifty crowns on arriving in port; for the 
sake of his own pretty Agata, he said he 
would not be hard upon two young lovers : — 
I thought," added Stefano, in a whisper, " I 
might so promise, as I knew my lady had 
brought jewels away with her." 

" Give me the rouleaux," said the count, 
" and do you take them, Stefano ; and when I 
return I will increase them a hundredfold." 

" Keep your money, good your excellency; 
what I have done was in honour and love for 
your noble house. Keep your gold ; it would 
little benefit me, I trow !" 

Leoni rose in anger, and began hastily to 
ascend the side of the ship. Stefano helped : 
the countess, who, as with his aid she climbed 
the knotted ropes, whispered, 

" Take the gold, and lay it out in masses 
at the shrine of St. Rosalie, and this ring — 
my father gave it me ; he will thankfully re- 
deem it, and bless you, as his child does 
now." 

" Come, come, Stefano, here's what will 
furnish you with many a merry night;" and 
Montefiore again pressed the money into Ste- 
fano's hand, who did not now reject it : the 
voice in which he muttered his good wishes 
was inaudible; and as he sprung into his 
boat, the tears of a three-year-old child stood 
in the eyes of the hardy rower. The captain 
civilly showed the fugitives into a small 
cabin; and a fresh breeze filling the sails, 
bore them rapidly from Sicily. 

Next morning, all was astonishment and 
consternation in Palermo ; there was the palace 
with its splendid ornaments, its almost regal 
train of servants ; there were the gorgeous 
dresses, there were the golden caskets filled 
with jewels and perfumes ; but where were 
the count and countess ? The domestics 
searched every room in dismay ; not only 
were they gone, but not a vestige remained 
of their flight. A strange suspicion rose in 
every mind, pale and affrighted they crowded 
together, and then surmise found speech. 
"What if the demon, for whose wealth their 
lord had bartered his immortal soul — what if 
he had exacted, at length, his fearful tribute : 
had he carried off his victim bodily ? But 
then the countess, their gentle and pious mis- 
tress, could she be involved in such awful 
doom ? A loud knocking at the portal broke 
off their discourse ; every one hurried to the 
door — to admit the officers of the Inquisition. 
All search was fruitless, all inquiry vain. 
The palace was confiscated, and its rich furni- 
ture sold ; the Marchese di Montefiore was 
summoned to appear on a charge of sorcery ; 
he came not to answer the accusation, and 
sentence of outlawry was passed against him. 
A thousand wild rumours were afloat, which 
finally merged in one — that unearthly retribu- 
tion had been exacted tor unearthly riches. 
Yet there were two in Palermo who knew the 



truth ; the father of Lolah who died short! 3 
after, a lonely and broken-hearted man ; and 
Stefano — but he kept the secret as one of life 
and death ; and when he perished in a storm 
at sea, it was buried with him in the deep and 
fathomless waters. 

But now to return to our fugitives. At the 
first port they touched, they re-embarked, and 
finally landed at Marseilles ; a small but 
lovely cottage on the seashore received tbem, 
an olive plantation encircled the house, and 
the Provence rose looked in at the casements. 
The far plains were covered with heath and 
thyme on one side, and on the other was the 
sea, where the rich vessels of the merchants 
seemed to sail to and fro forever. Fear and 
fatigue had severely tried a frame so frail as 
that of Lolah ; and her husband's apprehen- 
sion on her account for a time recalled his 
love : — perhaps they are more inseparable than 
we are ready to admit. Leoni felt that he 
was the only link between Lolah and life — 
his care the barrier between her and death : 
at length his gentle watchfulness was reward- 
ed by the smile returning to her lip, and the 
rose to her cheek. Lolah thought she was 
very happy; in truth, from her birth, nature 
and fortune had been at variance : her deli- 
cate health unfitted her for either crowds or 
late hours — a constitutional timidity made her 
shrink from strangers — she had neither the 
talents which require, nor the spirits which 
enjoy an enlarged sphere of action : the affec- 
tionate monotony of her present life was just 
suited to her. 

Not so to her husband, who soon desired 
more activity, more variety, more excitement: 
a thousand times did he ask himself of what 
avail was his boundless wealth, if he made it 
not the minister of pleasure ? Every evening 
that he marked the sea redden beneath the 
setting sun, he vowed it should be the last. 
At length he resolved on leaving their cottage ; 
and, after travelling for a few days, they set- 
tled in a superb chateau near Lyons. Lolah 
trembled at the magnificence which again sur- 
rounded them. Once she ventured to remon- 
strate on their lavish expenditure; but Leoni 
only laughed, and said, " You will not find 
here the miserable superstition of the Sicilians ; 
and great part of my wealth was placed 
abroad. First we will dazzle these provin- 
cials, and then proceed to Paris." 

In fact, Leoni feared yet to enter that most 
caravanserai-like capital ; he wished to be 
somewhat forgotten of his countrymen, before 
he risked meeting with them. Half Lyons 
was soon collected at the chateau ; what was 
splendour to Leoni, unless it were envied and 
admired ? Perhaps the secret of his charac- 
ter was, that he was a very vain man, and yet 
had nothing in himself whereby that vanity 
was gratified ; this forced him upon external 
resources. Aga-in he delighted in bewildering 
by his magnificence, and astonishing by its 
extent. But in this enjoyment Lolah took no 
part ; in this new display of riches, she saw 
but a confirmation of the suspicions which has 
driven them from Palermo : and Leoni — tc 



180 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



whom, in spite of his selfishness, her devotion, 
her uncomplaining abandonment of home, 
friends, name, for his sake, had endeared her 
more and more, and who felt that Lolah was 
his only link with the past, the sole remem- 
brance of his early and happy youth — Leoni 
felt bitterly the barrier that doubt drew be- 
tween his wife and himself. He was morti- 
fied to think that his very power degraded him 
in her eyes ; that she confounded him with 
the alchymists and sorcerers, whom he de- 
spised as they were despised in that military 
and feudal age. A thousand times he w r as on 
the point of revealing his secret, and then 
again the memory of the secrecy so mysteri- 
ously enjoined arose within him. A visiter 
at their fetes, a passer-by on the road, who 
caught sight of the youthful couple, would 
have envied their happiness ; but whosoever 
could have looked within on the hidden depths 
of their troubled minds, would have seen fear, 
discontent, sorrow for the past, and misgiving 
for the future. 

One night there was a superb entertain- 
ment; the countess presided, pale and melan- 
choly ; the count, weary of himself, and there- 
fore of his guests, secretly compared them 
with the brilliant groups that had assembled 
in his palazzo at Palermo, and thought how 
little his provincial set were worthy of the 
cost and taste bestowed upon them. In reality, 
display had lost its novelty, and consequently 
its charm in his eyes. The evening had not 
half passed away, when Lolah was astonished 
by his coming up to her and whispering, 
" For Heaven's sake, find some excuse for 
dismissing these people! Illness will do; 
for I am sure you look pale enough." 

She might have re-echoed her husband's 
words, for he himself looked wild and hag- 
gard. Still, it was near midnight when their 
guests dispersed ; and Leoni — on returning 
from conducting la Presidente de Lanville, 
always the latest of the late, to her huge 
family coach — silently approached one of the 
windows, and stepping out upon the terrace, 
stood as if absorbed in the lovely view — and 
lovely indeed it was. Below, w r as a smooth 
turf, which sloped down to a lake, whose 
surface reflected the moonshine broken and 
tremulous ; the moon herself was rising on 
the other side of the chateau, and so was in- 
visible ; but her light lay silvery on the grass, 
and lent a softness, sweeter even than colour, 
to many-shaped beds, which were filled with 
flowers. In the middle of the garden was a 
fountain ; to a certain height the water shot 
up in a bright and straight column, suddenly 
the stream divided and came down in a glit- 
tering shower to the marble basin below, and 
the falling of this fountain was the only sound 
that broke the perfect stillness. ' A quiet step 
approached, a soft hand was laid on his arm, 
and Lolah whispered, " Is it not beautiful ?" 
How often will the lip frame some indifferent 
question, when the heart is full of the most 
Important ! 

" Will you then regret to leave it ?" said 



Leoni, as they wandered through the maze of 
odoriferous flower-pots, " for we must go to- 
morrow." 

Lolah gazed upon his face, but words died 
on her lips. 

"That wearisome Madame de Lanville," 
continued he, " entertained me this evening 
with her delight that she should soon have a 
worthy guest to introduce to me; for that in 
a week's time the Count Gonzaga, the ne- 
phew of the great cardinal, would spend a 
few days at her house, on his way to the 
south of France ; and she was so sure I should 
find him a charming acquaintance. Plague on 
the old simpleton, and the count too ! what 
cursed chance brings him here ?" 

"My Leoni, why should you fear him !" 
murmured Lolah. 

"Fear him, nonsense! But it would be 
very disagreeable to have the old and foolish 
story which banished us from Palermo, set 
abroad in Lyons :" and, lost in gloomy medi- 
tation, he sank on a carved stone seat by the 
lake. For a moment the countess stood irre- 
solute by his side — suddenly dropping on one 
knee, she leant her beautiful head on his arm, 
and watching his countenance with those elo- 
quent eyes which had never looked upon 
him but in love, said, in a low pleading 
voice, 

" Leoni mine, my heart has never had one 
thought hidden from you, how can you bear 
to shut yours so utterly from me 1 ?" 

He made her no answer except by kissing 
her eyes, as if he might not see and resist 
their eloquent pleading: but his young wife 
had gained courage — the worst was ^over — 
and her very fondness, which made his anger 
such a thing of fear, now urged her to endea- 
vour to persuade, if she could not convince. 
She implored him to say what was the secret 
of his w T ealth ; to justify its possession, if 
possible — if not, to fling it from him : what 
lot could there be in life which she would not 
be ready to share with him ? Had his wealth 
made him happy 1 ? O, no! it had sown divi- 
sion between them; it had exiled him from 
his own land ; it was now about to force him 
to become a wanderer again. 

" I tell you, my beloved husband, this se- 
cret is to me even as death ; I kneel to the 
Madonna, and my thoughts are not with 
prayer ; in society I shrink from every eye 
with a vague but ever-present fear — a word, a 
look, sends the colour from my cheek, and 
curdles the lifeblood at my heart ; and yet I 
know not what I dread : and sleep, O, sleep 
is very terrible ! for then, Leoni, you tell me 
what it is death to hear, and I start from my 
pillow — but when I waken I disbelieve youi 
guilt: — you guilty, Leoni'? O, no! no!" and 
again her head sank, while the moonlight fell 
on her pale cheek, and eyes glistening with 
earnestness and tears. 

Weak and self-indulgent, accustomed to 
yield in all things to the impulse of the mo- 
ment, Leoni was a very unfit person to be 
intrusted with a mystery and a secret: he 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



181 



sufficed not to himself; he felt weary of his 
unshared thoughts ; and at this moment he 
was irresolute — he would even have wished 
to throw all the responsibility of decision 
on the fragile and gentle creature by his 
side. » 

In the deep stillness of that moonlit mid- 
night he told her all; his voice died in si- 
lence, which was interrupted by a faint shriek 
from his wife ; she pointed to the lake, but 
strong terror made her speechless — a faint sil- 
very outline of a form was seen in the distant 
air; it came nearer, and the shadow fell dark 
upon the wave ; a stately and lovely female 
slowly advanced across the water, which 
yielded not beneath her shining feet. The 
flashing of her radiant eyes fell upon the cul- 
prit — she raised her hand, whereon shone the 
starry talisman as it shone when she bade the 
spirits give him wealth unbounded and at a 
wish. She beckoned Leoni. A power was 
on him which forced him to obey — he sprang 
towards the lake — he sank below the surface 
— twice he emerged from the bright waves, 
again they closed over his head, and the moon 
shone upon one unbroken line of light. The 
strange and beautiful being gazed on the spot 
with a look of horror; she wrung her hands 
as if in the helplessness of despair — a low cry 
came upon the wind, and its mysterious ut- 
terer had disappeared. An influence stronger 
than even fear or love had riveted Lolah like" 
a statue to the place; but as that figure melted 
into air, a terrible life returned to her — she 
rushed towards the lake, and with one wild 
shriek plunged into its depths. 

Next morning, the birds were singing 
among the boughs, the bees were gathering 
their early honey amid the flowers, the sun 
had turned the lake into a sheet of gold — 
when the servants were drawn to the spot by 
a light-blue scarf floating on the waters; they 
knew it was what their mistress had worn the 
night before. The silver flowers embroidered 
on it, glittering in the sunshine, first caught the 
eye ; assistance was procured, and the bodies 
were soon found. The wreath of white lilies 
yet bound the raven tresses of Lolah, some of 
whose lengths had become entangled round 
the neck of her husband. They parted them 
not, but carried them to the chateau. Ere 
noon, every inhabitant of Lyons had mourned 
over their youthful, but marblelike beauty. 
None knew their history; none ever solved 
the mystery of their fate — but there were 
many affectionate hearts that grew sorrowful 
for their sake — and kind hands buried them 
together in the same grave. 

One morning a marble urn was found upon 
their tomb, though none could tell who placed 
it there. On it was exquisitely carved a veiled 
female figure, with hands clasped as if in 
prayer, and head bowed down as if weeping; 
she was kneeling at the foot of the Cross : 
a scroll below was graven with one single 
w r ord — 



Submission! 



LEONORA. 

She was the lo%'eliesr. lady of our line, 
But of a cold proud beauty ; .... 
Yet gentle blushes had been on that cheek, 
And tenderness within those dark blue eyes. 
Sometimes, in twilight and in solitude, 
There was a mournful song she used to sing- 
But only then. 

Farewell! and when the charm of change 
Has faded, as all else will fade; 

When Joy, a wearied bird, begins 

To droop the wing, to seek the shade; — 

When thine own heart at length has felt 
What thou hast made another feel — 

The hope that sickens to despair, 

The wound that time may sear, not heal ; 

When thou shalt pine for some fond heart 
To beat in answering thine again; — 

Then, false one! think once more on me. 
And sig-h to know it is in vain. 



THE MASK. 

Unveil'd, unmask'd ! not so, not so ' 

Ah ! thine are closer worn 
Than those which, in light mockery, 

One evening thou hast borne. 
The mask and veil which thou dost wear 

Are of thyself a part ; 
No mask can ever hide thy face 

As that conceals thy heart. 
Thy smiles, they sparkle o'er thy brow, 

Like sunbeams to and fro ; 
But no one in their light can read 

The depths that lurk below. 
The tears, how beautiful they shine 

Within thy large dark eyes! 
But who can tell what is the cause 

From which those tears arise 1 
E'en as thy curls are train'd to fall 

Around thy angel face, 
So every look thy features wear 

Is tutor'd in its grace. 
No eager impulses e'er fling 

Their warmth upon thy cheek; 
No varying hues, from red to pale, 

Thy inward feelings speak. 
Thine atmosphere is festival; 

Thy hand is on the lute; 
And lightest in the midnight dance 

We see thy fairy foot. 
The many deem this happiness — 

I see it is a task ; 
Young without youth, gay without mirth 

Thine is the veil and mask. 
I mark thy constant restlessness, 

Thy eagerness for change ; 
I know it is the wretched one 

Who thus desires to range. 
And thou dost flee from solitude 

As if a fiend were there, 
And communing with thine own thoughts 

Were more than thou couldst bear. 



Vol. II. 



182 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Slight are the signs by which I put 

Thy mask and veil aside, 
And look upon thy wounded love, 

And on thy wounded pride. 
'Tis not for one, proud, fair, like thee, 

To perish or to pine; 
A higher lot is cast for thee — 

A higher will is thine ! 
! misery to keep the heart 

Lone, like some sacred fane, 
And when it owns its deity, 

Find it was own'd in vain ! 
Yet, far worse misery to know 

Our faith no veiled thing : 
Methinks that we can bear the pain, 

If we can hide the sting. 
But, out upon consoling friends! 

The anguish one may brook 
But not officious sympathy — 

The soothing word or look. 



Pity from all the common nerd, 
Whom most we must Hespise- 
Perish the sigh upon the lips, 



The tear within th( 



eyes 



Alas ! what depths of wretchedness 

The human soul can know ! 
How bitterly the waters taste, 

Which seem in light to flow ' 
For love and hope, those leaves wnich gisre 

Their sweetness to the wave, 
Flung with no blessing, lose their charm. 

And find the stream their grave ! 
Ah! even as at coming night 

The careful flowers close — 
So should our heart call in its hopes, 

And on itself repose. 
But let it not be lull'd by dreams, 

That weep whene'er they wake — 
For every heart that lives by love, 

A thousand beat and break ! 



THE TALISMAN. 



" The other side — the 7 other side is where 
foot passengers pay." 

Charles mechanically obeyed the direction. 

" One penny, sir!" 

He was roused at once from his abstraction ; 
fcr it was a question to himself whether he 
had even that in his pocket. Sixpence was, 
however, discovered ; he paid the toll, and 
passed on. But the impetus of his resolution 
was gone : out on the certainty of human re- 
solve ! Charles had meditated weeks on the 
act he was about to commit; his reasonings 
had brought conviction both of the necessity 
and of the right of suicide ; he stood ruined in 
fortune, desperate, and, as he believed, deter- 
mined ; yet the fact of having had to pay a 
penny on his road to destruction made him 
pause. He stayed to recover the excitement 
of his imagination in one of the recesses of the 
bridge; involuntarily, as he leaned over the 
balustrade, his eye became attracted by sur- 
rounding objects: he was startled to perceive 
how light it was. 

" Pleasant," thought he, " when the fear- 
ful plunge has been taken, and the last strug- 
gle is over, to find myself roused from that 
stupor which had been even as death, by bot- 
tles of hot water at your feet, a stomach-pump 
in your mouth, an old woman rubbing you 
down with flannel, and a respectable member 
of the Humane Society watching the first mo- 
ment of returning consciousness, in order to 
point out the horror of your crime ! No, no ; 
not now, with witnesses and succour at hand ; 
but in the dark night, when the stars alone 
behold what their shining records may long 
since have prophesied, then shall the waters, 
gloomy as the life they close, give me that 
repose — death." 

Content with this determination, he gladly 
allowed his attention to fix on the scene be- 
fore him. Nowhere are the many contrasts 



in the appearance of our metropolis mc e 
strikingly assembled than in the view from 
Waterloo Bridge. As yet the sunshine, 
which produces the deep shadows deeper for 
its own brightness, was only prophesied by 
the clear gray light that brought out every ob- 
ject in the same dim, but distinct atmosphere. 
The large pale lamps were not yet extinguish- 
ed; but they gave no light, save to the dark 
arches of Somerset House, whose depths they 
seemed vainly striving to penetrate. 

Somerset House conveys the idea of a Ve- 
netian palace ; its Corinthian pillars, its walls 
rising from the waters, its deep arches, fitting 
harbours for the black gondola, the lion sculp- 
tured in the carved arms — all realizes the pic- 
ture which the mind has of those marble homes 
where the Foscarini and the Donati dwelt, in 
those days when Venice was at her height 
of mystery and magnificence. The other side 
is, on the contrary, just the image of a Dutch 
town ; the masses of floating planks, the low 
tile-covered buildings, the crowded ware- 
houses- — mean, dingy, but full of wealth and 
industry — are the exact semblance of the 
towns which, like those of the haughty bride 
of the Adriatic, rose from the very bosom of 
the deep — Amsterdam and Venice. The his- 
tory of the Italians is picturesque and chival- 
ric; but that of the Dutch has always seemed 
to me the beau-ideal of honourable industry, 
rational exertion, generally enjoyed liberty, 
and all strong in more than one brave defence. 
He does not deserve to read history, who does 
not e:ijoy the gallant manner in which they 
beat back Louis XIV. 

"The two banks of the river imbody the 
English nation," thought Charles; " there is 
its magnificence aifd its poetry, it's terraces, 
its pillars, and its carved ernblazonings; and 
on the other is its trade, its industry, its ware 
houses, and their many signs of skill and toil 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



183 



Ah! the sun is rising over them, as if in en- 
couragement : I here take the last lesson of 
my destiny. I have chosen the wrong side 
of the river — forced upon exertion, what had 
I to do with the poetry of life ?" 

The river hecame at every instant more 
beautiful ; long lines of crimson light trem- 
bled in the stream; fifty pointed spires glit- 
tered in the bright air, each marking one of 
those sacred fanes where the dead find a hal- 
lowed rest, and the living a hallowed hope. 
In the midst arose the giant dome of St. Paul's 
— a mighty shrine, fit for the thanksgiving 
of a mighty people. As yet, the many houses 
around lay in unbroken repose ; the gardens 
of the Temple looked green and quiet, as if 
far away in some lonely valley ; and the few 
solitary trees scattered among the houses 
seemed to drink the fresh morning air and 
rejoice. 

" How strong is the love of the country in 
all indwellers of towns!" exclaimed Charles. 
" How many creepers, shutting out the dark 
wail, can I see from this spot ! how many 
pots of bright-coloured and sweet-scented 
plants are carefully nursed in windows, 
which, but for them, would be dreary indeed ! 
And yet even here is that wretched inequality 
in which fate delights alike in the animate 
and inanimate world. What have those mi- 
serable trees and shrubs done, that they 
should thus be surrounded by an unnatural 
world of brick — the air, which is their life, 
close and poisoned, and the very rain, which 
should refresh them, but washing down the 
soot and dust from the roofs above; and all 
this, when so many of their race flourish in 
the glad and open fields, their free branches 
spreading to the morning dews and the sum- 
mer showers, while the earliest growth of 
violets spring beneath their shade 1 ?" 

He turned discontentedly to the other side 
of the bridge. 

"Beautiful!" was his involuntary ejacu- 
lation. 

The waves were freighted as if with Tyrian 
purple, so rich was the sky which they mir- 
rored ; the graceful arches of Westminster 
Bridge stretched lightly across, and, shining 
like alabaster, rose the carved walls of the 
fine old abbey, where sleep the noblest of 
England's dead. Honour to the glorious 
past! — how it honoured us! Once we were 
the future, and how much was done for our 
sake ! — The contrast between above and be- 
ow the bridge is very striking. Below, all 
seems for use, except Somerset House — and 
even that, when we think, is but a superb 
office — and the temple gardens : all is crowd- 
ed, dingy, and commercial. Above, wealth 
has arrived at luxury; and the grounds be- 
hind Whitehall, the large and ornamental 
houses, have all the outward signs of rank 
and riches. 

Charles turned sullenly from them, and 
watched the boats now floating with the tide. 
As yet few were in motion ; the huge barges 
rested by the banks, but two or three colliers 
came on with their lame black sails, and 



darkened the glistening river as they passed. 
At this moment, the sweet chimes of St. 
Bride struck five, and the sound was imme- 
diately repeated by the many clocks on every 
side : for an instant the air was filled with 
music. 

" Curious it is," murmured our hero, " that 
every hour of our day is repeated from myriad 
chimes; and yet how rarely do we attend to 
the clock striking ! Alas ! how emblematic is 
this of the way in which we neglect the many 
signs of time ! How terrible, when we think 
of what time may achieve, is the manner in 
which we waste it ! At the end of every 
man's life, at least three-quarters of the mighty 
element of which that life w r as composed will 
be found void — lost — nay, utterly forgotten! 
And yet that time, laboured and husbanded, 
might have built palaces, gathered wealth, 
and, still greater, made an imperishable name." 

He was awakened from a long but common 
meditation on what he might have done, and 
what he had not done, by a grumbling voice. 

" How dirty the Thames is ! they say the 
gas kills every fish in the river; yet I sup- 
pose it is thought good enough for Christians. 
Well, well, every thing changes for the worse ; 
I am sure the water was clear enough in my 
young days. But we shall never get on, if 
we stay chatterino- here : do make haste, 
child!" 

So saying, an old woman hurried on, bend- 
ing beneath a heavy basket; and at her side 
ran one of those wan, under-sized children, 
ragged, dirty, and meagre, among the most 
sorrowful spectacles of sorrowful humanity. 
Poverty is a terrible thing when it bows to 
the very ground the pride of the strong man — 
a terrible thing when it leaves old age desti- 
tute : still, the strongman may yet redeem 
his fortunes, and that old age may have had 
enjoyment while it was capable of enjoying. 
But a child, with the step slow from weak- 
ness, which from its age should be so buoyant ; 
a cheek thin and white from hunger, at a pe- 
riod which especially cares for food (for all 
children are greedy ;) a form shrivelled with 
cold ; a growth stopped by work too laborious 
for such tender years; a spirit broken by toil, 
want, and harshness ; — is not such a child 
poverty's most miserable spectacle ] It is, 
however, a common one. 

Off they went, the old woman and her 
grandson; she scolding the poor boy because 
the Thames was muddy ; and he shrinking 
fearful^, lest anger might find blows more 
availing than words. Yet that aged creature's 
irritation was a sort of kindness : it was for 
his sake that she laboured out her last strength ; 
and while the tones were shrill and cross, she 
was thinking how r she could best procure food 
for the sickly child. 

Charles's meditations were effectually dis- 
turbed ; he left his seat in the recess, and hur 
ried indignantly forward. 

" And Suffering like this !" thought he- - 
" suffering that crushes alike youth and age., 
from which the innocence of childhood is not 
protected, and against which the ^XDeuenco 



194 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



of age cannot guard ! — exists in our mighty, 
our magnificent city, whose very will is do- 
minion on the earth. Look how she ministers 
to her pleasures !" 

Just then his eye fell upon the two enormous 
buildings, our national theatres. 

" Look at those vast edifices, so vast where 
space is such an object ! There, while weep- 
ing for sorrows which are not, laughing at the 
lighft jest or the ludicrous misadventure, how 
little is remembered of the want which makes 
fear the only bond that binds the living to 
life!'; 

This current of reproach was, how x ever, in- 
terrupted by the recollection, that, after all, 
this very relaxation gave support to many ; and 
that, in the case of the majority who enjoyed 
it, it had been fairly earned by toil, which, 
like the bow, needed to be unbent. His ima- 
gination, too, warmed with the thought of 
what glorious triumphs those roofs had wit- 
nessed—the passionate creation of the poet, 
the living personification of the actor : he re- 
membered the eloquent words that stir the 
noblest fountains of our being, and decided on 
the general right to enjoy such generous plea- 
sure. 

" Good and evil ! good and evil !" thought 
he ; "ye are mingled, inextricably in the web 
of our beinor; and who may unthread the 
darker yarn'?" 

He was here jostled at once from his revery 
and his side of the pavement. He had wan- 
dered through many streets, and now found 
himself under one of the piazzas of Covent 
Garden: it was no place for an idle person ; 
all were hurrying to and fro ; all was employ- 
ment and business. On he went into the 
market. How fresh, how sweet every thing, 
and how industrious everybody looked ! 
There were the stalls of the vegetables, with 
their pure and wholesome smell of the freshly 
turned-up earth ; others with fruit — the delicate 
crimson strawberries, each spotted with gold ; 
the cherries, with their rich varieties of hues — 
the deep ruby, almost black — or coral, as if 
the moisture of the wave yet lingered upon it 
— and amber, with one trickling stain of red, 
so fancifully denominated the " bleeding 
heart." Further on was a stall of foreign 
fruits : the pale, cool lem<?n ; the red gold of 
the orange ; the pine — with its yellow carved 
globe, and its coronal of silvery green — the 
architectural pine, so rich and so massive. 
But most beautiful of all, showing the deep 
delight the heart takes in loveliness, were the 
stands of many flowers. There they crowded 
in fragrant multitudes, each kind tied up in 
separate bunches; the yellow lupin, like '^a 
clump of shining spears ;" pinks, each with 
the dark central spot, like the purple and 
painted stain round the eye of an eastern sul- 
tana; the light branches of the small saffron 
flowers, of that deep blue so rare among- " the 
painted populace," which seem to delight in 
gayer dyes ; the sweet pea, with its wings of 
the butterfly, its colours of the rainbow ; and 
roses, in all their i nfinite variety — the white, 
ake driven snow ; the soft pink, almost as 



lovely as the maiden's blush which gives it 
its name; the parti-coloured damask, the chi- 
valric and historic rose, recalling the fierce 
combats of York and Lancaster ; anc the moss, 
so beautiful in the bud, — all lay heaped toge- 
ther, as if summer had been conquered, and 
here were gathered its spoils. 

While Charles loitered to and fro, he was 
forcibly reminded that he was in the way; 
every train of thought was broken in upon by 
some hurried passer-by ; and yet how orderly, 
how quiet, was all this bustle ! How many 
of the stalls hung out fragile glass globes, 
filled with gold and silver fish !• But they 
were in the ordinary run of business — he was 
not. A long and dreary day was yet before 
him ; how was it to be passed ? If he re- 
turned to his lodgings, he must invent some 
plausible plea for his reappearance, after 
having taken his farewell as for a long jour- 
ney. Impossible ! his spirits were too heavy 
for invention. Spend the day at a coffee- 
house ? he had now only five pence in the 
world. Call on some friend, and be expected 
to sympathize in their sorrow, or share in 
their mirth, while his own thoughts were 
numbering the hours, each of which brought 
him nearer to the grave ? No ; he would 
wander about the city, and watch those pro- 
cesses of humanity in which he had no longer 
a share. 

At that moment, a human want was upper- 
most in his mind — he was hungry. Seated 
on a little wooden stool, his boiler supported 
by a three-legged trivet, over a small pan of 
burning charcoal, on one side, and a basket 
covered with a white cloth on the other, an 
old man was selling rolls and coffee to the 
market-people. The fresh air of the morning 
had had the same effect upon Charles as on 
the peasantry. The old man never looked at 
his customer; prince or ploughman it was all 
the same to him, so that he sold his rolls and 
coffee. Charles had finished his breakfast 
before he recollected what folly it was to sus- 
tain that life which was so soon to terminate. 
A single penny remained of his sixpence ; he 
gave it to a beggar at hand, as much from 
thoughtlessness as from, charity, and yet the 
woman bade God bless him ! 

Life was now fully astir in the city ; morn- 
ing — which is so beautiful in the country, with 
its long shadows, its lucid sunshine, and its 
glittering dew — in town is the meanest part 
of the day, seemingly devoted to cleanliness 
and hunger. Carpets are being shaken from 
the windows, the steps are being washed, and 
the butcher with his tray, the baker with his 
basket, the grocer, and the milkman, hurry 
from door to door ; and day, like life, has first 
its necessaries, and then its luxuries. Charles 
wandered on among the hurrying throng, refer- 
ring them only to himself. 

" How little," thought he, " do these peo- 
ple — thus busy in the many preparations of 
existence— how little do they deem, that 
among them walks one who is with them, not 
of them ; one consecrated by death !" 

Strange that this idea carried with it some- 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



185 



tiling of exultation ! so much does the pride 
of man rejoice in aught that marks him from 
his fellows, and little does it seem to matter 
whether that mark he for good or for evil. 
There must be some deep-rooted, anti-social 
principle in every man's nature, so dearly 
does he love aught that separates him from 
his kind ; or is it but one of the many shapes 
taken by that mental kaleidoscope, vanity, the 
varying and the glittering, the desire of dis- 
tinction, sinking into that of notice ? Charles's 
was just an exciting consciousness ; and he 
paced the streets, sometimes roused into dis- 
dain of the busy and thoughtless crowd around, 
but oftener lost in gloomy dreams of that fu- 
turity whose depths he was so soon to explore. 
Suddenly the air was filled with fragrance, 
which came from a balcony where the helio- 
trope was growing in great luxuriance. He 
started at its well-known perfume ; he stood 
by the very door he had sworn never to re- 
enter — by the dwelling of the cold, the beau- 
tiful Laura Herbert. 

What an atmosphere of luxury was around 
the house! The balustrades of the balcony 
were of white, and carved, whose vacant spaces 
were filled with the rarest exotics ; an entabla- 
ture of antique figures ran below the roof. 
Could the ancient temple they first adorned 
have shrined a fairer divinity ? He saw the 
amber silk curtains wave to and fro : the mid- 
dle window was open ; in it stood a pillar of 
lapis lazuli, which supported an alabaster 
figure, Canova's Dansatrice. And there she 
dwelt, who might have given him wealth, 
love, and life; but who left him to penury, 
despair, and death. She — for whose sake he 
had abandoned all the pursuits that once made 
his hope and his happiness; who had turned 
his course of contented study into a delirious 
fever.; who was the cause that he now stood 
on the threshold of the grave — why should 
she have freedom and wealth, while he was 
consumed by passion, and weighed down by 
poverty 1 ? 

A carriage drove up to the door; well he 
knew the crimson window-blinds, which had 
so often shed their rich colour on her cheek. 
Charles rushed away ; he could not have 
borne to see that fairy foot descend the steps, 
or have met, though only for a moment, those 
bewildering eyes. But the thread of his revery 
was broken ; the image of death no longer 
filled his mind. He thought of life, its enjoy- 
ments, its desires, all from which he was cut 
off in his youth : he thought of the poor, and 
he loathed them ; of the rich, and he hated 
them. 

" Accursed destiny !" he muttered ; " so 
young, so capable of happiness, and yet with- 
out the means ! Why have I talents to which 
I can never do justice? Wh} r have I tastes I 
can never gratify? Why do I pant for that 
luxury my penury denies? Why am I refined 
in my habits? Why have I thoughts and 
feelings entirely at variance with my condi- 
tion ? Why have not my birth, my education, 
and my estate gone together, instead of being 
eo utterly opposed ? Why at this moment am 

Vol. II.— 24 



I friendless, penniless, and hopeless? Alas! 
with the delight I have lost the power of ex- 
ertion. Well, Death finishes this weary strug- 
gle. Death ! mighty, glorious, and triumphant 
Death ! if thou hadst not existed before, I 
must have invented thee as a resource." 

But in vain Charles sought to regain his 
gloomy tranquillity. He then endeavoured to 
fix his attention on outward objects ; they 
could only give food to his discontent: the 
splendid equipages hurrying past, the glitter- 
ing shops, the gay crowd now beginning to 
appear, brought with them the images of un- 
graiified wishes and painful contrasts. He 
turned into a by street, where a stall of old 
books caught his eye; mechanically he opened 
them one after another, till at last his attention 
became riveted on an almost worn-out volume 
of ancient ballads. Of itself, it opened at 
Chevy Chase — 

" The stout Earl of Northumberland 
A vow to Gorl did make, 
His pleasure hi the Scottish woods 
Three summer days to take." 

"How perfectly," thought he, "does this 
set forth the whole spirit of the age — its love 
of war and of the chase, and its superstition ! 
The feudal chieftain is not content with the 
chase unless it be in an enemy's ground, and 
actually believes in his own mind that he hal- 
lows this act of aggression by calling God to 
witness his resolve. How characteristic is 
the meeting between the two earls, and the 
interference of the squire, who protests against 
their followers standing by as mere pacific 
spectators ! 

' I would not have it told 

To Henry, our king, for shame.' 

A brief dialogue between the two combatants 
imbodies the whole spirit of chivalry : 

' Yield thee, Lord Percy, Douglas said — 
Thy ransom I will freely give, 

And thus report of thee — 
Thou art the most courageous knight 

That ever I did see. 
No, Douglas, qttoih Earl Percy then, 

Thy proffer I do scorne; 
I will not yeilde to any Scot 

That ever yet was borne.' 

Again, when Earl Douglas has received 'his 
deepe and deadlye blow,' death is nothing 
compared with his bitter consciousness that 
' Earl Percy sees me fall.' Homer, they 
say, always favoured the Grecians, as being 
his countrymen. The heroic minstrel of Chevy 
Chase is equally national ; for when the tid- 
ings of Earl Douglas' death arrived in Scot- 
land — 

' O heavy news ! King James did say ; £ 

Scotland can wimes bee, 

I have not any captain more 

Of such account as hee.' 

In London, the case is quite different : 

' Now, God be with him ! said our king, 

Sith 'twill not better bee; 
I trust I have within my realm 
Five hundred good as hee!'" 

Suddenly he flung the book down, and 
q 2 



186 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



walked hurriedly away. "What folly," he 
inwardly exclaimed, "is that hope which is 
at once the cause and the reward of poetry ! 
The author of this brief epic has done all that 
poet could do : he has given immortality to all 
that was held precious in his time; its chi- 
valric daring 1 , its true faith, its loyalty ; he has 
duly exalted the supremacy of his native land, 
•—and yet he is forgotten ! The song 1 remains, 
but the memory of the singer has passed away. 
Who pauses to think in what poverty, in what 
obscurity, in what wretchedness, the writer of 
that noble ballad may have wasted a desolate 
and a disappointed existence? Did he die 
young, poisoned by the first draught of life 
and its sorrows'? or did he drag on a weary 
old age, whose hope had long since perished ? 
Who knows ? and, alas! who cares? We 
take our pleasure, and we think not of grati- 
tude. Out upon the accursed and selfish race 
to which I belong! Even so have I laboured, 
and even so shall I be rewarded. Fool that I 
have been ! to toil hour after hour in giving 
others — what? — an hour's gratification, which 
they will take thanklessly, and even reproach- 
fully, full of their own petty cavillings and 
distastes. The peasant boy, who followed 
the coloured track of the rainbow, hoping to 
find the blue and charmed flower which springs 
where the aich touches earth, is wiser far than 
one who gives youth, genius, and time to lite- 
rature. Half the exertion, and a tithe of the 
talent, would, if directed to another pursuit, 
win for him, if not ' golden opinions,' yet gold 
in reality ; and what can make life endurable 
in this world but wealth?" 

In the next street the doors of an auction- 
room stood open, where the articles were on 
view previous to the morrow's sale ; there he 
resolved to seek amusement. As he entered 
the clock struck two. 

" It will be lonely and dark on the Thames 
by ten ; so I have just eight hours more to 
live." 

The room was filled with all that ingenuity 
could invent, or luxury wish — all that taste 
could select, or wealth purchase. The spoils 
of a palace built and furnished by the most 
magnificent of misanthropes — the collection of 
a life — were being dispersed in the caprice of 
a day. There was the alabaster vase, carved 
in snow, to which some spell had given sta- 
bility ; small, precious cups of onyx and agate, 
such as might have stood at the right hand of 
the king and queen of the fairies when they 
had bidden their court to a moonlight banquet. 
Near was a table of maple wood, veined like 
a wrist, but smooth and coloured as pale yel- 
io\n satin, On it lay an Indian rosary of 
strung pearls ; the fingers of the lovely Brah- 
min, to whom it had once belonged, had left 
their fragrance on the string. There was a 
silver salver, over whose shining surface Cel- 
lini's delicate graver had scattered spring : 
spiritual indeed were the small and graceful 
figures, whose minute outlines were yet per- 
fect in their proportions ; while the wreath of 
flowers that encircled them seemed too fine to 



be the work of mortal hand On the other 
side was placed a round table f Sevre china*, 
a large medallion, representing the head of an 
angel— and an angel it surely was, if there be 
aught angelic in beauty — so pure, so placid 
was that lovely head ! On it was set a basket 
of silver filigree, delicate as the threads of the 
morning gossamer: it must have been a skil- 
ful workman that wrought those fragile threads 
into their present intricate grace. Near it stood 
two small bronze figures of Voltaire and Rous- 
seau. There was something singularly charac- 
teristic in the manner in which these philoso- 
phers grasped their canes : he of Ferney held 
his lightly, as if a touch sould brush away 
any impediment from his path ; but he of Ge- 
neva had his grasped with might and main, 
and driven into the earth, as if prepared to 
crush all that might rouse his fierce indigna- 
tion. What a mistake rage is ! anger should 
never go beyond a sneer, if it really desires 
revenge. 

But a picture by Murillo fixed Charles's at- 
tention — one of those boys whose imbrowned 
cheek glows with health, and whose dark eyes 
are filled with happiness — one of those pic- 
tures in which the Spanish artist concentrates 
so much of life's earlier existence — calling 
back that glad and buoyant frankness, whose 
loss is experience's first lesson. Near it hung 
a landscape by Salvator Rosa; a sky, every 
cloud of which was heavy with thunder; a 
lake, the troubled mirror of a troubled hea- 
ven , bleak rocks, that seemed to reverse the 
law of nature, and say, here life comes not — 
life which, in an animal or vegetable shape, 
teems on all other parts of the globe; but to 
us clings not one blade of grass;" and black 
woods, where the wild beast had its lair, oi 
wilder man, who, casting off all social ties, 
lived but to war upon his kind. Close beside 
was a lovely valley by Claude Lorraine. 
From this Charles turned away : tvhat sym- 
pathy had he with sunshine? The genius of 
Salvator and of Byron alike asked immortality 
of pain. To the majority of mankind misery 
is a familiar thing: the dark colour and the 
mournful word find a home and an echo in 
every human heart. Beneath stood a table 
made of mosaic from Pompeii. How many 
would admire the intricate blending of its 
varied colours, without giving a thought to 
the scene of mortal destruction and desolation 
from which it came ! On it was a model in 
ivory of that most perfect specimen of Hindoc 
architecture, the stately temple which Jehan- 
ghire built as a tomb for his loved sultana; 
the mighty dome, the many minarets, the 
hundred steps, the lofty walls, were all exqui- 
sitely wrought in miniature. 

"I like," said Charles, "this monumental 
magnificence; it is a superb mockery. The 
marble is brought from a distant quarry ; hun 
dreds of slaves are employed to cut and polish 
it; and human talent taxes its invention to 
give it graceful proportion. The dome towers 
in the blue air, the noble columns rise above 
the funereal cypresses, arc und ; and for what? 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



187 



—to keep a handful of dust from being scat- 
tered by the winds, and t^ preserve a memory 
r or which no one living cares." 

A thousand splendid trifles lay glittering on 
a large table near : — flasks of crystal, redolent 
of eastern perfumes, some of which, spotted 
with gold, enclosed a whole summer of roses 
from Damietta — toys wrought in mother-of- 
pearl and amber, heaped up with the profusion 
of a mistress of some geni, who knows that 
the sylphs of the air and the gnomes of the 
mines toil to work her pleasure. Placed on 
a richly chased gold stand was a dejeuner of 
Sevre china, the cups painted with medallions 
of the beauties of Louis the Fourteenth's reign. 
Charles took up the one that bore the likeness 
of the lovely and ill-fated La Valliere. 

"And is it possible," he asked, " that a 
face like this, so sweet and so touching, could 
ever become a familiar, even a tiresome thing 
— that a cup so precious as this could ever be 
put to the common uses of the table 1 There 
is a strange similarity in the fate of the china 
and of the face wrought in its colours. Both 
guarded for a time as favourite toys, grown 
weary of, neglected, and left to the many- 
chances of destruction — till heart and cup are 
alike broken !" 

Close by stood a couch, covered with a 
spotted leopard's skin, and supported by claws 
of bronze. Charles threw himself upon it; 
how its luxurious softness mocked its mate- 
rial ! The shadowy reveries of the dim future, 
to which he again yielded himself, were broken 
by some one speaking at his side : 

" Perhaps, as you appear so much engaged 
in contemplation of our collection, you may be 
disposed to become an immediate purchaser ? 
I am authorized to treat by private contract." 

" And who are you ?" exclaimed Charles. 

" The person employed to sell this property ; 
very happy to treat with you^ sir." 

Assuredly there was nothing in the face of 
the auctioneer to induce confidence, particu- 
larly when that confidence related to the feel- 
ings. He was a spare, meager man, who 
looked as if he saved even in himself; with 
the light hair and sallow skin which distin- 
guish the Portuguese Jew especially, and the 
high nose and elevated eyebrow which mark 
the Jew all over the world : — a man who di- 
vided the human race into two classes, buyers 
and sellers ; whose atmosphere w r as trade, 
the real of whose life was gain, and the ideal, 
wealth. Yet to this incarnation of the pence- 
table did Charles resolve to unfold his cause 
of loitering. Charles was vain and imagina- 
tive ; vanity led him to be egotistical, and his 
imagination threw its grace over the confes- 
sion, half of which it "colours, if it does not 
create. He therefore stated to the auctioneer 
his desire of killing time, till he killed him- 
self. At first the man looked aghast, then 
afraid, and at last suspicious that" his visiter 
might intend to rob, nay, murder him. He 
drew back, and placed his hand upon the bell 
rope ; and having also ascertained that he was 
himself next the door, prepared to listen to the 
remainder with a keen, suspicious look, which 



said, as plainly as look couldj You need not 
think to rob me; I'm up to a thing or two." 
Truth, however, carries its own conviction; 
and the auctioneer was under the necessity of 
believing that a person was before him whc 
meditated destroying himself. Suddenly his 
features sharpened; something appeared to 
flash across his mind, or rather his .memory. 

" Y"ou are the very man !" said he, think 
ing aloud in his hurry. 

A few words will explain this ejaculation. 

Among the great riches and many curiosities 
which the gorgeous merchant had gathered, 
and now wished to disperse, was one that had 
been thus consigned to the agent : — " Sell it 
for any thing — nothing — give it away ; only, 
get rid of it." 

It was a square piece of shagreen, on which 
were inscribed some Hebrew characters. 

" Sell it!" thought the auctioneer; " why 
nobody would give him a farthing for it !" 

Still, giving it away was against his prin- 
ciples ; and principles, like facts, are stub- 
born things whsii founded on interest. One 
day, however, a Jew, with whom he had oc- 
casional dealings, threw a new light on the 
subject, by translating the inscription, which 
w r as as follows : 

" In possessing me, you possess every 
thing: but your life will be mine. Wish 
and your wishes will be accomplished ; but at 
every wish I shall diminish, as will your days 
Regulate your wishes by your life, which wiL 
be in me. Wilt thou have me'? Take me 
and the Lord God have mercy upon you 
Amen." 

The shagreen skin "was a talisman. The 
auctioneer felt exceedingly uncomfortable: 
the devil was the only individual with whom 
he desired to have no dealings. He was him- 
self a man who, since his conversion, feared 
God and honoured the king, went to church 
on a Sunday, and never bought or sold stock 
on a Friday. All his transactions with the 
superb merchant, whose glittering spoils he 
was to bring to the hammer, had been quite 
out of the ordinary way of business. He had 
been summoned express from London: late 
in the evening he saw the moon rise over the 
shadowy turrets of the stately dwelling, whose 
interior was as much a mystery as its roaster. 
Before him stood the gigantic tower, built by 
torchlight; and of which it was said in the 
village, that in the course of a year all the 
workmen employed in its building had pe- 
rished. The moaning of the wind in the 
gloomy branches was the only sound, save 
his horse's steps, in the yew tree avenue 
which led to the house. He arrived : black 
slaves, silent as the grave, received him ; and 
a white but hideous dwarf led him through 
the huge and lonely apartments, lighted by 
four mute flambeau-bearers. The signs of 
wealth scattered around so profusely, forced 
from him exclamations of surprise and admi- 
ration ; but no reply was elicited, and no 
sound of human voice was heard in any of 
the sumptuous rooms through which he wai 
conducted. Sign of food or firing there wa? 



188 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



none.' At length they reached a chamber 
hung with tapestry: i\s half-faded colours 
made more ghastly the scene it represented — 
souls suffering in purgatory. The sheets of 
blue flame, the spectral figures which writhed 
in every attitude of pain, the wan and dis- 
torted faces, took a strange reality of horror 
from the high wind that shook the arras, and 
the flickering light flung over it by the wav- 
ing torches. 

In the midst of these pleasant objects of 
contemplation, at a little table, on which lay 
a large folio printed in unknown character, 
sat the master of the house — he who, it was 
said, shunned society, to dwell in unbroken 
and splendid solitude; whose light shone at 
midnight from the vast and lonely tower, but 
of whose pursuits all were ignorant. He was 
rather past the middle age, intellectual in face, 
and stately in figure; but the face was pale 
and care-worn, and the figure bent, as if from 
physical weakness. The loose bkck gown 
in which he was wrapped, gave him the ap- 
pearance of an invalid, or of a recluse, to 
whom dress was matter of indifference. 

" You have seen the baubles I destine for 
the fools who may fancy them ; they shall all 
be sent to the city in the course of to-morrow : 
prepare your rooms for their reception, and 
attend to the sale." 

The low, deep, sweet voice strongly con- 
trasted with the fierce and abrupt manner; for 
the words were scarcely said, before, resting 
his head upon his hands, he was immersed in 
his open volume. The dwarf motioned to the 
surprised auctioneer to leave the room, recon- 
ducted him through the costly but melancholy 
apartments, and left him to remount his horse 
in the yew tree avenue, without offering either 
rest or refreshment, though the night was 
considerably advanced. 

The bewildered auctioneer hurried on, di- 
vided by mingled fears of ghosts and thieves; 
the large and dismal branches of the yews, 
as they swung to and fro in the wind, causing 
him innumerable alarms. Every noise was 
taken for a robber, and every shadow for an 
apparition. However, he arrived in safety at the 
village inn, where as many marvels were re- 
lated of the solitary owner of the mansion as 
mystery always creates. The whole secret- 
was settled, by deciding that "he had some- 
thing on his conscience;" and murder, that 
favourite sin of the vulgar, was fixed upon. 
What uncharitable things inferences and con- 
clusions are ! But the man who, whether in 
his habits or his actions, in great things or in 
small, separates himself from his kind, seems 
to sefc every evil and envious feeling of our 
nature in array against him. Distinction is 
purchased at the expense of sympathy. 

The following day the treasures of the mys- 
terious tower came pouring in : pictures, sta- 
tues, gems, shells, china, stuffed beasts and 
birds, tables, vases, petrifactions, arms, manda- 
rins, &c. &c. ; and among them the shagreen 
skin, with the injunction, " Sell it for any thing 
-nothing — give it away ; only, get rid of it,' 



Who would buy it? or, indeed, who would 



take it, with the denunciation attached to its 
possession 1 The auctioneer became sincerely 
distressed ; a cricket that had sung at his 
parlour-hearth for ten years suddenly depart- 
ed ; the black cat was missing; a strange dog 
howled at his steps for two successive nights ; 
his wife had dreamt of gold and running 
water, the most unlucky things in the world; 
and then the times were so bad — the stocks 
were falling — the cholera coming — the.soonei 
the shagreen skin was out of his house the 
better. Charles seemed, as he afterwards 
said, sent by Providence. 

He forthwith mentioned the wonderfc. 
charm in his custody, dwelt upon its merits 
till he grew quite eloquent, and finally desired 
the youth to follow him to the inner room, 
where it hung. It was a small dark chamber, 
crowded with articles for sale; but, whether 
from accident or design, the curiosities were 
all of a wild and ghastly kind. In th^. mid- 
dle was a cast of the Laocoon, the wretched 
father and his children writhing in the folds 
of the terrible serpents : cruel must have been 
the eye and heart of the sculptor who thus 
made agony his triumph. Against the wall 
leant an Egyptian mummy ; part of the yellow 
linen had been unrolled, and a spectral likeness 
of humanity glared from between the band- 
ages. Near it was one of the frightful idols 
of the Mexicans — a many-headed snake, 
whose crimson jaws seemed yet red with 
their human sacrifice : and in a corner stood 
some quivers of poisoned Indian arrows, ant 1 
a gigantic battle-axe. To the left were ter- 
rific-looking engines, labelled as models o* 
the instruments of torture found in the Inquisi- 
tion. 

Charles was allowed little time to gaze bv 
the impatient auctioneer, who pointed at once 
to the shagreen skin, which lay on a black 
oak table. He read the inscription ; and a 
strange feeling of vague belief, and desire for 
its possession, entered his heart. One wish 
for wealth, and then every enjoyment was at 
his feet; and truly, a few years of life were a 
slight sacrifice, considering that they would 
be taken from his old age. Not that he be- 
lieved in any such nonsense — still, he should 
like to try. The auctioneer had been watch- 
ing his eager look, as one accustomed to drive 
a hard bargain eyes his customer : his whole 
plan of action was arranged. A plum being 
his own ultimatum of fortune and felicity, he 
supposed that would also be the aim of his 
visiter : twenty per cent, was in his opinion 
fair profit — he must not expect too much from 
such a. mere speculation. 

" You see, sir," turning to Charles, " des- 
perate diseases require desperate remedies — 
you cannot be worse off, and you may be bet- 
ter. Sign this bond for twenty thous-ai/d 
pounds; if the skin answers, it is a bargain; 
if not, being, as you say, a beggar, the agree- 
ment is void — there can be no levy where 
there are no effects : and though I have heard 
of skinning a flint, I never yet could learn how 
it was managed." 

Charles signed the bond, and seizing tho 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



189 



♦hagreen slrin, rushed away, exclaiming', 
** Now give me wealth — hundreds, thousands, 
millions!" 

" Millions !" almost shrieked the auctioneer, 
aghast — "taken in, cheated, rohbed — stop 
thief!" but his customer was lost in the dark- 
ness which had by this time set in. Again 
Charles wandered through the streets, with 
that indifference as to what direction which 
spoke the preoccupied mind ; while the hur- 
ried step no less marked the tumult of his 
thoughts. The lamps glittering in the water, 
which lay below T like a dark mirror, recalled 
him to himself — he was on the very bridge 
he had crossed in the morning. He was on 
it, too, alone ; not a step broke the silence 
but his own, and the depths of the shadow 
which rested on the river, vast and impenetra- 
ble, were even as the eternity into which one 
moment would plunge him. But the skin had 
taken hold of his imagination. 

" It is but another four-and-twenty hours, 
and the experiment will have been fairly tried. 
We allow to a sick man the indulgence of a 
whim, why not to a dyino- one that of his 
folly?" 

So saying, he turned to the lodging of a 
young friend, whose hospitality he resolved 
to ask for the night. Scott was at home, and 
hesitating between a wish for amusement and 
a fit of idleness — that pleasant, idleness which 
follows indisposition. Never was companion 
more acceptable : a good fire and a good 
dinner are very exhilarating — so the two 
friends were as gay as if there had been no 
such things as study and suicide in the w T orld. 
But Charles's spirits were too much those of 
feverish excitement to last. The jest died 
upon his lips ; Scott's questions were first 
unanswered, and then unheard : he was only 
roused from contemplation by confidence. 

We again repeat, that there is no temper so 
communicative as an imaginative one. The 
poet seems under a necessity of sharing with 
others the thoughts he has half-created and 
half-coloured — and among the most reserved 
of us, who has not experienced, at some time 
or ether, that words had all the relief of tears ? 
One feeling leads to another, in conversation 
as in every thing else ; and Charles soon 
found himself cracking almonds, flinging the 
shells into the fire, and narrating the whole 
history of his life. 

We shall pass over his childhood more 
briefly than he did himself — (it is curious how 
an uncommon position exaggerates our import- 
ance in our own eyes) — and take up the 
thread of the. narrative when, at the death of 
his father, he became " lord of himself, that 
heritage of wo ;" — without money, without a 
profession, and with relatives on whom he 
had no claim but kindness — as if that were a 
claim ever acknowledged by a relative ! Not 
that we would detract one iota from the bene- 
volence which does exist in humanity ; there 
is both more gratitude and more cause for 
gratitude than it is the fashion now-a-days to 
admit ; but this we do say, that the obliga- 
tion is never from those on whom we have a 



claim. Kindness is always unexpected ; and 
" overcomes us like a summer cloud," excit- 
ing our " special wonder" as well as thank- 
fulness. In the present state of society, a 
noble name, without its better part — a noble 
fortune, is only an encumbrance to its owner. 
A merely well-born and well-educated young 
man is the most helpless object in nature. 
False shame is in him a principle, and the 
privation of poverty is nothing to its mortifica- 
tion. His habits are opposed to one means of 
maintenance, his feelings to a second, and his 
pride to a third. " Dig he cannot, and to beg 
he is ashamed." 

But Charles Smythe had an energy that 
only required to be thrown upon its own re- 
sources, in order to find them. He had literary 
tastes, and, still more, literary talents; and of 
all others, these are most conscious of their 
existence and power. A few weeks saw him 
established in an upper room in one of those 
small gloomy streets made for the poor, and 
in which every city abounds, devoting himsell 
to study and composition, with all the energy 
of hope, and the delight of present occupa- 
tion. What a falsehood it is to say that genius 
and industry are incompatible ! Does one 
work of genius exist that has not also been a 
work of labour ? 

"And yet," said Charles, "I cannot de- 
scribe to you how my heart sunk within me 
when I first entered the gloomy attic, hence- 
forth destined to be my home, my study, and 
where so much of my life was to pass. I 
gazed upon the low ceiling, which seemed to 
press the air down upon me ; a slip of look- 
ing-glass, cracked and coarse-grained enough 
to make you discontented with even yourself, 
stuck in the plaster; the whitewashed walls ; 
the small stove, like that in the cabin of a 
ship ; the wretched little wash-hand stand ; 
the common check furniture of the bed ; the 
parapet before the window — 0, that parapet ! 
I learned afterwards to do justice to the clean- 
liness of the room — I am not sure, when, in 
cold weather, I have gone to the extravagance 
of a handful of fire, whether I have not even 
thought it comfortable ; but to the parapet my 
eye never became reconciled. In winter the 
glaring snow lay so piled up on its ledge; in 
summer it reflected the hot sun like an oven; 
in rainy w r eather there the damp seemed to 
linger: — I do loathe the sight of a parapet! 
True, that in my father's house there had 
been, of late years, want of money, confusion, 
and distress; but still there were the large 
handsome rooms, there were the servants ; 
and if our guests were few, they had the same 
speech, dress, and feelings as ourselves. 
Now I found myself in another world, with 
which I could not have a word, a hope, an 
idea, in common. 

"Still, I should deceive you, if I told you 
that after the first week I was miserable. No. 
my time was fully occupied; I took an in- 
tense delight in my pursuits — I was encou- 
raged by small successes — I felt the future 
was before me : and believe me when I say, 
that, hopeless, ruined as I am, it is neither 



190 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



the past nor the present which I regret, but 
the future — that glorious future, to which I 
once devoted myself — that noblest sacrifice of 
our nature. I have flung away the immorta- 
lity of my mind. But remorse is of all feel- 
ings the one on which 'vanity of vanities' is 
written. 

" Well, I pursued this course of life for 
nearly two years ; my works had begun to at- 
tract some attention ; and my relatives, find- 
ing I wanted nothing from them, and that I 
was rather a distinction to them, began to 
seek me out. 

" Going into company purely as a relaxa- 
tion, I enjoyed it — to enjoy yourself is the 
easy method to give enjoyment to others; 
hence I became popular. My imagination, 
always on the alert to seek in real life mate- 
rials for its solitude, flung its interest over 
every object. I was also lively. What a 
mistake it is to confound conversational viva- 
city with good spirits! Few persons who 
mix in society on the reputation of talent, but 
feel, or fancy, that there is a necessity for sus- 
taining such reputation: the only method of 
accomplishing this is by saying something 
clever, or at least amusing. You know that 
the many go into the world on the strength 
of rank or wealth — they have performed their 
part when they have shown themselves, their 
diamonds, or their cashmeres; but you seem 
to have contracted a debt by your mere ad- 
mission — and we are all naturally anxious to 
return an obligation. Soon this exertion for 
the amusement of others grows a habit — vanity 
as usual steps in, and then popularity becomes 
a passion. The worst of it is, the want of 
moral courage it engenders ; you seek too 
much to say the agreeable instead of the true. 
Still, this is an excusable fault. Opinion is 
an author's destiny; what marvel that he 
should strive by every effort to conciliate an 
influence so terrible 1 A despotic power 
makes slaves. 

" This was the pleasantest part of my life. 
Society relieved without interrupting my 
studies. I rejoiced in my independence, and 
was careless about my poverty. I rather dis- 
dained than coveted the luxuries I saw : alas ! 
we desire riches more for others than our- 
selves. What a precious thing would choice 
be to life ! why have we not the sorrowful 
privilege of rejection'? Why, when Laura 
wished to be introduced to me, did not some 
interior voice warn me of approaching misery ? 

' ; I accompanied to her box the friend who 
sought me. W T e entered softly, while Sontag 
was in the midst of her most popular song, 
and Mrs. Herbert at first did not perceive us. 
1 stood behind her, admiring the small head, 
placed so exquisitely on the shoulders; sud- 
denly she turned — I cannot tell you the charm 
1 found in her gentle and somewhat cold man- 
ner — the importance of the effect you produced 
was so much increased by the difficulty there 
was in discovering. its amount. Singularly 
pale, the marble whiteness of her complexion 
was strongly contrasted by the black hair, the 
nlack dress, and tbe black drooping feathers 



of her hat. She well knew the romantic style 
of her beauty ; it was the imagination she 
sought to interest : hence the young, the en- 
thusiastic, were the victims she selected. 

" She said nothing to me of my writings; 
and I enjoyed the thought that my vanity, at 
least, had not been enlisted in her favour: I 
forgot the sweet low voice that so often asked 
my opinion, the knowledge so unconsciously 
displayed of my pursuits, and the large black 
eyes whose every look was a flattery. I have 
often wondered why she willed to number me 
among her conquests : but, though I could not 
give rank or wealth, I could give a name; 
and, as we always tire of what we do possess, 
she might desire to exchange the present for 
the future ; the poetry she could not feel, she 
wished to inspire. Or perhaps, to put it more 
simply — vanity, like all social vices, craves 
for novelty ; and I had at least the merit of 
being a stranger. Yet I could not have writ- 
ten a line about her for the world ; we write 
from the memory of love, not its presence. 
Flow could I have borne to imbody in her 
image the sorrows which give interest to poet- 



If I had been Petrarch, Laura 



ild 



never have been immortalized in my verse — I 
should have hated the very glory I myself 
had created : what, lay my heart bare for the 
general remark, the common pity ! No ; th 
statue I should raise to love would be like 
that of Harpocrates, with his finger on his 
lip. 

" In a few days what a gulf opened between 
my former and present self! I had been con- 
tent, industrious, devoted to that literature 
which was at once my hope and my honour. 
Now, I was idle, restless ; I wrote — the pen 
fell from my hand ; I read — the book dropped 
by my side, and I was lost in some revery, 
in which her image was paramount — all my 
former occupations were at an end ; I seemed 
not to have an idea in the world that did not 
centre in her. 

" All the morning was merged in the mo- 
ment when, after a thousand of those small 
disappointments with which ' Circumstance, 
that unspiritual god,' delights to mock our 
plans, I perhaps handed her from her carriage 
to some shop. Every evening was devoted 
to the chance of meeting her ; and, alas ! 
whether I did or did not see her, I returned 
home with the same sinking of the heart, the 
same utter depression of spirits. 

" For the first time I felt the wide difference 
between my circumstances and myself. Now, 
how I coveted riches— how I envied, ay hated, 
their possessors! , Now, how I contrasted the 
splendid scenes in which I moved with the 
wretched home where I lived ! Now, how 
worthless seemed all the former landmarks of 
my ambition ! 

" God in heaven, how I loved her ! I would 
sit for hours, dreaming all those brilliant im- 
possibilities by which fate might unite out 
destinies. I placed myself in situations of 
the most varied interest at her side, and then 
woke from my fantasy in an agony of shame 
and regret. The mere mention of her name 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



191 



would make my heart beat even to pain ; and 
yet, with all this inward violence, I was out- 
wardly calm : — true love is like religion, it 
hath its silence and its sanctity. I felt my- 
self worthy of her, even while I was in reality 
becoming less po ; for the fever of my heart 
preyed upon my mind, and every hour 1 was 
conscious that the power and the glory were 
departing from me. 

" Poetry had been the passion that love 
now was; but poetry brought forth its fruit 
in due season: love made all a desert except 
itself. And yet how slight were the chains 
that bound me as in fetters of iron ! A look, 
a word, a smile, were the hieroglyphics of the 
heart, as dazzling to decipher as the charac- 
ters on Caliph Vathek's Damascus sabres; 
and I was blinded like him — indifference and 
interest were sr> nicely blended. Now I was 
chilled by careless coldness — now transported 
by some slight mark of preference, so slight 
that only passion could have interpreted it 
into hope. The very ruin in which my love 
was involving me, only made it more intense: 
and ruin, indeed, to me was its engrossment 
and its idleness. 

" Utterly dependent on my own mental ex- 
ertions, what could I do with my mind in such 
a chaos ? Day after day I was importuned to 
fulfil engagements I had no longer the power 
of completing. My thoughts, like rebel sub- 
jects, disowned my authority — I could con- 
centrate my attention only on one object — 
Laura. Perhaps the desperation of my cir- 
cumstances communicated itself to my feel- 
ings — I believe Mrs. Herbert feared the pas- 
sion she had inspired. She shrank from the 
explanation sudden coldness might have 
brought on, and tried raillery. Constancy, 
romance, or enthusiasm, were the recurring 
objects of her sarcasm. 

" One evening, when the large party met at 
her house had diminished to a small and 
somewhat confidential group, I remember her 
saying, as she flung down disdainfully, a 
little engraving from a gem — a bird clinoino- 
to a leafless bough, w T ith its well known motto, 
' Faithful even unto death' — ' Well, fine words 
are like fine clothes, they make a great deal 
out of nothing. I often think' (turning to 
me) ' of the profane speech of the cardinal, 
who exclaimed, when he saw the gold and 
jewels offered at Rome in such profusion by 
the pious, ' Holy saints ! how profitable has 
this fable of Christianity been to us !' You 
poets may well exclaim, ' How profitable has 
this fable of love been to us !' 

" ' Ah, madam, you have never loved !' re- 
plied a young gentleman, who, like many 
others of his kind, delighted in talking of what 
he knew nothing about. 

" 'Love !' replied she; ' as far as my own 
experience goes, I do not understand the word : 
1 have never loved. A lover is the personifi- 
cation of weariness; to see the same face, to 
hear the voice, to separate variety from amuse- 
ment, in order to centre it all in one — to find 
1 single suffrage sufficient for your vanity. 
Ah ! to love, is in reality the verb the Prus- 



sian prince conjugated at Potsdam ,' and she 
sank back on her seat, as if fatigued by the 
mere recapitulation. 

" Notwithstanding her art, Laura was wrong 
in her calculation. Of all she said I retained 
only the one delicious phrase, ' I have nevei 
loved.' Instead of her indifference, I recalled 
her beauty, as she leant back on the sofa, one 
delicate hand balancing her cup, while her 
perfect figure was half hidden — only to be 
more gracefully displayed — in a large cloak, 
which she had drawn round her with the pret- 
tiest shiver possible. Day by day my situa- 
tion became more wretched ; one resource 
alone was left me, — the gaming-table; and 
there a transient success added suspense to 
my other miseries. 

" The desire of mortifying a fancied rival, 
one evening, threw unusual softness into 
Laura's manner ; she took my arm, and chance 
leading us into a small adjacent room, had 
seated herself on one ol the divans before she 
perceived we were alone. I saw her turn 
pale and avoid my look ; but it w r as too late, — 
my heart had found utterance. Scott, I need 
tell you only her last words, — 'And if I did 
marry, do you think it would be a fortune- 
hunter ?' 

" I rose from her -feet, and my resolution 
w r as taken. I had already sacrificed to Laura 
my hopes, my principles, my ambition, my 
fortune ; one only sacrifice remained, and that 
was my life. Still, some remnant of my an- 
cient integrity bade me desire to leave enough 
behind me to pay my debts. Again I had re- 
course to the gaming-table ; but the fortune 
which had aided me to evil, deserted me foi 
good : 1 left the room with a single shilling ir. 
my pocket. 

" It was long after midnight when I sought 
my lodgings. The pale, weary look of the 
girl who opened the door reproached me with 
my selfish thoughtlessness, in thus, on a cold 
raw night, early in spring, detaining the poo; 
from their needful rest. The mother was by 
her side, and she appeared far more worn out 
than the daughter. 1 have been too engrossed 
or I might, before have told you of the kindli 
ness of the one, and the surpassing beauty ot 
the other. Now that the image of Ellen 
Cameron rises before me in all its childish 
and innocent beauty; when I think of the 
thousand little acts of kindness — I could al- 
most say tenderness — that escaped from her 
so unconsciously, I wonder that my heart 
never took her for its object of imagination 
and passion. But there is a destiny in all 
things, and in none more than in love. 

" ' I shall not detain you long,' said I, as 1 
entered their little parlour. Will you believe 
me when I say, the uppermost feeling in my 
mind was distaste at its poor and wretched 
appearance ? The grate smoked, and the 
thick air was bitter and oppressive to breathe. 
Drawing the broken china inkstand towards 
me, I wrote on the back of. a letter the assign- 
ment of my property (my property !) to Mrs 
Cameron. 1 gave her the paper, and told her 
that important business forced me to leave 



192 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



London at once ; that I could not pay the rent 
now due, hut that the sale of even my few 
effects would satisfy her claims. 

" ' You are not going to leave us V said the 
woman, on whose memory one or two small 
services I had rendered her had made a deeper 
impression than the fear of losing by a lodger 
so poor as myself. I gave a briefer reply than 
should have met such kindness, and hurried 
from the door. As I went down the street, I 
looked back ; Ellen was standing on the steps 
watching me : she met my eye, and instantly 
retreated. I caught the last glance of that 
young and fair face, and felt as if my good 
angel had deserted me. I passed hastily 
through the close and narrow streets around 
my home. Dizzy, confused with the excite- 
ment of despair, I was startled by the hour 
striking one, two, three, four. I was standing 
before the illuminated clock of St. Bride's. 
Mockery, thus to trace the progress of time in 
light! mark it rather by shadows dark and 
heavy as its own. Half an hour would bring 
me to Waterloo Bridge, and there I could offer 
up the fearful sacrifice Fate demanded from 
Necessity." 

From this period we already know the 
story, and need not follow Charles in his nar- 
rative of the small causes which had deterred 
him from the act, to the wild hope, or rather 
curiosity, which now induced him to wait for 
the morrow. 

" I have no choice," said he at last ; " be- 
tween myself and the past there is a wide 
^ulf ; I cannot again unite quiet industry and 
enthusiastic energy ; I can no longer merge 
the actual present in the imagined future. A 
biiier feeling of envy rankles within me. I 
do not say that there is nothing worth living 
for, but that there is nothing within my reach. 
I am weary of this life of literary drudgery, 
whose toil is so incessant, and whose reward 
is so distant. I am stung to the very soul by 
the criticisms on what I have already done. 
The praise does not gratify me, because it is 
that of kindness, or of motive, instead of ap- 
preciation ; the censure mortifies me, — even 
while I deny its truth ; but I say, what is 
opinion, when the smallest pique against my- 
self, or even my friends — when envy or pure 
stupidity will turn the balance against me, 
and withhold from me my so anxiously sought, 
my just meed of praise ? Again, I feel that 
youth is rapidly passing, and with it that hap- 
piness which youth only can enjoy. What 
will it avail me, even if future years bring me 
pleasures for which I no longer care, — plea- 
sures which, if I could command them now, 
would send the blood through my pulses as if 
it bore a thousand lives ? It is easy to tell 
me that every lot has its annoyances. I be- 
lieve nothing which I have not known. Give 
me the wealth you say has its cares and its 
vexations ; let me try them ; let me at least 
choose my destiny, and then take my chance. 
Why should I wear out a dreary life in poverty 
and obscurity, while I loathe the one and de- 
spise the other ? There are who may talk of 
ealm content, of gliding: unnoticed through the 



road of life : let those wno like such ignoble 
path follow it. Did I make myself? did 
wish to enter on this mortal struggle ? did 1 
give myself feelings, ideas, or wishes ? did I 
create this difference between myself and my 
situation ? In what am I to blame ? Can 
I help being most unutterably wretched 
Tell me not of the benevolence shown in the 
organization of this world ; in every part pain 
and sorrow reign triumphant. True, we are 
promised a reward hereafter ; but that is tc 
depend upon conduct, which it is always 
difficult, sometimes impossible, to control. 
My futurity rests upon my belief, as if I could 
believe what I chose. This is a bad, misera 
ble state, — so bad, that any change must be 
for the better, at least to me. I cannot go 
back upon the past; I delude myself no 
longer. Why should I slave to leave behind 
me a rich legacy of thought for the careless 
or ungrateful ? A year ago I would not have 
bartered the world of fame for the world of 
enjoyment; both are equally beyond me, but 
I pine now for the latter ; and, wanting that, 
for the calm and the quiet of the cold dark 
grave. The terrible passion of death is upon 
me ; I long for that eternity which, whether 
of torture, of annihilation, or of a higher exist- 
ence, will free me from the intolerable burden 
of life." 

"Two gentlemen to Mr. Smythe," said a 
servant, opening the door. In one of them 
Charles recognised the auctioneer. " Ha, ha ! 
young gentleman, come to claim the payment 
of my bond ; this worthy man will soon show 
you it is due." 

The other, whose solemnity was in singular 
contrast with the flurry of his companion, now 
announced himself as Mr. Greaves, solicitor, 
of Chancery lane, in whose custody was 
placed the will of the late Charles Smythe, 
Esq. 

" He was the richest man on 'Change, sir — 
it's lucky for you that your name is spelt with 
a y and an e — he made you his heir because 
you are his namesake : but I have a copy of 
the will with me, if you please to hear it 
read." 

Charles sat bewildered ; but his friend 
Scott, as he was not the heir, retained his 
senses, and begging them to be seated, poured 
out a couple of glasses of claret ; whereupon 
the lawyer, after draining one of them, began 
to read the will, which stated, that " I, Charles 
Smythe, being of sound mind and body, &c. 
&c. &c, do will and bequeath to Charles 
Smythe, my namesake, and, I believe, distant 
relation (our names being spelt alike,) son of, 
&c. &c, all the property I possess at the time 
of my decease." 

And then followed such a list of estates 
here, and estates there, mortgages in every 
county in England, and money vested in the 
stocks of every known capital — English, 
French, Russian, and American — that Scott 
began to think the late Henry Smythe must 
have been the* possessor of Fortunatus' purse. 
The will was ended, and the little auctioneer 
could contain himself no longer. 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



193 



1 The luckiest thing in the world that we 
met to-day ! 1 was in such a fright lest you 
should have drowned yourself; but I had you 
watched safe in here — and my boy saw a pie 
come in ; so 1 thought you'd be sure to live 
till aftei dinner. Mr. Greaves has been out 
hunting for you all day. Lord love you ! 
they V, taking on so about you at your lodg- 
ings; and Mr. Greaves was afraid you had 
come to a bad end. Well, he was fagged out 
when he called on me ; and quite down in the 
mouth tc think that a young man should make 
away with himself just as he came in to such 
a fine fortune : but I soon heartened him up. 
We had a beefsteak together, and then came 
off here : glad to find you alive and merry." 

Scott could not restrain his laughter; but 
Charles sat gloomily folding and unfolding 
the skin of shagreen, which he had taken from 
his pocket. 

"I must say good night," said the solicitor, 
Who had just finished the last glass of claret; 
" I keep regular hours — always at home by 
twelve, and have a long way to go. I will 
call on you to-morrow — ten o'clock precisely 
— Mr. Smythe : we have not a little business 
to settle. Good night !" 

"And good night, gentlemen," added the 
auctioneer ; and then, addressing Charles 
more particularly, " I have a large amount to 
make up by the fifteenth of this month, so 
hope you won't forget our little account. I 
am sure you won't grudge the money, consi- 
dering the luck the skin has brought you. 
Wish you joy of your good fortune !" 

"And I wish," exclaimed Charles, "that 
you may break your neck going down stairs." 

This kind farewell was, however, lost on 
its object, who had just closed the door. 

"What a lucky fellow you are ! I congra- 
tulate you from my heart," said Scott. 

" This accursed skin !" exclaimed Charles. 

" Why, you are not silly enough to think 
that has any thing to do with it ! By-the-by, 
how shamefully that rascally auctioneer has 
taken you in ! He knew of the will before- 
hand, and has played nicely upon your excited 
state of mind ? I hope you mean to dispute 
the payment of the bond ?" 

A loud noise in the passage interrupted their 
conversation. 

They say gravity is the centre of attraction ; 
I rather think that noise is. Nothing so soon 
assembles the inhabitants of a house as aloud 
and sudden noise : it did so in the present 
instance. 

" For the love of God, run for a surgeon ; 
he is quite senseless !" And the first thing 
the friends saw was Mr. Greaves and the ser- 
vant raising the body of the auctioneer. 

Charles, faint and trembling, grasped the 
bannisters: Scott sprang forward. 

"The whole College of Physicians can do 
him no good : he has broken his neck !" 

" Do you now doubt," exclaimed Charles, 
" my fatal power ? Behold how, within the 
last minute, the skin has shrunk !" 

" Your good luck has turned your brain. I 
advise you to go home, and be bled and blis- 

Vol. II.— 25 



tered," said Scott. "The broken neck of the 
auctioneer is just an unlucky coincidence." 

" It is my terrible destiny !" cried Charlea 
Smythe. 

Wealth, wealth unbounded, and which 
every day some lucky chance served to in 
crease, was now in Charles Smythe's posses- 
sion — he had all of pleasure, all of luxury, 
excepting their enjoyment; for the weight 
was on his spirits, and the worm at his heart. 
His slightest wish was invariably accomplish- 
ed ; but at every wish the skin of shagreen 
diminished, and with it he felt his health and 
strength decline. He found he had but one 
reserve — to desire nothing. Gradually his 
splendid abode became a solitude, and his 
habits those of an ascetic. He ate before he 
was hungry, lest he should wish for food ; he 
slept with his night-draught drugged with 
laudanum, lest he should crave repose. 

Once, and once only, he met Laura. He 
turned from her with loathing : was not she 



the cause of his present d( 



Mrs. Her- 



bert marked his avoidance with a sweet laugh 
and a stinging jest: — " So much for a roman- 
tic attachment ! My poet-lover has not a 
guinea in the world, and he vows eternal con- 
stancy aux beaux yeux de ma cassette. He 
becomes a millionaire, and nous avons change 
tout cela — the passionate and the elevated de- 
generates into the indifferent and the calculat- 
ing. Never tell me of disinterested love !" 

There was perhaps some bitterness in this ; 
but when was a woman ever witty without 
being bitter ? Think for a moment how her 
feelings must have been frozen before they 
could sparkle, and how their edge must have 
been ground down before they became so 
keen : brilliant and caustic words are but the 
outward type of that which is within. 

" I will consult a physician to-morrow," 
said Charles Smythe, one night, after he had 
spent about an hour in gazing alternately on 
his pale and altered face in the glass, and then 
on the skin of shagreen now most wofully 
diminished. 

Next morning saw his carriage at Dr. 
Thomson's door. He was shown into aback 
room, fitted up as a study. Large and learned 
volumes lined the sides ; above the fireplace 
stood a row of glass phials, each containing a 
snake, a frog, or a lizard, preserved in spirits 
of wine ; and on the table lay open a huge 
portfolio of ghastly-looking prints. Somehow 
or other, it was a room that gave you great 
confidence in your doctor : — you thought, what 
a clever man he must be ! The patient now 
entered on his history. At its finish, the phy- 
sician no longer restrained his reassuring 
smile — "I will give you my advice, though I 
very much doubt your taking it : enlist for six 
months in any marching regiment you can 
find, and permit me to throw this piece of 
shagreen behind the fire." 

So saying, he took up the talisman, and was 
about to suit the action to the word, when 
Charles snatched it from him with a piercing 
cry, and rushed out of the house. He then 
directed his coachman to drive to Sir Henrv 
R 



194 



MISS LAN DON'S WORKS. 



Halford's. He was shown into an elegant 
drawing-room ; a large glass reflected the 
crimson colour flung on his countenance by 
the curtains : it was a very reviving shade. 
Again the patient began his narrative, which 
was listened to this time with the most touch- 
ing attention. Sir Henry took his hand with 
an air of almost affectionate interest — said 
something about over-excitement, nerves, and 
genius — wrote a prescription — advised quiet 
and country air. "Take some pretty place, 
quite retired, but near enough to town for a 
morning's drive to bring you to London ; for I 
must see you again — not often, I hope ; — not 
often, I am sure !" muttered the physician, as 
his patient withdrew. 

Charles Smythe now resolved on taking a 
place in the country; but he equally resolved 
on wishing nothing about it. He would drive 
a few miles out of town, and take the first 
place to let that he liked. The horses baited 
at a small country inn ; he had lunched ; and 
then, for fear he might get weary, and wish for 
a stroll, he wandered out. It was an unusually 
hot day, in an unusually forward spring; but 
the sunshine was cheerful, and the heat was 
softened by the wide and leafy branches of the 
elm trees whose boughs met overhead. The 
hedges were covered with May, in the fragile 
and fragrant luxuriance of its short-lived blos- 
som. On each side were meadows of deep 
grass, now of a dark and shadowy, now of a 
bright and glittering green, as the sunbeam or 
the cloud passed alternately over them. A low 
but pleasant murmur, the whisper of leaves, 
the chirrup of the birds, the stir of insect 
wings, was on the air; and as the invalid 
wound down the green lane, he forgot for a 
while how rich and how wretched he was. 
His thoughts wandered in as desultory a 
manner as he did himself, fixing rather on 
objects without than within. He was roused 
from his revery by that sudden rustling among 
the boughs which tells the approach of a 
summer shower. The light branches of the 
ash were tossed aside by the wind, and a few 
heavy drops fell almost one by one. A large 
black cloud darkened the sky, and a burst of 
distant thunder rolled upon the air. 

"To be caught in the rain will give me my 
death of cold," exclaimed Charles, almost 
unconsciously hurrying forward. For a mo- 
ment he hesitated whether he should not wish 
the rain to cease; but the remedy was worse 
than the disease — so on he went. Luckily, a 
sudden turn in the lane showed him a place 
of shelter; he soon reached the stone porch of 
a small cottage, and paused there, gaining 
breath and resolution to ask admission. Built 
in a heavy Gothic style of architecture, the 
cottage looked as if it had formerly been the 
ledge of some park. In one of the windows 
sat a girl : her head was bent on her hand, and 
her fair hair, simply parted on the forehead, 
was covered by a square cap, or rather coif. 
Surely he knew her face ! She looked up, 
and their eyes met; another instant, and the 
door stood open; — it was Ellen Cameron! 
Such a smile and such a blush, such a beauti- 



ful agitation as that with which he was we 
corned ! She recognised him at the first 
glance, as he did her at the second. 

" My mother will be so glad to see you !" 
was her exclamation ; and he was shown into 
the prettiest little room that ever was crowded 
with flowers, or opened into a garden whose 
roses looked in at the window. There her 
mother was sitting; and Charles was touched 
(how could he be otherwise 1 ?) by the earnest 
and simple delight of his welcome. 

Their history was soon told. Mrs. Came- 
ron's lawsuit had been decided in her favour, 
and their present competency was rendereo. 
more delicious by past poverty. They had 
immediately left London; and this accounted 
for Charles's not having been able to find 
them out when he made the endeavour, which, 
in justice to his gratitude, we ought to men- 
tion he had done. 

"Your books are quite safe," said Mrs. 
Cameron, "and so is your writing-table; but 
they are in Ellen's room, for she is a great 
reader." 

Ellen blushed to the temples. Their visiter 
smiled when he remembered how little his 
learned and ponderous tomes were likely to 
interest the young and fair creature who had 
them in her care. 

Charles Smythe was pressed to stay dinner. 
He consented ; and the day passed pleasantly 
enough to make him say, towards evening, 
"I wish I could find a house to suit me." 
The words "I wish" struck upon his heart 
with a cold chill, which was forgotten as he 
thought how very lovely the flush of delight 
made Ellen's always beautiful face. 

We will omit the love-making, as it must 
be personal to be pleasant ; and come to the 
conclusion, which every reader can by this 
time foresee, viz. matrimony. The bright and 
buoyant month of June, the brightest of all 
our year, witnessed Charles Smythe's mar- 
riage. The bells were yet ringing a joyous 
peal, softened by the distance into music, as 
he stood with a folded paper in his hand by 
a small ebon escritoire. " Why," said he, 
" should I be weak enough to allow a vain 
delusion to prey upon my spirits and wear 
away my health'? No doubt heing exposed 
to the open air shrinks up the skin : for three 
months I will not look at it." He locked the 
drawer, and turned to meet his beautiful bride, 
whose light step now entered the room. 

To use the established phrase, three months 
of uninterrupted happiness glided away — a 
phrase, though in frequent use, whose accu- 
racy I greatly doubt; there being no such 
thing as" uninterrupted happiness anyhow or 
anywhere. But one morning, while wander- 
ing through the shadowy walks with which 
his gardens abounded, he heard the voices of 
his wife and her mother. He looked through 
the boughs, for one moment, on the fair and 
young face whose beauty was so precious in 
his eyes — so precious, for he felt how T entirely 
it was his own. There was something at 
once womanly and childish in Ellen's love 
for her husband — womanly in its devotion, 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



19! 



childish in its implicit reliance — one of those 
worshipping-, exaggerating, uplooking attach- 
ments which it is so satisfactory to man's 
vanity to inspire. But an expression of strong 
anxiety was on her face, and her cheek was 
very pale. Charles was just about to step 
forward and kiss it into colour, when the 
sound of his own name arrested his advance. 

"I would not, dearest, alarm you unneces- 
sarily," said Mrs. Cameron; "but you must 
make Charles have medical advice: he looks 
wretchedly ill, and grows worse every day." 

He saw Ellen start, as if first awakened to 
the terrible consciousness of her husband's ill 
health — he saw her bow her face on her hands 
in an agony of tears; but he stayed not to 
console her — his heart was hardened by the 
fear of death. " I have been married three 
months to-day ; I will go and look at the skin 
of shagreen." While unlocking the writing- 
case in which it lay, he caught sight of his 
shadow in a glass opposite: he beheld, as it 
were, the spectre of himself. Shuddering, he 
hurriedly opened the drawer. "The skin of 
shagreen is not here !" exclaimed he — and 
sank on the sofa breathless with delight. The 
fatal skin had disappeared, and yet he lived! 
" Fool, fool that I have been, to allow a name- 
less dread to poison my food, to fever my 
sleep ! Ellen, my sweet Ellen, we shall be 
happy yet !" The remembrance of her sorrow- 
rose to his mind. 

No longer stern and selfish with a gloomy 
dread, he opened the window; to cross the 
turf -would bring him to her side immediately. 
The wind swept through the casement, and 
blew the papers, &c. to his feet. He turned 
pale, his eyes swam; every other object was 
indistinct, for uppermost of all lay the skin of 
shagreen ; but so small, no wonder he had 
overlooked it — it was the size of a willow leaf, 
fragile and withered as they are with the first 
frost! How prodigal of life had the last three 
months been ! — not the slightest wish of El- 
len's but had found an echo in his ! Why, 
the mere hope that a summer day would not 
bring premature destruction to a half-blown 
rose — even such light words were those of the 
grave ! What was Ellen's self but a beautiful 
death 1 

Again every faculty was absorbed in a pas- 
sionate longing for life — life under any cir- 
cumstances. He left his home on the instant; 
wrote from London, that pressing business 
took him abroad for some time ; and in the 
course of a week he was settled in a solitary 
cottage at Clifton. Here his days passed in 
a melancholy monotony ; he rose at the same 
hour, took a long walk, dined, walked again, 
and then slept. He read no books, he saw no 
friends, he had no wish but for life; and night 
after night he examined the frail remnant of 
shagreen, and as often found it undiminished. 
At this rate he might live for years — and his 
hs^-t leaped for joy at the thought of this dull 
and unnatural existence. Youth, wealth, fame, 
ove, had all merged in the dread of death. 



It was a fine, soft evening in September, 
when he leant, as was his wont, in an arm- 
chair by the window, watching with fixed but 
languid gaze the deep shadows of the trees, 
while every open space was silver with the 
light of the moon — the hunter's moon, as the 
large bright orb of that month is called. The 
garden was close to the road, and the step and 
voice of the few passers-by were distinctly 
heard. Suddenly one went along singing : it 
was a young voice, but both air and words 
were sad. Charles caught the first verse : — 



O leave me to my sorrow, 
For my heart is oppress'd to-day 

O leave me, and to-morrow 

Dark clouds will have passVl away ! 

The song died in the distance ; not so in the 
heart of the recluse. " I may," said the mi- 
serable slave of himself, " be left to my sor- 
row ; but when will my dark clouds pass 
away ? Never till they deepen into the night 
of death ! Buoyant and reckless spirit of my 
3^outh, all ye thousand hopes that bore me up 
as with the wings of an eagle, where are ye 
now ? The knowledge I acquired, the fame 
for which I burned, the wealth I so coveted — 
all mine, yet not mine ! And must all that 
makes life desirable be purchased but by the 
loss of life ? Is this the secret of existence ? 
At what a price of wretchedness must even 
this miserable and monotonous life be bought ! 
My poor Ellen, what must my absence seem 
to her !" 

As the image of his young and deserted wife 
rose before him in all its gentle beauty, a gush 
of tenderness softened him for the moment. 
" My sweet Ellen !" exclaimed he, almost un- 
consciously, " would to God you were here !" 

" Ah, now I dare speak to you !" whispered 
a sweet low voice. 

Love was mightier than fear ; and happy as 
herself, he kissed away the tears that fell thick 
and fast from the sweet eyes raised so timidly 
to his own. 

"How could you leave me? who would 
watch over you with affection /ike mine ?" 

At these words he started frc n his seat, and 
snatched the skin of shagreen — it was reduced 
to a mere shred. " Ellen," exclaimed he, 
grasping her arm, " do you see this accursed 
thing ? it is my life ; one other wish is my 
death-warrant. ?" 

He looked on the ghastly terror which mark- 
ed his wife's features ; his heart misgave him 
for her agony; and again, almost unwittingly, 
he w T ished her fear might cease ! A deadly 
pain rushed over him, his eyes closed even on 
that beloved countenance ; he strode to speak, 
the words died in an inarticulate murmur ; a 
frightful convulsion distorted his face as it 
sank on Ellen's shoulder; — his last breath 
and the skin of shagreen had passed away to- 
gether ! * 

* The hint for such a talisman is taken from M. de Bal- 
zac's Peau de Chagrin. I have not read the talf itself, 
but saw a notice of it in Le Globe. 



19Q 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



THE CHOICE. 

The Spanish lady sat alone within her even- 
ing bower, 

And, sooth to say, her thoughts were such as 
suited well the hour; 

For, shining- on the myrtle leaves until they 
shone again, 

The moonlight fell amid the boughs like light 
and glittering rain. 

The ground was strewn with cactus flowers, 

the fragile and the fair — 
Fit emblems of our early hopes — so perishing. 

they are ; 
The jasmine made a starry roof, like some 

Arabian hall ; 
And sweet there floated on the air a distant 

fountain's fall. 

She leant her head upon her hand : " I know 

not which to choose — 
Alas ! whichever choice I make, the other I 

must lose. 
They say my eyes are like the stars ; and if 

they are so bright, 
Methinks they should be as those stars, and 

shed o'er all their light. 

"Don Felix rides the boldest steed, and bears 

the stoutest lance, 
And gallantly above his helm his white plumes 

wave and dance : 
But then Don Guzman — when the night and 

dews are falling round, 
How sweet beneath my lattice comes his lute's 

soft numbers' sound ! 

" Don Felix has in triumph borne my colours 

round the ring; 
Three courses, for my beauty's sake, he rode 

before the King. 
Don Guzman he has breathed in song a lover's 

gentle care — 
And many who know not my face, yet know 

that it is fair." 

The inconstant moon, now bright, now veil'd, 

shone o'er the changing tide ; 
The wind shook down the flowers, but still 

new flowers their place supplied ; 
And echo'd by some far-off song, the lady's 

voice was heard — 
"Alas! I know not which to choose!" was 

aye her latest word. 

Yet, ere that moon was old, we saw the Donna 
Julia ride 

Gay on her snowy palfrey, as Don Alonzo's 
bride. 

Tii3 bride was young and beautiful, the bride- 
groom stern and old, — 

But the silken rein was hung with pearls, the 
housings bright with gold. 



MADELINE. 

I prav thee leave me not ; my heart 

So passionately clings to thee ; 
0, give me time, I'll try to part 

With life — for love is life to me. 
A little while — I cannot bear 
The presence of my great despair ; 
Though changed your voice, and cold your t*yi 
You would not wish to see me die. 

The wretch who on the scaffold stands 

Has some brief time allow'd 
For parting grasp of kindly hands, 

For farewell to the crowd : 
And even as gradual let me learn 
My thoughts and hopes from thee to turn ; 
To grow accustom'd to thy brow, 
Strange, chilling as it meets me now ! 

But, no ; I dare not, cannot look 

Upon thy alter'd face : 
Methinks that I could better brook 

To have but memory's trace, 
And I may cheat myself awhile 
With many a treasured gaze and smile. 
Yes, leave me — 'tis less pain to brood 
Over the past in solitude. 

O, vanity of speech ! no word 

Can make thee mine again; 
The eloquent would be unheard, 

The tender would be vain. 
Since gentle cares and spotless truth — 
The deep devotion of my youth — • 
Since these are written on the air, 
Wilt thou be moved by vow or prayer ? 

Yet how entire has been my love ! 

The flower that to the sun 
Raises its golden eyes above, 

Droops when the day is done 
But I for hours have watch'd a spot — 
Although it longer held thee not; 
It gave a magic to the scene 
To think that there thy steps had been 

But I must now forget the past — 

Say, rather, 'tis my all ; 
Henceforth a veil o'er life is cast 

I live but to recall. 
I have no future — could I bear 
To dream a dream you do not share % 
It is hope makes futurity — 
What, now, has hope to do with me ? 

Amid the ruins of my heart 

I'll sit and weep alone ; 
Mourn for the idols that depart, 

The altars overthrown, 
With faded cheek and weary eyes, 
Till life be thy last sacrifice. 
Alas for youth, and hope, and bloom 
Alas for my forgotten tomb ! 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



197 



THE KNIFE 



What a pretty, fair, delicate-looking- girl 
Jv r as Harriet Lynn ! how well I remember her, 
with her small black silk bonnet, casting a 
deeper shadow on the light brown hair that 
escaped in waves rather than curls from the 
bondage of her cap ; the neat white handker- 
chief, the dark stuff dress, the fall sleeves a 
little turned back from the slender wrist, and 
hands whose softness had been uninjured by 
their ordinary employment — that of plaiting 
the finest straw. Many a summer's evening 
have I seen her stand at the gate of the cot- 
tage garden, over which hung a cherry tree, 
the pride of her uncle ; indeed, rather a source 
of congratulation to the village at large, so 
much was its size and fertility admired by 
strangers — so beautiful in spring, with its 
avalanche of white blossom — so rich in sum- 
mer, with its multitude of crimson berries. 
There would Harriet stand, the shining straws 
passing with rapidity through her slight 
fingers ; with a gentle smile and a kind word 
for all those passers-by whom she knew, and 
a deep blush and sudden attention to her work 
for all whom she knew net. Harriet was not 
a native of our part of the country ; her pa- 
rents' death had thrown her on the kindness of 
an uncle and aunt, who, having no child of 
their own, were happy to adopt her. Some 
little roughness in that course which is said 
never to run smooth — very true love — would 
seem to be the worst history that could be 
connected with the pretty peasant. But not 
so : her arrival in our country was attended by 
one of those terrible incidents which make 
humanity shudder at itself, and which are 
awful in proportion to their rareness. It is 
taking nature in the worst possible point of 
view, to think that custom reconciles even to 
crime. 

It was a sad morning when Harriet Lynn 
left her native village : she rose long before 
the appointed time. When at the stile by the 
beech tree, she w r as to be taken up by John 
Dodd the carrier, who often gave a neighbour 
a lift to the next town. This stile was at the 
entrance of the churchyard — a sorrowful rest- 
ing place to one whose nearest and dearest 
were yet scarce cold in their tomb. Ever and 
anon did she enter and seek the far corner, 
where, beneath the shadow of an old yew 
tree, was a grave : it held two tenants — they 
were her father and her mother, and she look- 
ed now on their place of rest for the last time. 
There is a strange mixture in our feelings ; 
perhaps the consciousness that all her earnings 
had gone towards erecting the stone whose 
white surface bore the names of her parents, 
mingled a little satisfaction with her grief: 
and why should it not'? The discharge of 
a duty from affection is the best solace for 
sorrow. 

At length the cart appeared at some distance 
on the winding road ; and in a few minutes 



Harriet Lynn began a journey, of whose length 
and difficulties she had the usual exaggerated 
notion of all young travellers. The gallantry of 
an English peasant rarely expands into words. 
John Dodd received her with a good-natured 
grin, and pushed on his way — for he was car- 
rier of Donnington and some dozen parishes 
round; at each of which he duly deposited at 
least a score of packages or messages. His 
first pause was at a small shop situated on the 
east side of Donnington moor. 

" None so deaf as those who won't hear. 
Now this plaguy old woman will keep me 
bawling for an hour ; it's always so when I'm 
in a hurry." 

Sure enough his vociferations obtained no 
answer ; so, asking his companion to hold the 
reins, while he went to see if Dame Bird were 
dead or asleep, he jumped out of the cart, 
taking with him sundry square brown paper 
parcels, from whose contents the various 
odours of tea, sugar, and tallow exhaled. The 
little garden gate was, as usual, open ; and 
the first thing that struck the carrier was a 
quantity of currants trampled upon the brick 
walk. 

" Somebody's pudding will be none the 
better for this; but it's a wonder the old wo- 
man has not been out broom in hand. I say, 
Dame Bird ! you might sell your currants over 
again — none the worse for a little clean dirt." 

At this moment he started back, with open 
eyes and gaping mouth : — what an odd thing- 
it is, that the indications of terror are 
usually ludicrous ! A narrow crimson line, 
like the wriggling of a red snake, wound 
slowly towards him : it was blood ! For the 
first time in his life, John Dodd dropped a 
parcel from his hand, and ran into the shop. 
The narrow line widened ; large red spots 
grew frequent; the crimson pool splashed be- 
neath his feet — it evidently flowed from behind 
the counter; and there lay the poor old wo- 
man, her face uppermost, and her throat lite- 
rally cut from ear to ear. 

" Murder ! thieves ! Harriet Lynn, help !" 
cried the terrified carrier, rushing back to his 
cart and companion, as if even the girl and his 
horse were some security. 

Harriet Lynn, who had heard his voice, was 
at the gate as soon as himself. 

" What is the matter ?" 

"Come away; we shall be murdered!" 
was the answer, made almost inaudible by 
dread. 

There is no denying the fact, that in all 
sudden emergencies a woman has ten times 
the presence of mind, or, to use the common 
expression, her wits more about her than a 
man. Harriet Lynn turned white as the 
ghastly idea suggested itself; but she pro- 
ceeded to the shop, followed by her companion, 
who thought that as she went, he must go too 
The sight was too fearful ; and for a moment 
r 2 



198 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



she walked again into the garden, till the 
fresh air restored her from her feeling of 
deadly sickness. Perhaps the distinction be- 
tween the two witnesses was, that in the girl 
horror was the predominant sensation, while 
in the man it was terror. 

" There is no likelihood of the murderer 
having hidden himself here ; however, we 
must see." And she resolutely returned to the 
house. 

Fright had quite paralyzed John Dodd's 
faculties, and he went after her mechanically. 
The cottage was only one story high, and the 
small room behind the shop was where the old 
woman slept. Marks of violence were visible 
in every part; a cupboard had been forced 
open, and the contents of a chest of drawers 
were scattered about the room. The shop 
bore even more evident signs of spoliation — 
that reckless wastefulness which seems the 
constant companion of cruelty ; but little of 
the grocery appeared to have been touched, ex- 
cepting the sweet things. 

" We must go," said Harriet, " and get as- 
sistance as fast as we can. Is Mr. March still 
our justice ?" 

The proposal of leaving was very welcome 
to the carrier, who expected every minute to 
be murdered too. Yet, Harriet would not 
leave till the shutters were barred and the door 
locked : the large key hung as usual behind 
it, and that she took with her. "No one can 
now get either in or out." 

They drove with all possible speed to Mr. 
March's, where they had instant admission. 
John Dodd had not yet recovered his senses ; 
but his companion's account was equally brief 
and clear. A messenger was forthwith de- 
spatched to the coroner, then at Newcastle, 
where the assizes were holding, about five 
miles distant : and Mr. March proceeded to the 
cottage, of which Harriet Lynn gave him the 
key. Being on horseback, he, and two neigh- 
bours who accompanied him, arrived at the 
place long before their train of curious and 
horror-stricken followers. They found every 
thing as had been described. The body was 
in a frightful state ; the hands and arms of the 
poor old creature were covered with gashes ; 
and a violent blow on the temple had probably 
occasioned her fall and stunned her, for the 
throat was cut with a degree of neatness and 
precision, which showed that then at least the 
victim could not have struggled. Close to 
the corpse was found a small tortoise-shell 
penknife clotted with blood, evidently the in- 
strument by which the wound had been in- 
flicted. Neighbours now came hurrying in, 
and one after another missed some trifling arti- 
cle of property which the deceased was known 
to have possessed. There were three thin 
speons, real silver, on which she greatly prided 
herself; they were gone. A large silver watch, 
together with a red silk shawl and a Bandana 
handkerchief, very regular parts of her Sunday 
attire, were also not to be found. 

After the first burst of dismay was over, two 
subjects were universally started as topics of 
conversation; first, how every one had pre- 



dicted that "a poor lone woman" was sure ta 
be murdered; and, secondly, as to "who was 
the murderer ?" Here there was an unusual 
coincidence of opinion. A gipsy and his wife 
had for the last week been in the neighbour- 
hood, and their presence had been testified by 
innumerable small thefts. The man was dog 
ged and sullen, apparently without occupation 
or motive for staying among them; the wo- 
man pretty, active, and with a great gift of 
fortune-telling. Many recollected seeing them 
both prowling about the little shop ; and some, 
who came in last, stated that their encamp- 
ment by the nut-tree wood was deserted. After 
the coroner's inquest, ssspicion was suffi- 
ciently roused for a warrant to be issued for 
the apprehension of the prisoners. They were 
overtaken in a by-lane some miles distant, and 
brought to Newcastle, vehemently protesting 
their innocence. 

The female was first examined. She evi- 
dently required to have the questions put to her 
in the simplest form, otherwise, from her im- 
perfect knowledge of the English tongue, she 
could not comprehend them* All her replies 
were as simple as they were straight-forward. 
She was powerfully affected when the magis- 
trate spoke to her of the cruelty of the deed ; 
but it was, or seemed to be, a natural and wo- 
manly horror of so shocking a crime. Nothing 
could be elicited from her that excited sus- 
picion ; on the contrary, the effect she pro- 
duced was a very favourable one. 

It now came to the gipsy's own turn. Fierce- 
ness, defiance, and a shrewd and bold speech, 
characterized his answers. He was asked why 
he came into that part of the country ? 

" Because it is one of the very few places 
where there is a patch of green grass and an 
old tree, whose shelter may be had without 
payment." 

He was then interrogated — " Why, having 
such an advantage, he had abandoned it ?" 

" Because my habits are not as your habits. 
You dwell in houses, as if you were like the 
stock or the stone with which they are built; 
I wander as free and as far as the wind. Look 
ye ! our faces are not as your faces, our speech 
is not as your speech ; we have come from a 
distant country, over seas and mountains, over 
rough paths and smooth roads; we have 
numbered more miles than your whole island 
contains ; and yet you ask us why we left one 
little village ! I left it because it was my will 
to do so." 

The pack which each carried was examined ; 
and though convincing proofs of divers small 
thefts appeared, nothing was found that had 
been Mrs. Bird's property. Still, the general 
feeling was so strong against them, that they 
were committed for trial, which took place the 
following week. 

Death never excites such sympathy as it 
does when it assumes the shape of murder. In 
a few days the little garden was stripped of 
every plant, rosemary, rue, currant, and goose- 
berry bush, potato and cabbage. — all thattheii 
possessors might have some relic of " the hor 
rible murder;" and every one planted the spoil 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



199 



>n the most conspicuous part of their own 
garden. The poor old woman had been uni- 
versally liked ; she had kept that shop forty 
years; nothing had induced her to leave it, 
though the original motive for settling there 
had fong passed away. The " Great House," 
as it was wont to be called, where she had 
lived servant, and which had once been scarce- 
ly twice a stone's throw from her home, had 
since been pulled down. Mrs. Bird had for 
many years been the sole chronicler of the 
glories of " the old family;" and her former 
connexion with it gave her still something of 
consequence in the eyes of her neighbours. 
The most scrupulous honesty, a cheerful tem- 
per, and a great love for children (a singularly 
popular quality,) a regular attendance at church 
(on fine Sundays in the bright red shawl, on 
wet ones in a less bright red cloak,) and a 
naturally good understanding, made her be- 
loved, and her advice often both asked and 
taken. Many complained of the distance of 
her shop, but no one thought of going to 
another. All respected the feeling that made 
the old woman cling to the spot which had 
witnessed her youth, her marriage, and her 
old age. She had wedded, early in life, one 
of the gardeners of the " Great House," who, 
to use that common but most expressive phrase, 
had turned out " no better than he should do." 
Luckily, going home one night in a state of 
intoxication, he broke his neck — an event Mrs. 
Bird deplored much more than her neighbours 
thought necessary. However, it was not that 
sort of grief which requires consolation ; and 
the widow was not tempted to forget the mise- 
ries of her first marriage in the happiness of 
a second. She never gave hope that tri- 
umph over experience, which Dr. Johnson so 
ungallantly declares a second wedding to be. 
Years after years rolled away, and Mrs. Bird 
and her shop seemed as much part of the 
moor as the stunted furze bushes. No one 
dreamt of change till the morning of the 
murder, and then, as we have said, everybody 
had foreseen what the old woman's living by 
herself, in such an out-of-the-way place, would 
come to. 

Human nature is accused of much more sel- 
fishness than it really has ; a thousand kindly 
emotions break in upon and redeem our daily 
and interested life As Wordsworth beauti- 
fully says — 

" The poorest, poor 
Long fca some moments in a weary life, 
When they can know and feel that they have been 
Themselves the fathers ami the dealers out 
Of some small blessings— have been kind to such 
As needed kindness; "for this single cause, 
That we have all of us one human heart." 

And this old and solitary woman had been the 
rallying point for much good feeling, evinced 
in numerous little acts of common service. 
Many a young girl would give an hour's time 
to the sewing and darning to which Mrs. 
Bird's eyes were no longer equal — many a 
neighbour rose somewhat earlier to help her 
in her garden ; and not a creature went to or 
from market without pausing for a few minutes 
with the " poor soul who must be so lonely." 



Nor was the old dame without her kindness 
and her favours to bestow in return. She had 
more than once accommodated a friend with a 
humble, but most serviceable loan ; and would 
rather give very dubious credit for sugar and 
raisins at Christmas, than "that the poor 
children should go without their bit Cif plum- 
pudding once a year." She was learned in 
decocting all kinds of herb tea, infallible in 
curing burns, sprains, and scalds ; and not a 
few pennyworths of gingerbread and paradise 
(for the latter she was very famous) went 
among her young customers, for which the 
till was never the richer. No wonder, there- 
fore, thar her most barbarous murder exas- 
perated the peasantry almost to frenzy against 
the supposed criminals. 

On the examination of the gipsies, nothing 
had been elicited from either in the slightest 
degree corroborative of the charge against 
them. The man was at first furious, struggled 
with the officers, boldly declared his inno- 
cence, and finally settled down into sullen 
silence. The woman was quiet and gentle, 
watching only her husband's eye, and con- 
firming all his assertions. The prisoners at- 
tracted great attention ; they were both singu- 
lar and superior, evidently very different from 
the ignorant and simple villagers among whom 
they ordinarily moved. Rachel (such was 
the female's name) was perfectly beautiful, 
though in the peculiar style which belongs to 
her race : delicately made, with a mild md 
mournful cast of countenance, she seemed tho 
last person in the world to have engaged in an 
act of violence; indeed, the most distant allu- 
sion to murder drove the colour from her dark 
cheek, and convulsed her slight frame with a 
shudder of fear and loathing. There w T as 
something very remarkable in her devotion to 
her husband ; it was a mixture of deference, 
tenderness, and submission. Her age ap- 
peared to be about twenty ; and a general and 
strong sympathy was excited for a creature so 
}roung, so lovely, and so meek. 

The man was obviously turned of forty ; 
his black hair was mixed with gray, and the 
fine outline of his features was harsh with 
time and exposure to all weathers. He was 
tall, and his gait even commanding ; his hands 
and feet were of that small and fine mould we 
are accustomed to attribute to gentle blood ; 
the expression of his face was one which 
spoke both intellect and courage, though still 
more ferocity ; he seemed to belong to some 
other time than the present, when human life 
was held but lightly, and when a shrewder 
wit or a stronger arm made man a chief among 
his fellow-savages. 

We have seen that nothing was elicited on 
their examination. Still, taking all that could 
be discovered into consideration — first, that 
they had been observed speaking to the old 
woman the day before ; secondly, the approxi- 
mation of their encampment to the shop — for 
their tent was pitched in a small hazel wood 
copse not a quarter of a mile distant from the 
place ; thirdly, their abrupt departure ; and, 
fourthly, that not a shadow of suspicion coulf) 



200 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



attach to any but themselves: — on these 
grounds, as already mentioned, they had been 
ordered to be committed for trial to the county 
jail. It was not till the female found she 
was to be parted from her husband (for each 
was, of course, to be confined in a separate 
cell) that she uttered a cry, or made a gesture 
of resistance: then, even the jailers were 
touched by the passionate despair with which 
she clung to his knees, and implored him to 
let her remain, as if it depended solely on his 
will. His only answer consisted in holding 
out to her his manacled hands. It became 
necessary to separate them by force. Just as 
they bore her to the threshold, the gipsy sud- 
denly asked permission to bid her farewell: 
he advanced towards her, and said something 
in a low voice and in a foreign tongue. Her 
struggles ceased ; she made a brief reply in 
the same language, raised her hands with a 
very peculiar gesture above her head, and 
then pressed them to her heart. A look passed 
between them, and she was led quietly from 
the room. 

During the week of her imprisonment, her 
humble and sad bearing won upon the hearts 
of all. The elderly clergyman exerted even 
more than his usual anxious care ; but the 
holy eloquence which had subdued so many a 
sinner to repentance, and worked good out of 
evil, here utterly failed. The blessed truths 
of the Christian faith were poured fruitlessly 
into ears that evidently heard them for the 
first time, and were lost upon one whose be- 
lief was already given tb the wild supersti- 
tions taught in childhood and youth. It was 
equally vain to question her about the crime 
for which they were committed to prison ; her 
constant reply was, " He said he was inno- 
cent : why do you doubt him ?" 

Once and once only did she ask after her 
companion, and then instantly checked her- 
self; more, it seemed, from a fear of giving 
him offence, than out of any regard to those 
around her. There was a singular character 
about the love she manifested towards him ; 
it united the passionate devotedness of the 
mistress, the entire union of interests felt by 
the wife, the submission of the child, and 
something of the awe and homage paid by the 
vassal to his master. The gipsy's own con- 
duct had been very different ; he had contrived 
to make himself an object of fear and hate to 
every one who had approached him. But his 
fierce, sullen temper, and his great natural 
gifts, combined with a degree of knowledge 
surprising in his station, were principally 
called forth in his interviews with the clergy- 
man, whose arguments were met either by 
ingenious sophistries and turned aside from 
their real meaning, or by vindictive reproaches 
and keen and bitter sneers. With regard to 
the crime, he never swerved from his assertion 
of innocence. 

At length the day of trial arrived. Assured- 
ly the English trial for murder is an awful 
assembling ; the vague look of serious horror, 
which would be ludicrous under any other 
'.-"reumstances, is here redeemed by its fearful 



source. The grave costume of the bar, the 
dignified solemnity of the judge, the long 
robes, all differing from the ordinary apparel 
of daily life, have their full effect on at least 
two-thirds of the spectators. Some may be 
too thoughtful, others too thoughtless, to have 
their imagination affected by all this "pomp 
of circumstance ;" but this is far from being 
the feeling of the generality. 

The court was crowded at an unusually 
early hour. Gradually the dense and silent 
mass gave way before* the slow approach of 
the judge : he took his seat ; the twelve jury- 
men followed — there was a slight stir as each 
one settled in his place, and then all was quiet 
as the grave. 

There is a deep impression of awe produced 
by such a vast but silent crowd ; we are at 
once conscious that the cause is terrible which 
can induce the unusual stillness. The issue 
of a trial on which hangs life or death, is in- 
deed an appalling thing. We know that men 
are ajjout to take away that which they can- 
not give — that a few words of human breath 
will deprive of breath one of the number for- 
ever; and though we acknowledge that in 
this evil world punishment is the only security 
against crime, and that blood for blood has 
been a necessity from the beginning of time; 
still, we feel that the necessity is a dreadful 
one. A low murmur of execration — some- 
thing like the dull sound of the sea, when the 
waves prophesy, as it were, of the coming 
storm — ran through the court as the prisoners 
were brought in. 

" Order !" said the judge, in a clear, calm 
voice ; and again the deepest stillness pre- 
vailed. The female came first, so wrapped in 
her cloak that both her face and figure were 
quite concealed. The gipsy himself advanced 
with as much indifference and casting as care- 
less glances around, as if he were but walk- 
ing over a wild heath on a summer morning. 
He was dressed in a loose great-coat, fastened 
about his waist with a leathern belt, and wore 
round his throat a dingy crimson handker- 
chief; yet, in spite of his dress, he had that 
air of dignity which personal advantages al- 
ways confer when attended by entire freedom 
and self-possession. His height, his firm 
step, his handsome features, attracted every 
one ; but not an eye met his without shrinking 
from its keen and ferocious expression : — not 
a single individual present thought him inno- 
cent. 

Both were placed at the bar; and on a sign 
from the judge, the officer at her side removed 
the muffling from the female prisoner's face: 
she appeared scarcely conscious of the action 
The loner black hair, utterly unconfined, fell 
down in a mass of dark ringlets, strongly con- 
trasted by the bright red cloak ; they hung 
back off the countenance, whose sweet and 
childish beauty was thus fully displayed. 
She had vhe small smooth features, the fresh 
colour, the unconscious smile, which belongs 
only to very early youth, and those large, soft, 
beseeching eyes with which we almost un- 
awares connect the idea of helplessness and 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



201 



mnocence. It. was like sacrilege to nature to 
suspect of crime a creature so lovely. Those 
opposite could observe that her whole atten- 
tion was fixed on a beautiful nosegay placed 
on the bench near the judge. The season was 
too far advanced for the gardens to boast much 
bloom ; and the rich bunch of purple and crim- 
son flowers was from the hot-house of a gen- 
tleman noted for his rare collection of tropical 
plants. Her eyes filled with tears — was it 
possible that the spicy perfume and magnifi- 
cent dyes of the bouquet before her recalled 
the associations of her childhood] 

The prisoners were now required to plead 
guilty or not guilty. 

"Not guilty!" replied the gipsy, with an 
air of mingled confidence and defiance. 

His wife had not till that moment been 
aware of his presence. At the first tone of 
his voice, she sprang forward with a cry and 
look of intense delight, and throwing herself 
at his feet, embraced his knees, while joy and 
affection found vent in a passionate burst of 
tears. The gipsy seemed the least moved of 
any by the touching love of his wife ; he rather 
suffered than returned her caresses, receiving 
them more as homage is accepted, than as 
fondness is requited. 

How incomprehensible is woman's love ! — 
it is not kindness that wins it, nor return that 
insures it; we daily see the most devoted at- 
tachment lavished on those who seem to us 
singularly unworthy. The Spectator showed 
his usual knowledge of human nature, when, 
in speaking on this subject, he relates, that in 
a town besieged by the enemy, on the women 
being allowed to depart with whatever they 
held most precious, only one among them 
carried off her husband, — a man notorious for 
his tyrannical temper, and who had, moreover, 
a bad — or, as it turned out, a good — habit of 
beating his wife every morning. Well, all 
governments are maintained by fear — fear be- 
ing our great principle of action ; and fear, 
we are tempted to believe, heightens and 
strengthens the love of woman. 

For a minute, even the judge interfered not 
with a display of emotion so earnest and so 
affecting; and before the officers approached 
to separate the prisoners, Rachel arose at her 
husband's bidding, and stood quietly and 
meekly at his side. 

John Dodd, the first witness examined, 
contrived to throw into his story the confu- 
sion of his own ideas. Harriet Lynn came 
next, and was just as remarkable for the sim- 
plicity and clearness of her answers. Still, 
their evidence only proved the fact of the 
murder, not by whom it had been committed. 

The fearless make their own way — and the 
male prisoner's bold bearing was not without 
its effect. The tide of opinion turned rapidly 
in his favour; people began to think that a 
man might have a profusion of black elflike 
.locks and a ferocious expression of counte- 
nance, and yet not be an actual murderer. 

But we must go back to a period a little 
previous to the trial. 

Am ono- the barristers who went the northern 

Vol. II.— 26 



circuit was a Mr. Harvey, as shrewd a coun- 
sel as had ever merged a lifetime in law, save 
a few youthful reminiscences, which his com- 
peers called folly, but to which, nevertheless, 
they themselves turned with great satisfac- 
tion. Mr. Harvey's birthplace was within a 
few miles of Newcastle, where he always ar- 
rived one day before the assizes commenced; 
which day was as invariably spent in riding 
about the country, visiting all his boyish 
haunts, and ended by a dinner with two or 
three old friends, at the same inn, where he 
had now regularly dined for the last twenty 
years. It wag one of those beautiful days 
with which October abounds more than any 
other month ; a soft west wind expanded the 
few late flowers that yet made glad the more 
sheltered nooks ; the oaks, beeches, and chest- 
nuts (for the country was densely wooded,) 
still wore their richest and darkest green ; 
while the limes and sycamores contrasted 
them strongly with their bright red and vivid 
yellow. Haymaking and harvest had long 
been over ; so that little of rustic employment 
remained in the fields, whose stillness was 
almost unbroken. 

Now and then, as Mr. Harvey rode slowly 
along scenes so familiar to him, he was 
startled from his revery by the sudden rise of 
a covey of birds in an adjacent field ; or, in 
passing a secluded copse, the glossy plumage 
of the pheasant caught his eye, while the air 
was stirring with the sound of its loud and 
peculiar flight; and sometimes, faint and 
echoing in the distance, came the report of 
the solitary sportsman's gun, "few and fa; 
between." 

It was in a little lonely lane, girded on one 
side by a thick w 7 ood almost entirely composed 
of young oaks, and on the other by a grass- 
field and then a garden, both belonging to a 
small farm-house. There was an aspect of 
comfort and neatness, which spoke well for 
the inhabitants ; a pear tree covered the front 
that faced the road, and the porch was over- 
grown with Chinese roses, so delicate-looking, 
yet so hardy. Two children were standing 
close to the hedge, and their conversation ac- 
cidentally caught Mr. Harvey's attention, who 
was riding along at that sauntering pace for 
which a green and shadowy lane seems espe- 
cially made. 

"Ah ! grandfather will never bring you any 
thing again ; I've got his scissors quite safe." 
So saying, the little girl held up, with a great 
air of triumph, a shining pair of those femi- 
nine weapons, dangling by a piece of blue 
riband to her waist. "I'll tell him all about 
it ; and I shall be the favourite then, and not 
you, Master Jem." 

"I'm sure, Mary," said the boy, "you 
needn't talk; didn't I give you the string of 
birds' eggs I got for it 1 ?" 

"Well, well," replied his tormentor, who 
seemed about nine — a year older than her 
brother, " a knife cuts love, they say ; and 
your grandfather won't love you no more, now 
you've sold the knife he gave you. I've got 
my scissors — I've got my scissors ! and you Vq 



202 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS 



sold your penknife — your pretty tortoise-shell 
penknife !" 

And the girl ran down the garden, singing 
her last words over and over, her brother fol- 
lowing, with a look half of remorse and half 
of anger. 

" Born with them — born with them : all 
alike! No pleasure equal to the pleasure of 
tormenting, to a woman. Well, my little 
maiden, some ten years hence your brother 
will not be the only person you'll plague." 

So saying, the lawyer pushed his horse 
into a sort of discontented trot. 

A brisk ride, however, was exceedingly 
beneficial; and both he and his friends did 
full justice to the fresh trout and small mut- 
ton, which, for a score of years, the same 
landlord had prepared, and the same guests 
partaken of, at the White Hart. After dinner 
they gathered round the large, bright coal fire, 
whose one neatly-cut log emitted a shower of 
sparkles at every touch of the poker, — talked 
of former times, — sipped some fine old port, 
with a cobweb dress as fragile and more pre- 
cious than any blonde veil Chantilly ever pro- 
duced, — and felt more and more convinced, 
that though the world was a very bad one, yet 
there were some few things in it worth living 
for. . 

All recollection of the children and of their 
conversation had faded from Mr. Harvey's 
memory; but when a small tortoise-shell pen- 
knife was produced on the trial, — with that 
cultivated acuteness which formed so large a 
part both of his natural and acquired charac- 
ter, the coincidence instantly struck him. He 
was not engaged on either side ; so, leaving 
the court, he drove with all rapidity to the 
farm in the green and lonely lane. It was 
about five miles distant. The farmer was at 
home, and the barrister soon explained both 
his business and his plan. 

The child was sent fof — a little, frank, 
bold-looking boy, of eight years old. 

" So, my fine fellow," said Mr. Harvey, 
"you sold your grandfather's penknife?" 

Poor James had been very unhappy about 
this knife, and, on hearing the stranger's 
question, naturally concluded his grandfather 
had sent him ; he therefore only replied by a 
violent burst of tears. 

" Should you like to get the knife again ?" 

The boy's face cleared up instantly, and he 
rushed out of the room ; but speedily returned 
with a wooden box, having a small slit in the 
top, ingeniously contrived for the admission 
though not for the egress of money. He rat- 
tled its contents. 

"All my own, sir; all I have saved for 
Christmas. I will give it all to the man, if 
he will let me have my poor grandfather's 
knife back." 

"What man'?" asked the barrister. 

" O, the gipsy: he gave me a string of 
birds' eggs for it." 

" Should you know the man now V 

" O yes," said the ooy ; " he was so tall 
and black-looking." 



"Well, if you will come with me, I thinlj 
we ma}'' get your knife again." 

The child looked wistfully at his father. 

" May I go?" Of course permission was 
given. The farmer said he would accompany 
them ; and a few minutes saw them driving 
at full speed back to the town. 

Leaving his young witness outside, Mr. 
Harvey re-entered the court. 

" How does the trial go on ]" asked he jf 
a friend. 

"All in favour of the prisoners: there is no 
doubt of their innocence and of their acquit- 
tal." 

At this moment the counsel for the prosecu- 
tion stated that he had new facts to communi- 
cate, and important evidence to examine ; and 
Mr. Harvey entered the witness box. 

We have already narrated what he had to 
tell. 

The child was next called, evidently all 
surprise at the crowd and the scene ; and, 
when first questioned, apparently too much 
abashed to reply. But he was naturally a 
fearless little fellow, and soon gave the most 
simple and straight-forward answers. On be- 
ing asked if he understood the difference be- 
tween truth and falsehood, he said — 

" Yes, he knew it was very wicked to tell 
stories, but that he never did it." 

The knife was then shown him, which he 
recognised with a cry of delight; and stated, 
in the most artless and positive manner, how 
he came to sell it. He had been peeling a 
hazel twig, which he had taken from the copse 
adjoining the gipsy's tent — had cut his finger, 
which made him angry with the knife — at that 
moment the gipsy had come out of his tent, 
and offered him a string of birds' eggs for it — 
and he had accordingly made the exchange on 
the spot. 

The next question was, " Would he know 
the man with whom he made the exchange"?" 

To this he gave the same answer as he had 
before given to Mr. Harvey. 

Unknown to the boy, who continued to look 
wistfully on the knife, though he made not the 
slightest attempt to take it, the gipsy had been 
so placed in court among others, as to be dis- 
tinct, but not conspicuous. Little James was 
told to see if he could discover in the crowd 
the man with whom he bartered his knife. 

At first he looked in the wrong direction; 
but the moment he turned, his eye fell upon 
the gipsy. 

"There he is!" said he, pointing the pri-. 
soner out; and his whole frame trembling 
with eagerness, he clasped Mr. Harvey's 
hand, and exclaimed, "0, sir, you said I 
should perhaps get back my grandfather's 
knife : he may have all my money." 

So saying, he produced his little box, which 
he had brought with him. 

Not one in the court but marked the change 
in the gipsy's face when he caught sight of 
the child standing with the knife in his hand. 
He turned pale as death, and a shudder passed 
from head to foot. Whatever might be his 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



203 



feeling - , it, was checked and concealed almost 
instantly ; and the look of terror was succeed- 
ed by one of such ferocity, fixed on the child, 
that he clung to Mr. Harvey, crying, "I do 

not want to have my knife ajjain without 

n 
paying. 

On the female, the appearance of the child 
produced no effect. The testimony of James' 
father proved that the exchange had taken 
place the very day before the murder. 

The chain of evidence was now complete, 
and the counsel for the prosecution stated that 
he had no more questions to put. 

The prisoner was then asked whether he had 
aught to say in his defence, and especially in 
explanation of the remarkable fact so provi- 
dentially brought to light? He sullenly owned 
to having bought the knife, but said he had 
dropped it out of his pocket the same day. 

All were persuaded of the guilt of the man ; 
but a strong feeling of the innocence of the 
woman prevailed : when suddenly the gipsy 
turned to his companion, and in a low voice 
said something in the unknown language he 
had before used. The effect of the words on 
the woman was fearful; her loud, long, heart- 
broken shriek rang through the court, and she 
sank on her knees, half, it seemed, in an atti- 
tude of supplication, half from inability to 
support herself. She stretched forth her arms 
towards the prisoner, whose face, for the first 
time, wore an expression of tenderness, as he 
gazed upon her and spoke in a singularly 
sweet and softly modulated tone. She rose 
from her knees; and whatever the last sen- 
tence was, it restored her to tranquillity. All 
this passed in a moment, for the prisoners 
were immediately surrounded, and all further 
communication cut off between them. 

A breathless silence prevailed as the judge 
gave his charge to the jury. He spoke but 
briefly of the enormity of the crime — this 
murder of the aged, the defenceless, and the 
poor: the general horror which pervaded every 
one present showed that amplification was 
unnecessary. The very brevity had its effect ; 
it was as if the deed were too terrible to be 
dwelt upon in human hearing. He enlarged 
more on the folly of guilt, which is so fre- 
quently, and was in the present instance so 
unexpectedly awakened from its blind securi- 
ty, not by the chance of discovery against 
which it had successfully and yet vainly 
guarded, but by some little circumstance 
whose effects had never been feared. He 
then summed up the various facts which 
brought the murder home to the gipsy — the 
vicinity of his encampment; — his hurried de- 
parture — the purchase of the knife — the clear- 
ness with which the child gave his account, 
and identified the prisoner — the singular care- 
lessness which left the knife behind, as if 
fated that a discovery should be made — all 
was conclusive of the real criminal. 

The guilt of the female was perhaps less 
indubitably proved; but when her entire sub- 
jection to her husband was taken into consi- 
deration — the impossibility of his having 
committed the murder without her knowledge 



— the secret speech which, even in the very 
hearing of the court, had been carried on be- 
tween them — all these brought conviction of 
her knowledge of, if not participation in, the 
bloody deed. If any doubt rested on the jury's 
mind in favour of the prisoners, it was their 
duty to give the suspected the full benefit of 
that doubt. 

The jury retired; their deliberation was 
brief, but fatal ; and a verdict of guilty was 
returned against both. The judge recorded the 
sentence, and pronounced the penalty — death. 

" Death !" shrieked the female prisoner, and 
would have fallen with her face to the earth, 
but for the arm of the officer at her side. The 
gipsy himself burst into a torrent of blasphe- 
mies and revilings, amid which he was forced 
from the court. 

Alow moaning wind, a small sad rain, and 
a heavy lowering sky, were meet accompani- 
ments to the morning of execution. Slowly 
through the streets wound the gloomy proces- 
sion; the windows, the pavement, the road, 
alike crowded with spectators : all the ordi- 
nary tasks of the day were suspended — life 
pausing to gaze on death. 

Her head bowed on her shoulder, as if it 
lacked strength to bear up its length of black 
hair; every shade of colour fided from both 
lip and cheek, till the face had the fixed and 
cold rigidity of a corpse, though still beautiful 
in feature ; and the large dark eyes dilated 
with that look of bewildered terror you see in 
childhood, — the female seemed stupefied and 
powerless from excess of dread. 

The gipsy sat erect in the miserable cart, 
and every now and then his dark ferocious eye 
would single out some individual for a pierc- 
ing and malignant gaze : that night many a 
pillow was haunted by his peculiar and evil 
look. He evidently enjoyed the terror of 
his victims ; and but for his fetters, none 
would have guessed him to be the criminal 
whom but one short hour separated from eter- 
nity. 

The gibbet had been erected within fifty 
yards of Mrs. Bird's shop, and a long and 
dreary way there was before the murderer could 
reach the place of his crime and of its punish- 
ment. The usually lonely moor was covered 
with people ; and to the left the gallows, dimly 
seen through the thick fog, stood out every 
moment more distinctly, as the mist melted 
into rain. The prisoners were placed upon 
the scaffold, and their fetters knocked off; so 
great was the stillness, that almost every ear 
heard the clank of the chains as they fell tc 
the ground. 

Again the clergyman pressed forward to 
offer the holy, the only hope that can visit such 
an hour. The gipsy pushed him aside, and 
actually turned towards the hangman, who, 
silent and unmoved, waited to perform his 
dreadful duty-. 

Suddenly roused from the state of stupefac- 
tion to which fear had reduced her, the female 
filled the air with shrieks. Disengaging her- 
self from the officers, and rushing towards her 
husband, she clung with all her strength tc 



204 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



his arm, imploring- him, with frantic violence, 
not to let them kill her. He led, or rather 
dragged her to the front of the scaffold. 

At this moment, the wind, which ha<} been 
rising for some time, broke away the thick 
clouds behind into a line of cold clear light, 
which threw out the forms of the prisoners 
into gigantic proportions ; while, blowing in 
the face of the people, it carried every sound 
forwards with singular distinctness. 

Supporting the shuddering, but now speech- 
less creature, the gipsy held her forth to the 
crowd. 

"May the curse," said he, in a wild, shrill 
\ 7 oice — so shrill, it was more like a scream — 
" May the curse of the innocent blood ye will 
this day shed, rest among j^ou forever !" 

"Whispering something, in a tone so low as 
to be only audible to her, he gave his wife, 
without one caress or look, to the officer. She 
stretched her arms towards her husband, but 
sank back fainting. 

The hangman approached. 

" Her first," exclaimed the gipsy, — the only 
touch of human feeling he had shown. 

While the rope was putting round her long 
slender neck she was quite passive , but her 
dying struggles were terrible. A suppressed 
cry of sympathy, a strange low moan — only 
loud from being so general — rose from the 
spectators : it sank into silence as the execu- 
tioner turned to the, gipsy. He raised his 
hand with a fierce gesture of menace to the 
crowd below, then, allowing the rope to be 
adjusted with utter carelessness, was launched 
into the air, and died seemingly without a 
struggle. 

The black cloud, which had been sailing 
en, now burst, the rain came down in torrents, 
the crowd rapidly dispersed ; and in half an 
hour, the moor, which had been like a vast 
plain of human faces, was silent and solitary 
— there remained only the dark gibbet high in 
mid-air, and the two bodies swung violently 
to and fro by the fierce wind. 

Towards evening the fitful gleam of the 
lantern, and red glare of the torch, fell upon a 
small, sullen-looking group of the law's of- 
ficials: the hangman was among them, and 
his harsh, malignant face given fully to view. 
Hastily they dug a hole, and at the foot of the 
gallows buried the wretched woman ; but the 
body of the man was made fast in chains, and 
left for the scorching sun, the withering wind, 
and the birds of prey, to preserve or to destroy. 
The torches were extinguished ; a flickering 
light from the lantern shone for a while over 
the scene — gradually diminishing, till it finally 
disappeared. Long was it before human step 
ventured across the dismal and deserted moor. 

About a week after the execution, two cir- 
cumstances occurred which tended greatly to 
criminate the man and exculpate his wife. All 
the missing articles of Mrs. Bird's property 
were found in a holl r<,y tree, deep in the hazel 
thicket, tied up in an old yellow handkerchief, 
which the villagers remembered seeing the 
gipsy wear. One fact went far to prove 
Rachel's innocence. Some months after, a 



girl, who was in service, and had come home 
for a few days to be present at her sister's 
wedding, mentioned that she had, the very 
morning of the murder, set off early for the 

town of A , where she was to meet the 

wagon — that she had had her fortune told by 
the woman, and had hurried away on seeing 
the husband approaching from the hazel 
thicket, she having always feared and disliked 
him. This was between seven and eight 
o'clock, just the time when the murder must 
have been committed ; for John Dodd, the car- 
rier, was there about half-past eight, and the 
body was then warm with recent life. 

The belief in the innocence of the woman 
gave even a deeper horror to the moor: the 
shop went to ruins, the path was deserted, 
and even now, when the gallows tree and the 
body have alike gone to decay, the tradition 
haunts the place fresh and fearful as ever. One 
trace remains of the little cottage garden. In 
the midst of the bare or furze-covered moor 
are two or three stunted gooseberry bushes • 
it is years since they have borne fruit, or more 
than a few leaves on the gray and knotted 
boughs ; but they are still pointed out as hav- 
ing grown in Mrs. Bird's garden. 



BELINDA ; 

OR, THE LOVELETTER. 

Another soft and scented page, 
Fill'd with more honey'd words ! 

What motives to a pilgrimage 
A shrine like mine affords ! 

I know, before I break the seal, 
The words that I shall find : — 

" The wound which you alone can heal- 
So fair, yet so unkind !" 

There, take your fortune on the wind ! 

Ah, how the breeze has borne 
(As if our malice were combined) 

The fragments I have torn ! 
So let the vows they offer pass — 

Vows fugitive and vain ; 
I should as soon expect the glass 

My image to retain. 

I care not for a heart whose youth 

Is gone before its years, * # 
Which makes a mockery of truth, 

Which finds a boast in tears. 
That is not love, when idleness 

Would fill a listless hour — 
'Tis vanity, which prizes less 

The passion than the power. 

I hold that love which can be kept 

As silent as the grave, 
And pure as dews by evening wept 

Upon the heaving wave — 
Imbodyingall life's poetry, 

Its highest, dearest part : 
And till such love my own may be, 

I bear a charmed heart. 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



205 



GULNARE. 

O, never more the flowers will stoop 

Beneath her fairy feet ; 
The myrtle with its bloom may droop, 

But not above her seat ; 
And no more will that fountain glass 

The image of Gulnare — 
How softly would that shadow pass 

When noon was shining there ! 

How well the echoes used to know 

The music of her lute ! 
The wind amid the leaves may blow, 

But those sweet tones are mute. 
The place is now an alter'd place. 

And not what it has been ;— 
It was the beauty of her face 

Gave beauty to the scene. 

Why did her eye in pity dwell 

Upon that English knight, 
The prisoner of the buried cell 

Where day forgot its light ? 
It is a w r eary thing to lie 

With weak and fetter'd hand, 
While youth's brave time is passing by, 

And rust creeps o'er the brand. 

'Twas in the still night's silent hours, 

The captive dreaming lay 
Of his own old ancestral towers, 

His mother far away. 
He heard a step — a low, hush'd breath — 

A sweet brow o'er him shone, 
As even by the bed of death 

Might shine an angel one. 

She bound his wounds, she gave him food, 

With odours and red wine ; 
And from a dreary solitude 

That cell became a shrine. 
She came there once — she came there twice ; 

The third time he was free : 
She listen'd not her heart's advice, 

Thougfh weak that heart might be : 



But to the lover's gentle praye* 

Her pale lip still replied, 
"I may not, for a stranger's car-, 

Forsake my father's side." 
Her hair hung down below her knee, 

Though loop'd with orient pear. ; 
He pray'd her of her courtesy 

To give him one dark curl. 

" 'Mid friend and foe, 'mid weal an to, 

This soft braid I'll retain ; 
And lady's favour, for thy sake, 

I'll never wear again." 
She. would not let him see her tears- • 

A time would come to weep : 
Alas for young and wasted years 

That one remembrance keep ! 

Ah ! soon grief wears away the rose 

From any youthful cheek, 
And soon the weary eyes will close 

Which hope not what they seek : 
When dreams bring that loved face I) 
night 

We never see by day, 
Then the heart sickens at the light, 

And the look turns away. 

There are some roses droop and die, 

While others bloom so fair — 
Gone with their first and sweetest sigh : 

So was it with Gulnare. 
Alas ! the Earth hides many flow T ers 

W T ithin her silent breast; 
But could she not have spared us ours— 

Our dearest and our best ? 

Within the City of the Dead 

The maiden hath her home ; 
There are the dews of evening shed, 

And there the night-v/inds come. 
0, Cypress ! whose dark column waves, 
Nursed by the mourner's tear, 
Thy shadow falls on many graves, 

But not on one so dear ? 



THERESA. 



"There are individuals doomed to misfor- 
tune, and such is my destiny. There must be, 
among the general ill-luck, some one who is 
the unluckiest of them all : I am that one. 
To be banished from Vienna before the new 
ballet, and simply for being absent from my 
quarters without leave — what I have done 
fifty times before with impunity ! And now 
for Colonel Rasaki — as though he had hoarded 
all the malice of his life for a moment — to 
hold forth on the necessity of strict discipline ; 
and to awaken me from the prettiest allegory 
of the West-wind suddenly being personified 
by Madlle. Angeline, with an order from the 
emperor to try the air of this old castle — as 

Vol. II. 



if I were a ghost or a rat, and could possibly 
be the better for dust, rust, damp, and dark- 
ness !" 

Count Adalbert walked up and down the 
gloomy chamber which had been hurriedly 
prepared for his reception. The high and 
narrow windows had been built as if quite 
unconscious of their proper destination, and 
excluded the light and air as much as possi- 
ble; still, many of the panes having been 
broken, little streams of the rain now beating 
against them came driving in ; and a variety 
of small zephyrs, in the shape of draughts, 
did any thing but add to the count's Cv>mfort. 
Haifa tree would not have sufficed to fill the 
S 



206 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



ample hearth, on which could just be per- 
ceived a flickering- flame, almost lost in the 
immense volumes of smoke that rolled into 
the room, like waves on a beach ; till Adal- 
bert rushed in despair into the outward hall, 
which was inhabited by the one or two an- 
tique servitors who still remained in the large 
but ruinous building 1 . 

The sight of the old woman, whose wrinkled 
visage had driven him away in the first in- 
stance, might be shut out ; now the smoke 
could not. Down he sat on a wooden stool, 
which must have been the first attempt ever 
made at a seat, so irregular were its shape 
and movements. This he drew to a table, 
whereon a most disconsolate supper was 
spread : twice the visiter looked down, to see 
whether he was cutting the meat or the wooden 
trencher. 

Like most other young men, Count Adal- 
bert had relations who conceived the} T knew 
better what was good for him than he did 
himself; and his uncle — whose experience 
was certainly very efficacious as a warning, 
and who believed that an error was easier 
to be prevented than remedied— on perceiving 
the young count's predilection for the prettiest 
dancer that had ever illuminated the horizon 
of Vienna, deemed that some rouleaux, and 
even a diamond necklace, would be saved by 
his nephew's being introduced to the histori- 
cal records of his family, in which the old 
Castle of Aremberg occupied a distinguished 
place. Advantage was accordingly taken of 
a slight breach of military observance, and the 
delinquent forced to leave Vienna at a quarter 
of an hour's notice- — quite unsuspicious how 
active his uncle had been for his good. Had 
Adalbert been aware of this most fatherly act, 
it is probable that his guardian would have 
more than shared the execrations which the 
exile lavished in his inmost heart on fate, 
Colonel Rasaki, nay even on the august per- 
son of the emperor. 

A long ride had completely fatigued him, 
and he resolved to postpone his discontents. 

"I shall have time enough to grumble," 
thought he, as he followed the lighted pine 
splinter — the only taper the place afforded — to 
the state chamber. The moths flew out of the 
tapestry as he entered — they had half devour- 
ed the court of Solomon, no more " in all his 
glory ;" the green velvet hangings of the enor- 
mous bed had shared the same fate ; and Adal- 
bert was again driven to the hall, where he fell 
asleep thinking of suicide, and awoke dream- 
ing of Angeline, whose image, however, in- 
stantly took flight before the melancholy 
reality of the old castle. 

Yet, a week had not elapsed before Adal- 
bert thought the said castle very well for a 
change, and the neighbourhood delightful. 
The truth is, he had fallen in love — as plea- 
sant a method of passing time in the country 
as any young gentleman could devise. 

Wandering in search of the beauties of na- 
ture — (people who have nothing else to do, 
become picturesque in self-defence) — he met 



peasant girl that ever " made sunshine :n a 
shady place." A scarlet cloth cap, trimmed 
with fur, partly covered a profusion of fair 
hair, which was parted on the soft forehead, 
and fell in bright and natural ringlets on the 
neck ; her dress was of gray serge, and short 
enough to show a foot and ankle such as not 
even the rude country shoes could disguise; 
her cheek had the bright beaming crimson of 
early youth and morning exercise ; and her 
deep blue eyes shone with the vivacity of un- 
curbed gayety and unbroken spirits. She 
came along, bearing a willow basket of wood 
strawberries and wild blossoms, with a danc- 
ing step, and a lively song on her lips, sing 
ing in the very gladness of her heart. 

The strawberries led to an acquaintance- — 
Adalbert was thirsty, and. Theresa (for such 
was her name) generous : she divided her 
fruit with the stranger, eagerly pressing the 
best upon him, in all the frank and earnest 
good-nature of a child. She was too simple, 
and too much accustomed to meet with kind- 
ness from every one, to be bashful. 

They arrived at the cottage, where Theresa's 
mother made Adalbert as welcome as herself; 
and in a few days, whether seated by her 
side as she turned her spinning-wheel of an 
evening, or with her when wandering in search 
of wild flowers and fruit, the contented exile 
and the beautiful peasant were constantly to- 
gether. The dame was exceedingly quick in 
observing their love, which she seemed to 
consider quite natural. Though very ignorant, 
she had seen something of society beyond 
their own valley and its peasantry, and at 
once discovered that the count was their su- 
perior : but the goodness and loveliness of 
her child entitled her, in the old woman's 
eyes, to be a princess at least. 

Theresa was the most guileless creature, 
and had never dreamt of love till she felt it ; 
the world to her was bounded by the wild 
moor and deep wood wmich surrounded their 
cottage. The only human beings she had 
ever beheld were the ancient domestics at the 
castle, and a few of the peasants far poorer 
than themselves ; for they had many com- 
forts, which their neighbours eyed with much 
suspicion and some env}^. Learning she had 
none, for neither mother nor daughter could 
read; but knowledge she had acquired. She 
knew all the legends and ballads of the coun- 
try by heart; these gave their poetry to her 
naturally vivid imagination ; and the imagina- 
tion refines both feeling and manner. Hav- 
ing lived in absolute seclusion, she had noth- 
ing of that coarseness caught from familiar 
intercourse unrestrained by the delicacies of 
polished life. Her companions had been ths 
bird and the blossom, her songs, and he} 
thoughts; and if the poet's dream of unso- 
phisticated, yet refined nature, was ever real- 
ized, it was in that sweet and innocent maiden. 
Her love for Adalbert was a singular blending 
of childishness and romance : now her inward 
delight would find vent in buoyant laughter, 
and the playfulness of a young fawn bound- 
ing 4 -mg the sunny glades of a forest : but 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



207 



oftener would she sink into a deep and tender 
silence — as if conscious that a new and even 
fearful existence had opened upon tier — and 
gaze in his face, till her eyes were averted to 
conceal the large tears that had insensibly ga- 
thered in them. They had been acquainted with 
each other one whole fortnight, when the old 
priest at Hartzburg was called upon to marry 
the handsomest couple that had ever stood be- 
fore the image of the Madonna ! 

If we did but know how we rush into one 
evil while seeking to avoid another, we should 
have no resolution to shun any thing. Could 
Count von Hermanstadt have anticipated that 
the fascinating dancer was far less dangerous 
than the then unknown peasant, his nephew 
would never have been ordered to the Castle 
of Aremberg. Little either could he dream, 
that the incognito he had himself enjoined, 
would have been found so useful and agree- 
able by his nephew. For Count von Her- 
manstadt, though very willing that Adalbert 
should take the emperor's displeasure for 
granted, was not desirous that others of a 
court where the sovereign's favour was every 
thing, should likewise take it for granted. 

The first three weeks of Adalbert's married 
life passed very delightfully away, his posi- 
tion was one of such complete novelty : the 
cottage really was pleasanter than the castle ; 
and if Theresa's beauty might have. been a 
model for the painter, as the sweet colours 
flitted over her face, in like manner the many 
emotions that now disturbed the calm of a 
mind hitherto so tranquil and so glad, might 
have been a study for the philosopher. But 
Adalbert's previous habits had been ill-fitted 
to make their present state one of security — 
nay, his very youth was an obstacle ; for in 
youth it seems so natural to love and be be- 
loved, that we know not how to value as we 
ought the first devotion of the entire and 
trusting heart. Moreover, he had lived in a 
world of sarcasm ; and Theresa's ignorance, 
which, now they were by themselves, was but 
a source of amusement, would, as he was 
aware, have been fertile matter of ridicule 
in society — ridicule, too, which must have 
reflected on him. Besides, all the prejudices 
of ancestry had, from infancy, been grafted on 
his mind — and he would as soon have thought 
of throwing his companion into the river on 
whose waters they were gazing, each on the 
mirrored face of the other, as of presenting her 
at Vienna. And yet that would have been the 
more merciful course. What was life whose 
affections were wounded, and whose hopes 
were destroyed ? And such was the life to 
which Adalbert was about to leave her. It 
came at last. 

Mademoiselle Angeline's engagement had 
now drawn to its close : the manager offered 
to have the stage paved with ducats, if she 
would but give him one night more — the tenth 
muse was inexorable ; and the day she de- 
parted for Paris, Adalbert received his recall 
to Vienna. To say he felt no regret, would 
be doing him scant justice — to say he felt 
much, would be more than the truth. Once 



or twice he thought of taking Theresa with 
him; but from this step he shrank for many 
reasons, not the least of which was, that a 
lingering impulse of good forbade his trans- 
planting the pure and beautiful flower to 
wither and die in the thick and blighting at- 
mosphere of the city : besides, he should often 
be able to visit Aremberg. He told them of 
important business — of a speedy return — and 
said all that has been so often and vainly said 
in the hour of parting. He threw his horse's 
bridle over his arm, and Theresa walked with 
him along the little forest path which led to 
the road. 

Adalbert was almost angry that she showed 
none of the passionate despair, whose com- 
plaints he had nerved himself to meet : pale, 
silent, she clasped his hand a little more ten- 
derly, she gazed on his face even more in- 
tently, than usual ; and yet these tokens of 
sorrow she seemed trying to suppress. It 
never entered her imagination that any en- 
treaty of hers could alter their position — that 
any prayer could have prolonged Adalbert's 
stay for an hour ; but every effort was directed 
to conceal her own grief: she felt so acutely 
the least sign of his suffering, that she only 
wished to spare him the sight of hers. At 
last he mounted his horse — once he looked 
back — Theresa was leaning against the old 
oak tree for support, watching his progress — 
she caught his look, and as she interpreted it 
into an intention of returning, she held out 
her hands, and he could see the light come 
again to her eye and the colour to her cheek, 
while she sprang forward breathless with ex- 
pectation; he, however, averted his head, and 
spurred his steed to its utmost swiftness : he 
did not see her sink on the earth — the strength 
which had sustained her had gone with her 
husband. 

Youth's first acquaintance with sorrow is a 
terrible thing — before time has taught, what 
it will surely teach, that grief is our natural 
portion, at once transitory and eternal. But 
the first lesson is the severest — we have not 
then looked among our fellows, and seen that 
suffering is general ; and we feel as if marked 
out by fate for misery that has no parallel. 
Theresa felt more acutely every hour, how 
wide a gulf had opened between her present 
and past existence : her girlhood had passed 
forever ; she took no pleasure in any of her 
former pursuits; she had put away childish 
things ; and nothing had arisen to supply their 
place, save one memory haunted but by one 
image. Days, weeks elapsed, and Adalbert 
returned not — her sleep was broken by a thou- 
sand fanciful terrors ; but one fear had taken 
possession of her mother Ursaline's mind- 
that the stranger was false ; and bitterly did 
she lament that she had ever intrusted him 
with the happiness of her precious child. 

"And yet 1 did it for the best!" she would 
piteously exclaim, whenever her eye fell on 
the pale cheek of her daughter. 

"He is come, my mother!" exclaimed 
Theresa, bounding one evening into the cottage 
with a long-unaccustomed Ughtness of heart 



208 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



and step. Though eager to spring down the 
path and meet him, yet, amid all the forget- 
fulness of joy, she had bethought her of her 
aged parent, and returned that she too might 
share the happiness of their meeting. They 
hurried out, and three horsemen were riding 
up the valley — one much in advance of the 
others. 

" Mother, it is a stranger !" with difficulty 
articulated Theresa, and, sick at heart, clung 
to her arm for support. 

The rider was full in sight, when, with a 
shriek that roused her daughter, Ursaline ex- 
claimed, "Now the blessed saints be good 
unto us, but it is my old master — I should 
know him amid a thousand !" 

The words were scarcely uttered, when the 
horseman dismounted at a rough part of the 
road, and, flinging his bridle to his attendants, 
approached alone. He was a tall, stately, 
and austere-looking man, seemingly about 
fifty, and one who apparently knew the place 
well. Ursaline dropped on her knee ; he 
raised her kindly, and, following the direc- 
tion of her look, turned and clasped Theresa 
in his arms. 

" My child ! my sweet child !" and he 
gazed long and earnestly on her beautiful 
face. 

" Your father, the Baron von Haitzinger," 
murmured Ursaline. 

But as our explanation will be more brief 
than' one broken in upon by words of wonder, 
regret, and affection, we will proceed to it ; 
holding that explanation, like advice, should 
be of all convenient shortness. So much good 
luck had the Baron von Haitzinger had during 
the first thirty years of his life, that fortune 
seemed under the necessity of crowding an 
inordinate portion of evil into a small space, 
in order to make up for lost time. The same 
day brought him intelligence of his wife's de- 
sertion, and of his attaintment as a traitor; 
and, further, that this accusation had been 
chiefly brought about by the intrigues of his 
former partner. A price being set on a man's 
head, usually makes him very speedy in his 
movements ; and the baron fled from his castle 
with the rapidity of life and death, but not un- 
accompanied. Wrapt in his mantle he bore 
with him their only child, a little girl of two 
years old. As boys, he and the Count von 
Hermanstadt had often hunted in the forests 
around Aremberg; his own foster-sister had 
married one of the dependants of the family ; 
and to the care of Ursaline, now a widow, he 
resolved to intrust his Theresa. Never should 
she owe her nurture to her mother — no, she 
should grow up pure and unsophisticated as 
the wild flowers on the heath beside her dwell- 
ing. Ursaline gave the required oath of se- 
crecy, and took the charge. 

Years and years of exile had passed over 
the baron's head ; his wife died — that was 
some comfort; and at length, a new emperor, 
together with the indefatigable efforts of his 
friend. Von Hermanstadt, procured the esta- 
blishment of his innocence, the repeal of his 
banishment, and the restoration of his estate. 



His first act was to throw himself at the feet 
of his gracious sovereign, his second to depart 
in search of his child. 

We have stated, it was the baron's wish 
that Theresa should be brought up in igno- 
rance and simplicity ; but, as usually happens 
when our wishes are fulfilled, he was disap 
pointed and somewhat dismayed on finding 
that she could not even read ; and that instead 
of French, now the only language tolerated at 
Vienna, and which alone he had spoken for 
years — his exile having been alleviated by a 
constant residence at Paris — his child was 
unable to greet him save in the gutturals of 
her native German. Aghast at the ridicule 
the result of his experiment might entail upon 
him, he hurried to his family estate: nere, 
having engaged a French governess and a pro- 
fessor of singing, he resolved to keep Theresa 
in perfect seclusion for two years longer. 
Somewhat reluctantly, Ursaline accompanied 
them ; for her dread of their secret being dis- 
covered almost overcame her distress at the 
bare thought of her foster-child. 

"The baron will kill us if he hears of your 
marriage — and yet I did it for the best : 1 
thought he must be dead, and I knew you 
ought to marry none but a noble. Who could 
have thought Count Adalbert would have 
proved so false-hearted"?" 

Such were the constant lamentations of the 
old nurse whenever they v/ere alone : but the 
secret she had to keep was too much for her ; 
and six weeks after leaving their cottage, 
Ursaline was safe from Von Haitzinger's 
anger in the grave. 

Theresa wept for her long and bitterly : 
many sorrows took the semblance of one. 
Treated as a child, offered the amusements 
and the rewards of a child, when her heart 
was full of the grief and care of a woman — 
hourly she was more and more thrown upon 
herself. Her father, who considered every 
moment lost which was not given to the pur- 
suit of education, debarred himself from her 
society. It was a sacrifice, but to Theresa it 
appeared choice; and he thus repelled the 
confidence which kindness and familiar inter 
course might have encouraged. She soon took 
an interest in the employments selected for 
her — they served to divert her attention from 
a remembrance that grew continually more 
painful. Every step she gained in knowledge, 
every experience brought by reading or con- 
versation, but served to show her more fully 
the difficulty of her position. 

Love is the destiny of a woman's life, and 
hers had been sealed on the threshold of exist- 
ence : it was too late now to change the colour 
of or alter the past. Theresa's greatest enjoy- 
ment was to wander through the lonely gar- 
dens : though the leaf and the flower could 
never more be to her the companions they had 
been, still, when alone, they aided her in re- 
calling the days when they were mute wit- 
nesses to vows which had the common fate of 
being kept but by one. The difference be- 
tween herself and those of her own age con- 
sisted in this, that they looked to the future, 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



209 



she dwelt upon the past; they hoped, she 
only remembered. 

The young countess's instructers were loud 
in their praises of her docility and progress ; 
the French governess remarking, "Mademoi- 
selle est pleine den talens et des graces; mais elle 
est si Iriste et si silencieuse." 

The two years passed, and Theresa was to 
accompany her father to Vienna. The Baron 
von Haitzinger, who had never quite recovered 
the shock of finding that his daughter could 
only speak German, and could neither read 
nor write, was utterly unprepared for the sen- 
sation she produced on her introduction into 
society. Theresa at twenty more than realized 
the promise of seventeen; yet it is singular 
how much the character of her beauty was 
changed. She had been a glad, bright, buoy- 
ant creature, with a cheek like a rose, a mouth 
radiant with smiles, and the golden curls 
dancing in sunny profusion over the blushes 
they shaded. Now her hair and eyes were 
much darker, her cheek was pale, and the 
general cast of her face melancholy and 
thoughtful; her step was still light, but slow 
— it was urged on no longer by inward buoy- 
ancy : and if a painter, three years before, 
would have chosen her as a model for the 
youngest of the Graces, he would now have 
selected her for the loveliest of the Muses — so 
ethereal, so intellectual was that sad and ex-" 
pressive countenance. Her father was charm- 
ed with the ease and self-possession of her 
manner — the perfection of beautiful repose: 
true, it was broken in upon by none of the 
flatterings of girlish vanity, none of the slight 
yet keen excitements of a season given to 
gayety. 

The countess was wholly indifferent to the 
scene that surrounded her — to its pleasure and 
its triumph; she had a standard of her own 
by which she measured enjoyment, and found 
what was here deemed pleasure by others, to 
be vapid and worthless ; and now, more than 
ever, the image of Adalbert rose present to her 
mind. She compared him with the many ca- 
valiers about her; and the comparison was, as 
it ever is, in favour of the heart's earliest idol. 
Even when unconsciously yielding to the in- 
fluence exercised by light, music, and a glit- 
tering crowd, Theresa would start back, and 
muse on what might be the fate of Adalbert at 
that very moment; for, with a confidence be- 
longing to youth and woman, she admitted any 
suggestion rather than the obvious one of his 
inconstancy. Two or three brilliant conquests 
cost her a sleepless night and a pale cheek; 
but as her father always acquiesced in a prompt 
refusal, she gradually became happy in the 
belief that he did not desire her marriage. 

One evening all Vienna was assembled at a 
reunion given by the French ambassador. Daz- 
zling with jewels, and looking her very love- 
liest, Theresa was seated beside the lady who 
accompanied her, when her eye suddenly rest- 
ed on Adalbert. A dense crowd was between 
them, but the platform on which he was stand- 
ing enabled him to see over their heads; and 
he was evidently gazing on her. With a faint 

Vol,. II.— 27 



cry, she half started from her seat — fortunately 
she was unobserved; and again sinking back 
in her chair, she endeavoured to collect her 
scattered spirits from their first confusion of 
surprise and delight. Her astonishment had 
yet to be increased. The baron appeared on 
the scene, greeted the stranger most cordially, 
and arm in arm they descended among the 
throng. At intervals she caught sight of his 
splendid uniform; it came nearer and nearer : 
at last they emerged from a very ocean of vel- 
vet and plumes, and her father adressed her — 

"Theresa, my love ! I am most anxious to 
present to you the nephew of my oldest friend, 
Prince Ernest von Hermanstadt." 

Adalbert, or Ernest, bowed most admiringly, 
it is true, but without the slightest token of 
recognition. Faint, breathless, Theresa sought 
in vain to speak. 

" You look pale, my child," said her father; 
" the heat is too much for you. Do, Ernest, 
try to make your way with her to the window, 
and I will get a glass of water." 

Theresa felt her hand drawn lightly through 
the arm to which she had so often clung, and 
the prince with some difficulty conveyed her 
to the window. There they stood alone for 
some minutes, before the baron could rejoin 
them; yet not by word or sign did her com- 
panion imply a previous knowledge. His 
manner was most gentle, most attentive ; but 
it was that of a perfect stranger. 

Theresa drank the glass of water, and, by a 
strong effort, recalled her presence of mind. 
She looked in Prince Ernest's face — it was no 
mistake ; every feature of that noble and strik- 
ing countenance was too deeply treasured for 
forgetfulness. Her father, by continually ad- 
dressing her, showed how anxious he was for 
her to join in the conversation. At last she 
trusted her voice with a few brief words ; the 
prince listened to them eagerly, but, it was 
evident, only with present admiration. 

They remained together the rest of the 
evening, and the Prince von Hermanstadt 
handed her to the baron's carriage. 

" What do you think of my young favour- 
ite 1" asked her father, as they entered their 
abode. "But I hate unnecessary mysteries, 
so shall tell you at once, that in Prince Ernest 
you see your destined husband : you have 
been betrothed from your birth. This, how- 
ever, is no time to talk over family matters, 
for you look fatigued to death." 

Theresa retired to her chamber, her head 
dizzy with surprise and sorrow. She had 
gleaned enough from the conversation to dis- 
cover that Ernest's absence from his country 
had been entirely voluntary — that she had 
known him under a feigned name — therefore, 
from the very first he had been deceiving her. 
Strange that till this moment her heart had 
never admitted the belief of his falsehood ! As 
she paced her room, she caught sight of her 
whole-length figure in the glass: then rose 
upon her memory her own reflection as she 
had seen it shadowed in the river near her 
early home, and the change in herself struck 
her forcibly 

■ 9 



210 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



"I marvel that he knew me not? — it were 
far greater marvel had he known me." 

She looked long and earnestly in the mir- 
ror ; a rich colour rose to her cheek, and the 
light flashed from her eyes — 

" What if I could make him love me now 1 
and then let him feel only the faintest part of 
what I have felt!" But the last words were 
so softly uttered, that they sounded like any 
thing rather than a denunciation of revenge. 

The next day and the next saw Ernest a 
constant visiter ; and Theresa in vain sought 
to hide from herself the truth, that she felt a 
keen pleasure in observing how much more 
suitable her new self was to her former lover. 
Then they had nothing, now they had so much 
in common with each other; they read to- 
gether, they talked together; and Hermanstadt 
was delighted with the melancholy and 
thoughtful style of her conversation. 

The summer was now advancing, and Hait- 
zinger proposed visiting the castle. Thither 
the whole party adjourned; the two elder 
barons — for Ernest's uncle had now joined 
them — leaving the young people almost en- 
tirely to themselves. Here Theresa could not 
but perceive that Ernest grew daily depressed ; 
sometimes he would leave her abruptly, and 
she would afterwards learn that for hours he 
had been wandering alone. 

One evening, while walking in the old pic- 
ture gallery, Theresa turned to the window to 
admire the luxuriant growth of a parasitic 
plant, whose drooping white flowers hung in 
numberless fragrant clusters. Ernest approach- 
ed to her side, and they leant from the case- 
ment — both mute with the same emotion, 
though from different causes. Suddenly he 
broke silence, and Theresa again listened to 
the avowal of his love. But now the voice 
was low and broken, and he spoke mournfully 
and hopelessly ; for in the same hour in which 
he owned his passion for the countess, he also 
acknowledged to her his marriage with the 
peasant. 

Ernest had, in truth, been spoilt by circum- 
stances ; his conquests had been too easy, and 
he had mistaken vanity and interest for love. 
But a deep and pure feeling elevates and 
purifies the heart into which it enters. His 
passion for Theresa brought back his better 
nature; and he now bitterly deplored the 
misery he must have caused the young and 
forsaken creature, whose happiness he had de- 
stroyed by such thoughtless cruelty. " The 
sacrifice I now make may well be held an 
atonement." 

He turned to leave the gallery as he spoke, 
out Theresa's voice arrested his steps. 

"I have long known your history, Prince 
Ernest — long looked for this confession. Your 
wife is now in the castle ; I will prepare her 
for an interview — from her you must seek 
your pardon." 

She was gone before Von Hermanstadt re- 
covered his breath. It would be vain to say 
what were his thoughts during the succeeding 
minutes; shame, surprise — something, too, of 
pity blended with regret. He had not moved 



from the spot, when the countess's page put a 
note into his hand. 

"I do not wish to let my father know all 
yet: join us at the end of the acacia wood— . 
your wife there awaits your arrival. 

" Theresa." 

The prince obeyed the summons mechani- 
cally — as in dreams we obey some strange 
power. A sharp angle in the walk brought 
him, before he was aware, to the place ; and 
there, as though he had but just parted from 
her, stood his wife, leaning for support against 
the old oak. She wore the scarlet cap broider- 
ed with fur, the gray stuff dress, and the 
plaited apron : her beautiful profile was half 
turned towards him. 

"Theresa!" he whispered ; when, starting 
at the face which was now completely given 
to view, he exclaimed, "Is it possible?" for 
he saw instantly that it was the countess be- 
fore him. 

" Yes, Adalbert — or Ernest — by which name 
shall I claim you ?" And the next moment 
she was in his arms. 

Confession and forgiveness followed of 
course; though the Baron von Haitzinger re- 
solved that he would give no encouragement 
to his granddaughters being brought up in 
unsophisticated seclusion, as it rarely happens 
that two experiments of the same kind turn 
out well. Still, it is but justice to state, that 
Theresa never had any further occasion to re' 
gret that her husband's heart was once lost 
and twice won. 



MEDITATION. 

A sweet and melancholy face that seems 
Haunted with earnest thought; the dark midnight 
Has given its raven softness to her hair; 
And evenins, starry eve, half clouds, half light, 
Is in the shadowy beauty of her eyes. 

How quietly has Night come down, 

Quiet as the sweet sleep she yields! 
A purple shadow marks yon town, 

A silvery hue the moonlit fields 
And one or two white turrets rise 

Glittering beneath the highest ray — 
As conscious of the distant skies, 

To which they teach and point the way. 

The river in the lustre gleams, 

Where hang the blossom'd shrubs above— 
The flush'd and drooping rose, whose dreams 

Must be of summer and of love. 
The pale acacia's fragrant bough 

Is heavy with its weight of dew; 
And every flower and leaf have now 

A sweeter sigh, a deeper hue. 

There breathes no song, there stirs no wing- 
Mute is the bird, and still the bee; 

Only the wind is wandering- 
Wild Wind, is there no rest for thee? 

Oh, wanderer over many flowers, 
Have none of them for thee repose ? 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



211 



Go sleep amid the lime tree bowers, 
Go rest by yon white gelder rose. 

What! restless still] methinks thou art 

Fated for aye to bear along 
The beating of the poet's heart, 

The sorrow of the poet's song. 
Or has thy voice before been heard, 

The language of another sphere, 
And every tone is but a word 

Mournful, because forgotten here"? 

Some memory or some sympathy, 

Is surely in thy murmur brought : 
Ah, all in vain the search must be, 

To pierce these mysteries of thought! 
They say that, hung in ancient halls, 

At midnight from the silent lute 
A melancholy music falls 

From chords which were by daylight mute. 

And so the human heart by ni^ht 

Is touclvd by some inspired tone, 
Harmonious in the deep delight, 

By day it knew not was its own. 
Those stars upon the clear blue heaven — 

Those stars we never see by day — 
Have in their hour of beauty given 

A deeper influence to their sway- — 

Felt on the mind and on the soul — 

For is it not in such an hour 
The spirit spurns the clay's control, 

And genius knows its glorious power? 
All that the head may e'er command, 

All that the heart can ever feel, 
The tuneful lip, the gifted hand, 

Such hours inspire, such hours reveal. 

The morrow comes with noise and toil 

The meaner cares, the hurried crowd . 
The culture of the barren soil, 

And gain the only wish avow'd : 
The loftier vision is gone by — 

The hope which then in light had birth, 
The flushing cheek, the kindling eye, 

Are with the common things of earth. 

Yet all their influence is not gone: 

Perchance in that creative time 
Some high attraction first was Known, 

Some aim and energy sublime. 
In such an hour doth sculptor know 

What shapes within the marble sleep ! 
His Sun-god lifts the radiant bow, 

His Venus rises from the deep. 

And imaged on the azure air 

The painter marks his shadows rise — 
A face than mortal face more fair, 

And colours which are of the skies. 
The hero sees the field his own, 

The banners sweep o'er glittering spears, 
And in the purple and the throne 

Forgets their cost of blood and tears. 

And ha who gave to Europe's sight 
Her sister world, till then unseen, 



How long to his inspired night 

Familiar must that world have been ! 

All Genius ever yet combined, 
In its first hour could only seem, 

And rose imbodied in the mind 
From some imaginative dream. 

O beauty of the midnight skies! 

mystery of each distant star! 
O dreaming hours, whose magic lies 

In rest and calm, with Day afar ! 
Thanks for the higher moods that wake 

Our thoughtful and immortal part! — 
Out on our life, could we not make 

A spiritual temple of the heart ! 



GERALDINE. 

Loxelt and deep as the fountain when spring- 
ing 
From its earliest birthplace beneath the dark 
pines, 
When first 'mid the wild flowers around it goes 
singing, 
When first on its waters the red morning 
shines : 

So lonely, so deep, is the love which is 
cherish'd, 
Silent and sacred, Earl Surrey, for thee; 
All lighter and meaner affections have pe- 
rish'd— 
Life now has only but one love for me. 

I share with thee every thought that delights 
me — 

I read, it is only to tell thee again : 
I have not a feeling on earth but unites me 

To thee, be it intellect, pleasure, or pain. 

I lean o'er the rose when the night dews are 
weeping, 
And deem its leaves written with sw T eet 
words of thine ; 
I see thy bold falcon through mid-heaven 
sweeping, 
And wish it could bear thee a message of 
mine. 

And yet I am mournful — I think of our mor- 
row, 
And my heart fills with nameless and sha- 
dowy fears : 
The heart has its omens, and mine are of sor- 
row — 
I know that our future has anguish and 
tears. 

I see the clouds pass o'er the stars, and my 
spirit 
Grows dark as the terrors which round it 
are thrown : 
Ah, Surrey ! whatever rny \ot may inherit, 
I care not, so suffering but reach me 
alone. 



212 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



REBECCA. 



How beautiful, buoyant, and glad is morn- 
ing ! The first sunshine on the leaves ; the 
first wind, laden with the first breath of the 
flowers — that deep sigh with which they seem 
to waken from sleep ; the first dew, untouched 
even by the light foot of the early hare ; the 
first chirping of the rousing birds, as if eager 
to begin song and flight : all is redolent of the 
strength given by rest, and the joy of con- 
scious life. 

Rebecca Clinton, though pale with the long 
vigil of an anxious night — such as is spent by 
a sick bedside — felt the revigorating influence. 
She opened the lattice of her little chamber, 
and it shook from the rose tree, with which it 
was overgrown, a shower of dewdrops and 
leaves. So close that it must have been hid- 
den amid the foliage of a huge old horse- 
chestnut tree, though not a leaf stirred, a 
cuckoo was singing — the only bird whose 
chant was yet complete. Rebecca leant listen- 
ing to the soft but mournful reiteration, with 
the tears fast rushing into her eyes. Sound 
peculiarly appeals to memory. On awaken- 
ing from her brief but heavy slumber, she had 
almost unconsciously thrown open the win- 
dow ; the fresh air, the clear atmosphere, 
gave for a moment their own joyfulness to 
her spirits ; but that song broke the spell. 
She turned away, and, with the common ex- 
aggeration of much sorrow, reproached the 
bright and unsympathizing morning ; while 
the two sad and still repeated notes seemed 
the very echo of her thoughts. 

At length she rose, and with a light step 
sought the adjacent apartment. Hung with 
old, worm-eaten tapestry, and massy curtains 
that excluded the light, a floor dark from age, 
and the ancient chairs and bureau formed of 
the black walnut tree wood — it seemed indeed 
the chamber of death. Rebecca could scarcely 
penetrate the obscurity ; gradually her sight 
became accustomed to the darkness, and sur- 
rounding objects stood forth dimly visible. 

"I have slept more than an hour," thought 
she, as her eye fell upon the glass, whose 
sands had run out ; and it comforted her to 
observe that the cup of herb tea was un- 
touched. 

Noiselessly she drew near the bed, and, 
with careful hand removing one of the thick 
folds of the curtains, was able to gaze on the 
visage of the sleeper, which was turned di- 
rectly towards her. She started, as if the 
face had not been a familiar one ; but now, 
that no expression illumined the countenance, 
no affection spoke in the closed eyes — now 
she could see the ravages of disease. Every 
feature was sharp, the forehead was sunken, 
and the cheek was so white that it was un- 
distinguishable from the pillow on which it 
iay. Even in sleep the cold damp stood on 
the brow, and the breath was drawn with an 
effort. She let the curtain fall, but softly ; 



and left the room for her own. There she 
gave way ; and the wrung hand, the deep sob, 
betrayed without relieving the passion of 
grief. 

Rebecca was an only and an orphan child, 
and her father had idolized her with a two-fold 
fondness. He loved in her both her mother 
and herself; and the love was the deeper, be- 
cause that on it rested the tenderness of the 
grave. Each felt they had the place of an- 
other to supply. 

Clinton was of an old but decayed family; 
he had lost the wreck of his property by fight- 
ing for the Stuarts, and the Restoration brought 
only those unfulfilled hopes which seem sent 
but to make disappointment more bitter. To 
an aged servant, who had lived beneath his 
roof in better days, he owed his present asy- 
lum; she had been left housekeeper at the 
manor while its proprietor was abroad, and 
three rooms were made serviceable to her old 
master and his daughter. Rebecca was now 
about twenty ; and from her mother, a con- 
verted Jewess, she inherited that Oriental 
style of beauty which enables us to compre- 
hend the similes of the Eastern poets. Truly 
had she the dark full eye of the gazelle, the 
grace of the young cedar, and a blush coloured 
from the earliest rose in Sharon. She was 
impetuous and imaginative ; the impetuosity 
had been little called forth by the solitude in 
which they lived, but the imagination had 
been strongly nourished. Their small shelf 
held a few volumes — some early romances 
and works of the later dramatists gave their 
own poetry to the ideal world which filled all 
her lonely hours. Her affection for her father 
was entire and engrossing : it must be owned, 
that its unity had never been endangered ; for, 
from the verge of girlhood, their seclusion had 
been unbroken save by a single visiter; and 
he was little calculated to attract a romantic 
and youthful female. 

Richard Vernon was one of those religious 
enthusiasts with which the period abounded. 
Naturally stern and harsh in temper as in fea- 
ture, he delighted in sacrifice : from it he 
he drew an inward consolation of superiority, 
and rejoiced in the scorn he cast on the plea 
sures and pursuits of other men. His mind 
was strong, but narrow ; and his enthusiasm 
had never known but one vent. Imbittered 
by the consciousness of unappreciated talent, 
spiritual pride had become a tower of refuge : 
believing himself to be the chosen of the Lord, 
accounted for and sanctified the neglect of 
men: was not the curse of blindness on all 
but the elect? — "Seeing ye shall see, and 
shall not perceive ; and hearing ye shall hear, 
and shall not understand." 

Of an iron constitution, he had never known 
those bodily weaknesses which so often affeet. 
the feelings ; and nothing teaches like sick- 
ness the value of patience and sympathy He 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



213 



nad been left an orphan at an early age — too 
early for memory — and had forced his own 
hard way in a hard world : love had never 
made the excitement of his youth, nor the re- 
laxation of his manhood. In short, he had 
passed through life without having experi- 
enced one softening influence. From sickness 
he never learnt the worth of kindness, nor had 
death ever taught him how sacred and how 
bitter is the thought of the beloved and of the 
dead. He had belonged to the church, from 
which, however, he had been ejected for non- 
com formity. 

The loss of his benefice was small to him, 
in comparison with many of his brethren ; for 
death succeeding death had put him in pos- 
session of much property belonging to distant 
relatives. Not such was the indignation with 
which he beheld the obedience exacted, and 
the authority exercised by the Episcopal 
church. The dark and mysterious passages 
of Scripture became more than ever his con- 
stant study; and applying every denunciation 
to his own time, he firmly believed that judg- 
ment was at hand, and only waited some 
crowning iniquity to call down God's ven- 
geance on a guilty land. ' 

It is a humbling thing to human pride to 
observe that strength of mind does not pre- 
serve its possessor from indulging any fa- 
vourite delusion; but that this very strength 
gives its own force to the belief. In the eyes 
of Richard Vernon all the pleasures and em- 
ployments of his fellow -men were abomination 
and vanity : business was a heaping up of 
worthless dross; intellect, a stumbling-block; 
poetry, painting, and music, devices of the 
enemy ; affection, sinful weakness : indeed, 
all worldly pursuits were foolishness, if not 
sin, in those who were now warned to " flee 
from the wrath to come." Still, even while 
he deemed himself most secure, the softest 
yet most powerful of earthly feelings had 
taken a firm hold of his heart. 

No two men could be of more opposite dis- 
positions and habits than Vernon and Clinton; 
the latter had delicate health and a gentle tem- 
per — was at once humble and rational in his 
piety — and had all the elegant and refined 
tastes which the other despised. Still, since 
their residence in the same neighbourhood, 
their intercourse had been constant. Clinton 
was fond of society, though now compelled by 
circumstances to renounce it. The very fact 
of having to support his opinions was an ex- 
citement; and the often fiery eloquence of the 
fierce Calvinist had for him all the enjoyment 
of poetry. Vernon liked the meek and kind- 
hearted invalid more than he would himself 
have admitted ; but the link that bound them 
together was the innocent and lovely Rebecca. 

In the high, haughty temper of the young 
and queenlike beauty, Vernon recognised a 
similar spirit to his own, but which he was 
too conscious of his powers to fear, as a 
weaker-minded man might have done. One 
lesson from early experience — one touch of 
more delicate feeling — and Rebecca's heart 
might nave been his. Though his age doubled 



hers, and his personal appearance was harsh, 
even to forbiddingness, she might have loved 
him. 

It is the mistake of a coxcomb, whose ex- 
perience of affection is all to come — if it ever 
comes — to say that women are won by mere 
good looks. Though it does not owe its birth 
to them, Gratitude and Vanity are the nurses 
that rock the cradle of Love. Neither of 
these did Vernon deign to conciliate. Angry 
at a feeling with which he nevertheless strug- 
gled in vain, the conflict gave even additional 
harshness to his manner; and he contradicted 
Rebecca's opinions, reproached her likings, 
disdained her pursuits, and dealt out condem- 
nation on all her favourite volumes, as if not 
allowing his external demeanour to be affect- 
ed, were some excuse for his internal prefe- 
rence. 

About a month before the period of which 
we are now speaking, he had openly offered 
himself as suitor to Rebecca Clinton. One 
evening, when his temper had been softened 
by the patient suffering of her father — from 
which the conversation had taken an unusually 
subdued tone — the invalid was led, from al- 
luding to his illness, to touch upon its conse- 
quences ; and for a few minutes the image of 
his orphan girl destroyed all the firmness of 
his philosophy, all the resignation of religion. 
He was startled by Richard Vernon rising, 
and, with words vehement to fierceness, de- 
manding his daughter Rebecca to wife. 

Clinton was taken completely by surprise. 
Like most of those who daily see a child 
growing up before them, he had not calculated 
her years, and had never yet thought of Re- 
becca as of a woman. Though often, in some 
vague futurity, he had indulged in romance 
about her fortunes, better justified by her 
grace and loveliness than by the circumstances 
under which they were expanding; yet, cer- 
tainly, the future he had imagined for her was 
not as the bride of Richard Vernon. 

To balance these dreams there arose, on the 
instant, the many advantages of the proposal 
— her forlorn and desolate situation—- and the 
high character of the man who now offered 
heart and home. Clinton gasped for breath, 
and gave a thankful consent. 

At this moment Rebecca entered ; but, alas ! 
the proposal received a surprised, almost dis- 
dainful, refusal. As yet she knew too little 
of the worth of worldly advantages to estimate 
his disinterestedness at its value. Vernon 
left the house indignant and disappointed, but 
with less of anger and more of hope than Re- 
becca suspected. The truth is, he pitied hei 
as a silly child, whose head was filled with 
old romances, and laid all the blame on het 
fathers weak indulgence — an error he pur 
posed to remedy with all convenient speed. 

A sudden access of illness in Mr. Clinton 
made an excuse for calling, after a brief in- 
terval had elapsed ; and his visits soon fell 
again into their usual train. Vernon was ob- 
stinate ; and the refusal — which would have 
decided the refined, or discouraged the timid — 
was to him merely an obstacle to be subdueo 



214 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



Looking upon women as infinitely inferior to 
men, he was provoked to think that the whim 
of a foolish girl should interfere with his 
settled purpose. His first plan, that of calling 
in paternal authority to his assistance, was 
disappointed by Clinton's instant and decided 
declaration, that, even if he had the will, he 
did not consider he had the right to force the 
inclination of his daughter: his approbation 
and his preference were all he could give. 

Vernon was more angry and discontented 
than disheartened, and more stubborn in his 
pursuit than ever, though he left its issue to 
circumstances, and perhaps his rebukes took 
even a severer tone. He deceived his own 
mind, and soothed his own pride, by the belief 
that he was only actuated by a desire for her 
temporal and spiritual benefit; — he knew he 
could save her from poverty ; he equally pre- 
sumed he could from perdition. A lamb res- 
cued from the slaughter, a brand snatched from 
the fire, w T as the constant phraseology of his 
very thoughts. 

Weakened by illness, worn by vague anxiety 
— the worst form anxiety can take — looking 
at all life's hopes and wishes through the 
shadows flung by coming death, Clinton dwelt 
upon his friend's offer till his strong wish 
grew, as wishes usually do, into a conviction 
that Rebecca would finally add her consent to 
his own. 

Such was the state of the dwellers at the 
old house at the time when our tale com- 
mences. 

Clinton, the morning his daughter bent over 
his feverish slumber, slept longer than usual, 
and was proportionably refreshed ; and when 
Rebecca tempted him, in the afternoon, to the 
rustic seat beneath the sycamore — the pleasant 
shade around them, the bright sunshine else- 
where, the hum of the bees in the honeyed 
branches overhead, the chirping of the nu- 
merous birds, the gay colours of the flowers, 
almost unconsciously exerted a cheering in- 
fluence; and their thoughts, though not glad, 
were at least placid and soothing. The lawn, — 
if lawn it could still be called, which had 
long lost the pristine smoothness of the once 
velvet turf, and was now covered with a mul- 
titude of daisies — signs, they say, of a poor 
soil, though it is, at all events, a cheerful po- 
verty, — commanded a view of the adjacent 
country ; and the road, varied by many a gentle 
undulation, wound through the hedge-girdled 
fields, some green with grass, others shining 
with the first yellow of the corn, and here and 
there an unenclosed nook where grew two or 
three stately elms. 

Suddenly Rebecca's quick eye caught sight 
.?f a dark figuie on one of the heights in the 
distance. 

" How vexatious !" was her hasty excla- 
mation; " here is Mr. Vernon coming to in- 
terrupt us !" 

"I would, my child," replied Clinton mourn- 
fully ; " you did more justice to the good qua- 
lities of a man who has the merit of appre- 
ciating yours. Rebecca ! the time may, nay 



must come, when your only earthly resource 
will be the attachment of Richard Vernon. 
Do not interrupt me, dearest ; if I pain you, 
it is for your good ; but can you believe that 
your future desolate situation is ever ab- 
sent from my mind ? So young, so beau- 
tiful, and so unprotected — Rebecca, I could 
die in peace if you w T ere the wife of Richard 
Vernon." 

Rebecca rose from her seat on .he grass, 
and, kneeling at her father's side, gazed for a 
few moments earnestly in his face before she 
replied. 

" And would it content you, my father, 
to know that you had joined those whom 
nature hath sundered, how utterly! — to 
know that your child was grown old even in 
her youth ] — that she had thoughts she might 
not utter, hopes she herself must destroy ? — 
that her daily words must be either mean with 
hypocrisy, or bitter with contention ? A home! 
Is that a home by whose hearth sits coldness, 
and beneath whose roof is discontent ? My 
father, I cannot love Richard Vernon! and 
that not for vain dislike to outward look or 
bearing, but because we have not one opinion, 
wish or feeling in common. Even my weak 
judgment sees the fallacy of that morality 
which makes sins of innocent pleasures and 
of harmless employment; which renders the 
path of duty too rough and too narrow for hu- 
man foot ; and wmich wastes on vain trifles 
the salutary horror we intuitively feel of vice. 
I shudder at his religion. In the fierce dam- 
nation in which he delights, in the mystic re- 
vealments in which he exults, what trace is 
there of the meek and humble faith you have 
taught me should be my daily guide, extend- 
ing its charity to all men? My father! you 
know that at your word I would wed Richard 
Vernon ; but can you say that word ?" 

The only answer was a slight caress — it 
was enough ; and Rebecca turned to re-enter 
the house. Glancing at the winding road, 
she saw that Vernon had yet a considerable 
space to cross before he could join them, and 
added cheerfully, " Fear not for me, my father ; 
other fear" — and the rich colour mounted even 
to her crimsoned forehead — " other fear than 
that of want and privation befalling me, you 
cannot have. But I am strong in youth and 
in hope ; I am skilful in many things ; and it 
were strange, as well as hard, if I could not 
gain for myself the little I require." 

What a visionary thing is the independence 
of youth ! how full of projects, which take the 
shape of certainties ! How much of rugged 
and stern experience it requires to convince 
the young and the eager, that the efforts of an 
individual unaided by connexion or circum- 
stance, are the true reading of the allegory of 
the Danaides : — industry and skill, alas, how 
often are they but water drawn with labour 
into a bucket full of holes ! 

Clinton sat lost in thought, till he was 
roused by Vernon, who wore a gloomier broW, 
and spoke in even severer tones than usual. 

" So, I find you alone ! To be sure," said 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



21J 



tie looking round, " you can see from hence 
the approach of any one, and any one can see 
your movements too." 

Clinton replied but by asking his com- 
panion to sit down on the bench beside him ; 
and in so doing, he displaced a small volume, 
whose worn black calf binding showed it was a 
favourite. It fell open at the very play he 
and Rebecca had been reading, " The Mer- 
chant of Venice ;" and the unfortunate book 
immediately suggested a new vent to Vernon's 
spleen. 

" And this, forsooth, is the study of }~our 
noon ! I marvel not that your daughter's head 
is s) turned by vanities and fancies. Verily, 
poetry is a Jevice of the evil one, which has 
served him in good sort!" 

" A somewhat harsh judgment," returned 
Clinton, smiling, " to be pronounced en those 
who beguile many a weary hour, and to whom 
we owe many a delicate enjo3 7 ment." 

" Now, cut upon such toys ! Were my 
power equal to my will, I would soon purify 
the land, even with fire, of each vain and 
lying tome that but distracts the mind from 
the one sacred volume, on which alone it 
should be fixed, and on which alone thought 
should meditate." 

" Your pardon, friend," replied Clintcn ; 
"I do not believe that the heart is turned 
from the Creator by enjoying his works. Of 
what avail is the sweet breath of the rose, the 
morning song of the lark 1 The pleasure 
they impart is not matter of necessity, and yet 
we delight in both. The soul of the poet is 
as much His gift as the fragrance of the 
flower, or the lay of the bird ; and the page 
where inspired words record heroic deed, 
touching sorrow, or natural loveliness, is one 
of those pleasures for which we should be 
thankful. I, for my part, believe most de- 
voutly in the Almighty mercy, when I see how 
much that is beautiful and gladdening has 
been scattered over our pilgrimage here." 

Vernon's attention had been diverted by a 
shadow flung on one of the windows. He 
watched, and could see that it was Rebecca ; 
she was seated at work, with her back to the 
garden, which she seemed to have no design 
of visiting. 

" I appear to have frightened away your 
daughter," exclaimed he, angrily. 

" Most of our household occupations de- 
volve on Rebecca," was her father's reply. 

" I see how it is, and I weary of this child- 
ishness," retorted Vernon. " Reginald Clin- 
ton, for the last time I offer you the name and 
home of an honest man for your daughter. 
Perhaps, after the fashion of those vain ro- 
mances in which you indulge, you deem that 
Rebecca has but to go forth, like some wan- 
dering princess, to find earl and knight ready 
fo lay lance in rest '•pour P amour de ses beaux 
yeux ,•' and that the coronet and the castle 
wait for their mistress. I warn you, this is 
not the reading of real life ! Rebecca will 
enter the cold and cruel world, homeless, 
friendless, moneyless ! Her refined nature 
wili soon revolt at the meanness more than 



at the privation of poverty Then will her 
beauty — for she is fair, ve: y fair — catch the 
eye of some young cavalier — (troth, and but oui 
king trains them in goodly practices !) first 
there will be refusal and reserve; then pity 
and relief, and the woman's heart will be 
caught by some woman's toy ; folly will sue- 
ceed to fancy ; and a few soft words will 
disperse in air all that her father and her Bible 
have taught. 

" Nay, let me finish the picture," he con- 
tinued, upon a somewhat impatient gesture of 
his friend. " After vanity comes disappoint- 
ment — the lover tires, or she herself may 
change ; the same tale is told by another, and 
the same sequel ensues — save that the love is 
not so deep, and the faith not so true. A few 
years, and her face is not fair as it was in 
youth — sin and sorrow have left on it their 
traces ; the cheek has a bloom not its own, 
the hair is dashed with gray, the lip is thin, 
and the brow haggard. The lover turns 
away ; and death comes on, heralded by 
poverty and neglect ; then the child of your 
heart goes down to the grave unwept, her 
memory cursed by many whom she led to 
evil, to disobedience, and to waste. And 
what think you becomes of the immortal soul, 
base, polluted, and hardened in its guilt \ 
Deem you that the gates of death will not be 
to such a one the gates of hell ?" 

" I thank you for your kindly prophecy," 
said a low but firm voice beside him. 

Rebecca, having caught the raised tones of 
Vernon, and fearing lest aught of discussion 
might weary her enfeebled father, had hurried 
to the spot; thus becoming the auditor of 
what was not meant for her hearing. She 
stood, the colour deepened into scarlet on her 
cheek, her lip curved with scorn, and, her dark 
eyebrows almost meeting in their indignation, 
while her large eyes flashed as if the pupil 
were indeed an orb turned by the soul to light, 
she continued : " I thank you ; but now listen 
to my words, even as I have done to yours. 
Rather would I bear the doom your kindness 
has poured into the ear of a dying father, than 
be your wife !" 

She said no more, but walked hastily away ; 
and in another moment Vernon was seen 
hurrying along the winding road. 

Clinton retired to rest sooner than usual ; 
and his daughter took her accustomed seat, to 
watch during the earlier part of the night. 
He had slept, or seemed to sleep, for more 
than two hours, when suddenly he rose in his 
bed. 

"Give me to drink, my child," he mur- 
mured almost inaudibly, yet with seeming 
effort. 

She took the cup, and raised it to his 
mouth ; but scarcely could her trembling hand 
replace it on the table, for she started to se^ 
the alteration in her father's face. 

" Open the window, love— the air is sti 
fling." 

Rebecca felt cold with the chill midnight, 
but she opened the heavy curtains tnd the 
casement, when a flood of dazzling moonligbl 



216 



MISS LANDON ; S WORKS. 



poured into the dim room, and put the faint 
lamp to shame. A large branch of a chestnut 
tree waved to and fro, whose leaves seemed 
•filled with music ; a sweet breeze came from 
the garden below, but sweet as it was, Clin- 
ton inspired it with difficulty. By a strong 
effort he put his hand beneath the pillow, and 
drew thence a small black book with silver 
clasps. 

"Take it, my child; till this hour it has 
been my constant companion. Rebecca, it is 
your mother's Bible !" 

Even as he spoke, his head sank on his 
daughter's shoulder; she moved not till the 
cheek pressed to hers grew like ice. One 
fearful shriek, and the living sank insensible 
by the side of the dead. 

A week afterwards, a funeral train was seen 
slowly winding through the wreathing honey- 
suckle and drooping ash which formed the 
green and glad road. There were only the 
coffin-bearers and two mourners — an aged wo- 
man and a young one : the housekeeper and 
Rebecca were following Reginald Clinton to 
his last resting-place ; and ever and anon, as 
the coffin passed and brushed the boughs, 
heavy with their luxuriant foliage, a shower 
of fragrant leaves fell, — as if summer wept 
over the sorrowful procession. 

Rebecca uncovered not her face till they 
reached the newly dug grave ; she then cast 
cne shuddering look, and again closed her 
veil. The service commenced, and a slight 
start spoke other emotion than grief, when she 
heard the voice of Richard Vernon begin the 
solemn ritual. It ended, and Rebecca re- 
mained motionless on her knee till her atten- 
tion was awakened by that fearful and peculiar 
sound — a sound to which earth has no pa- 
rallel — the rattle of the falling'gravel on the 
coffin. She sprang forward. ." Let me — let 
me gaze on him once again !" 

She saw nothing but the black, damp mould, 
and sank back, unresisting, on the arm of 
Richard Vernon. 

" My house is close at hand," said he in- 
quiringly to her aged companion. 

"For the love of God, take her thither!" 
was the reply. "There is neither water nor 
aught else here; and she looks like one of the 
stone figures on the graves around us." 

Rebecca was carried, still insensible, into 
the little parlour; and, with a tenderness that 
seemed foreign to his nature, Vernon placed 
her in a large antique settle, which he drew 
towards the window, fetched water, and left 
her and the good woman alone. Even when 
Rebecca revived, it was only for a while, to 
give way to bursts of passionate weeping. 
Old Hannah's affectionate soothing having at 
length calmed her, on rising to depart, she said 
to the bewildered girl, " We must thank Mr. 
Vernon before we go." 

"This Mr. Vernon's house 1 ?" exclaimed 
Rebecca, turning yet paler. 

"It is my house; and where could you be 
more welcome ?" said its master. 

Rebecca rose and thanked him for his kind- 
ness ; and, touched by his obvious sympathy, 



I as well as reassured by his reserved and un- 
! usually gentle manner, she did not refuse his 
| request, that Hannah at least should take some 
refreshment before their departure. One com- 
monplace remark after another had sunk into 
silence, when Vernon somewhat abruptly 
asked, "If she knew that orders had been 
given to fit up the old house for the reception 
of its owner 1 ?" 

" I have known it for some days," was the 
reply. 

"It will no more be a home suited for a 
youthful female." 

" Certainly not; neither have I the slightest 
intention of remaining." 

" Have you then fixed on any future plan?" 

"Yes." 

"You intend, I suppose, continuing in this 
neighbourhood ?" 

Rebecca hesitated. Vernon's hasty temper 
could no longer bear the curb. 

"I might have guessed you would stay: 
Aubrey de Vere is young and unmarried — no 
bad chance for an errant princess !" 

" Stay, Mr. Vernon," interrupted his guest; 
" do not say what you will soon regret — I am 
about to depart." 

"And whither do you propose goinor 1 ?" 

"To London." ' 

Vernon started from his seat in astonish- 
ment — "To London"? — to the city of destruc- 
tion — to the Babylon of the earth — to the sin- 
ful and the accursed — where the devil walks 
abroad, seeking whom he may devour] So 
young, so friendless, and so fair — you are 
mad, maiden ! mad with sorrow — or pride !" 

" I answer to myself — London is the only 
place where my poor skill in embroidery may 
find employment; and Hannah has a sister 
there, with whom we mean to reside." 

Vernon walked up and down the room im- 
patiently; at last he stopped before Rebecca, 
and said, in a voice whose firmness was only 
preserved by an effort — " Maiden, when I bore 
you insensible to my house, I thought within 
myself, that neither by word nor look would I 
give you cause of annoyance — that I would 
forbear to urge upon the sacredness of sorrow 
a suit which that very sorrow makes more 
earnest. But I cannot, were it only as the 
daughter of my friend, I cannot see you take 
a step so rash, so fraught with fatal conse- 
quences. Pause, Rebecca, before you depart 
from my roof. I may not be what your fancy 
figures ; but I love you deeply and truly, and 
for your sake would change many a habit, 
perhaps many a fault. I may have been rude, 
ay harsh, in my speech, but my meaning has 
been kind. Save your youth from the rough 
chances of friendlessness and poverty : I offer 
you an honest name, competence, and an en- 
tire heart. We will both make allowances; 
there will be room in yonder arbour even for 
your lute ; I will study my speech, and watch 
your look — till our hopes are together, and 
mutual affection has made our house thrice 
blessed." 

Rebecca felt that the tears were in her eyes, 
and that her voice was inarticulate ; she paused 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



21? 



a moment, from a reluctance to give Richard 
Vernon pain, and she left her hand in his as 
she spoke. "It may not be, my kind, my 
only friend : I must alter my very nature ere I 
could be happy as your wife. Vernon, I dare 
not marry you." 

He flung her hand from him as he caught 
her words : the long subdued passion burst at 
last. 

" Accursed be the hour that ever the weak- 
ness of my nature led my soul into this folly ! 
Go, and bear with you the bitterness you have 
infused into my cup ; may you know poverty, 
guilt, sorrow, and shame — may you live to 
mourn, in sackcloth and ashes, the day you 
left this roof, never to re-enter it more ! — Nay, 
forgive me !" but Rebecca had quitted the 
parlour. He made one step to follow her — the 
next moment he had thrown himself into the 
huge oaken settle, with his back to the light. 
The day after, he went to the old house — it 
was deserted ; and he learnt that Rebecca and 
Hannah had that morning departed for Lon- 
don. 



Three years had passed away since Rebecca 
saw the turrets of the old house recede in the 
gray mist of early morning ; while the driz- 
zling rain, and a low moaning wind, which, 
even in summer, shook the leaves from the 
bough, gave to inanimate objects the appear- 
ance of a sad farewell. Three years had passed 
away since Rebecca first watched the shades 
of evening close on what was but a mockery 
of daylight — the daylight of a small, narrow 
street in London ; and she felt thankful for 
the obscurity which admitted of a free course 
to her tears. 

I do firmly believe that the Londoner is as 
contented with his city home as the dweller 
in the fairest valley among the Apennines ; 
and that habit brings its usual indifference as 
to place. But to one who has lived all his life 
in the country, whose path has been through 
the green field, and bounded only by the green 
hedge — to whom nothing in the town is en- 
deared by association, and nothing softened 
by custom, how dreary is the aspect! The 
confined street, the close air, the dusky at- 
mosphere, the hurrying passengers, the eager 
and busy yet indifferent faces — all press upon 
the stranger with an equal sense of discomfort 
and desolation. 

Rebecca's heart died within her as she en- 
tered the little dark shop on her way to the 
still smaller and darker back parlour. Three 
years had been spent in solitude, in poverty, 
in toil — in all that hardens the heart and im- 
prints sternness on the brow. Out upon the 
folly which, in estimating human misery, al- 
lows aught to bear comparison with the agony 
of the poor ! I use the word poor relatively; 
I call not those poor to whom honesty brings 
self-respect, whose habits and whose means 
have gone together, and whose industry is its 
own support. But those are the poor whose 

Vol. II 28 



exertion supplies not their wants — to whom 
cold, hunger, and weariness, are common 
feelings ; who have known better days — to 
whom the past furnishes contrast, and the fu- 
ture fear. The grave may close over the dear 
and the departed ; but in faith there is solace, 
and in time forgetful ness. The lover may be 
false to his vow, whose happiness was to have 
been, like its truth, eternal ; yet, after all, the 
sorrow is purely imaginar}*', and grief is a 
luxury in indulgence. 

Day by day Rebecca stooped over her em- 
broidery; she debarred herself from rest and 
food, nay at last encroached even on the Sab- 
bath, which had been held so sacred. The 
monotony of her existence was only broken 
in upon by anxiety; she rose early in the 
morning, and lay down late ; still, though 
bought at the expense of time, youth, and 
hope, the pittance she could earn was insuf- 
ficient for their daily wants. In this emer- 
gency, it was decided that the two rooms over 
the shop should be let ; though, remote and 
obscure as was their street, it seemed much 
easier to decide on letting, than to let these 
apartments. It so chanced, however, that they 
succeeded immediately. 

Their new resident was a man on whose 
age it would have been difficult to determine ; 
you might have guessed any period between 
twenty and thirty; for his slender and almost 
boyish figure was bent with what might have 
been either time or infirmity. His hair, of a 
singularly bright golden hue, was thin, and 
left exposed a high and strongly marked fore- 
head ; his originally fine features were worn 
to emaciation ; and the mouth was sunken 
and colourless. His large eyes were of the 
palest blue, and seemed with the least emo- 
tion to fill, as it were, with light — like the 
flashing and restless brilliancy of sunshine 
upon water. More richly dressed than suited 
his circumstances — apparently without a con- 
nexion, for none ever came near him — scarcely 
stirring from home — keeping lonely vigils, 
that sometimes lasted through the night, — 
there was obviously a mystery about him ; 
yet it w r as difficult to hear his sweet low voice, 
mark his wan and wasted countenance, and 
believe that the mystery could be in aught 
evil. 

Gradually his gentle and quiet habits led to 
acquaintance, and acquaintance to confidence. 
One evening, when Rebecca was sitting work- 
ing in the little back parlour, he entered, and 
turning over the few volumes on her solitary 
book shelf, opened one in which was Shak 
speare's Midsummer Night's Dream, filled 
with notes on favourite passages : for before 
poverty had pressed so heavily, it was Rebec- 
ca's delight to write on the margin al_ she 
could remember of her father's remarks. 

" Ah, this indeed is fame !" exclaimed their 
visiter, unconsciously soliloquizing aloud : " I 
care not to be bound in scented leather, clasped 
with the arms of my owmer wrought in silver, 
and to be kept one among many in the ancient 
library, a thing of show, not of use — a part of 
the furniture. No ; give me the obscure 
T 



218 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



corner and the frequent reading; be mine the 
few minutes snatched from toil — the one re- 
membered passage which keeps alive the 
seeds of poetry sown in every heart — the 
thought that rises remembered in a contem- 
plative hour — the words in which the lover 
clothes his own love. Ah ! the poet hath no 
true hope, who doth not place it in the many, 
and in the feeling of the common multitude." 

Rebecca now learnt, for the first time, that 
it was Lee the dramatist who inhabited their 
dwelling. In a fit of disgust at society, and 
the excitement produced by the idea of a new 
work, he had buried himself in entire seclu- 
sion, to finish his "Rival Queens." 

" I must be by myself when I write," was 
his frequent observation. " The indifference 
of my fellow-creatures chills me to the very 
soul ; I feel my own nothingness too severely ; 
I see the selfishness, the vanity, which en- 
circles me, and distrust my own power* to ani- 
mate or to interest: I deeply feel that the 
people surrounding me are inferior to myself, 
and I despise their suffrages — I grow vain and 
mean myself, and am involuntarily actuated 
by hopes and desires apart from what should 
be the one sole aim of my existence. I lose my 
power: lam like a magician who has for- 
gotten the spell by which he once governed 
the spiritual world. What has the poet to do 
with the present ? Suddenly I feel the shame 
and misery of such a life ; I fly to solitude — 
I cast the shackles from my hands, the dust 
from my feet; I think my own thoughts — I 
dream my own dreams : again the future is to 
me a great and glorious reward ; the feeling 
rushes to my heart, my lips overflow with 
music — again the beautiful and the true rise 
visible before me, and I am happy, very, very 
happy !" 

From that evening he delighted in the so- 
ciety of Rebecca, to whom it was a source of 
true enjoyment; it was so long since speech 
had been to her more than the expression of 
daily regrets and wants — it was as if the 
higher faculties of her being had lain dormant 
for a protracted season, and now awoke, as 
the blossoms on the bough awaken beneath 
the soft spring rains. Still, she saw with 
regret that the fiery temper, the excited mind 
of her companion preyed on his health- — the 
cheek grew paler, the shining eye more rest- 
less, every day ; and sleep forsook the pillow 
haunted by fantastic creations. 

" I know it," he would reply ; " and is it a 
worthy sacrifice that I offer ? I believe that 
the mind may make its own immortality : 
thought is the spiritual part of existence ; and 
so long as my mind influences others, so long 
as my thoughts remain behind, so long shall 
my spirit be conscious and immortal. The 
body may perish — not so the essence which 
survives in the living and lasting page." 

Sometimes, when weary and desponding, — 
for who does not despond over even their 
highest efforts, and feel how little they can 
naint the beauty and the passion within ? — he 
would come to Rebecca, and ask her to read 
aloud to him. Her rich sweet voice, her grace 



of expression, would recall his enthusiasm, 
and again the " Rival Queens" was resumed 
with hope and animation. When the task 
drew near its completion, he told Rebecca 
that she must insure its success. She looked 
up inquiringly. 

" You must play Roxana." 

It little needs to detail the surprise, the vari- 
ous emotions of doubt, hope, and inclination, 
which were elicited by this remark. Rebecca 
had that consciousness of talent which must 
always attend its possession ; and she bitterly 
felt how completely it was now wasted. 

Lee's enthusiasm was, as enthusiasm al- 
ways is, contagious ; and when, in his own 
peculiar manner, he read to her the finished 
play, the fear of failure became her only fear. 
Tragedy and actress were presented to Rich, 
then the manager of the principal London 
theatre ; and both alike met with the most 
encouraging approval. 

Rebecca entered on her new pursuit with 
all the ardour and all the charm which the 
imagination lends to its object. Strongly 
moved and absorbed, she saw in her situation 
nothing but its poetry. At length the event- 
ful night arrived, and as soon as his heroine 
stept upon the boards, Lee felt certain of the 
favourable reception of his drama. The Orien- 
tal dress suited well her proud, dark beauty : 
a crimson turban was folded round her head, 
ornamented with the plume of that strange 
bird they call of paradise — both in strong con- 
trast to the raven ringlets which fell in profu- 
sion on her flushed cheek. An embroidered 
robe showed her exquisite figure, though only 
the delicate throat and wrist were uncovered ; 
and a veil of silvery tissue partially concealed 
her profile. Her success was complete. 
When the first dizzy confusion was merged in 
the excitement of her part, even Lee himself 
was satisfied with her conception and execu- 
tion of it : nothing could, be more passionate, 
more superb, than her revenge ; nothing more 
terrible than the agony of her desertion. 

I am persuaded there is no triumph equal to 
one achieved on the stage — it comes so imme- 
diate and so home : you have before you the 
mass of human beings whose sympathies are 
at your will ; you witness the emotions which 
you raise, you see the tears which you com- 
mand : the poet has erected the statue, but it 
is for you to give it life — the words must find 
their music on your lips — the generous senti- 
ment, the exalted hope, the touches of deep 
feeling, ask their expression from you : surely 
such influence is among the triumphs of the 
mind, ay and a great and noble triumph. But 
in this world every thing has its evil ; the 
dust is on the wheels of the conqueror's cha- 
riot — the silken-wrought tapestry covers the 
mouldering wall ; and Rebecca soon found 
that her position was one which often jarred 
on her imaginative temper. But we make out 
own path, and fling our own shadow upon it. 
Never was the lofty purity of her nature mora 
conspicuous than now, when surrounded by se 
much to which it was utterly opposed. 

It was about three months after her first ap« 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



219 



pearance, that two young cavaliers were walk- 
.ng, arm-in-arm, up the Strand, engaged in 
earnest conversation. 

"I tell you," said the youngest, "that it is 
hopeless." 

"I never," replied his companion, "heard 
of any tiling so selfish ; it is what women al- 
ways are, but I must say this goes beyond the 
common allowance — and so our pretty Roxana 
expects you to marry her ! Wealth, rank — 
and you are not so bad-looking either, De 
Vere — pretty well for the Rival Queen !" 

"Indeed, Buckingham, you are mistaken; 
I never saw a creature more unworldly, more 
disinterested." 

"O, of course; but it is really too much 
to have your scruples in addition to hers. 
However, I pique myself on the impossible. 
It is matter of conscience, it seems, with your 
Roxana ; well, the chapel in the Savoy is much 
at your service — I will have it dusted on pur- 
pose — and the equerry I recommended has 
other talents than those of horse-breaking. 
He lived in my good father-in-law's family f.o 
some purpose; his conventicle-drawl is per- 
fection — he will make an excellent priest ; and 
I will give away the bride myself — very gene- 
rous, when I think how pretty she is !" 

A few scruples and a little passing remorse 
on one side, a sneer and a jest on the other, 
and the whole affair was arranged. 

" You have seen my Roxana for the last 
time," said Rebecca, about a week after this, 
to Lee ; " you have been too kind a friend to 
be excluded from my confidence. You will 
rejoice in my happiness, for happy I must be 
as the wife of Aubrey de Vere." 

" The wife of Aubrey de Vere ! you, Re- 
becca, about to be married ?" 

He rose from his seat, threw open the lattice, 
and leant from the window, while his compa- 
nion stood astonished at the excess of his 
emotion. Suddenly he turned towards her, 
while his large shining and melancholy eyes 
seemed to look into her very heart, and his 
melodious voice sank on her ear like sad music. 
"Rebecca, I have deceived myself — I 
deemed my heart had but one idol, and my 
life but one aim ; alas, I now find I have one 
object yet dearer! Alas, my very happiness 
has blinded me ! I have grown so accustomed 
to see you, to hear you, to refer my every 
thought to you, that, like the blessed light 
and air, you have become part of my existence ; 
I cannot, I dare not think of a future without 
you. Rebecca, you know how earnestly I 
have laboured for one end — how high, how 
glorious I have deemed the poet's calling. 
Rebecca, there is no honour my ambition could 
covet that I would not renounce for one smile 
of yours." 

He paused for a moment, and hid his face 
on the window-sill, while Rebecca stood 
breathless with distress and surprise. Lee 
recovered the power of utterance first. 

"De Vere— he will be Earl of Oxford— but 
no — you would not wed only for interest; yet, 
Rebecca, could we change places, would you 
fctill marry him?" 



She stood for a moment blurhing and irre- 
solute; at length she said in a low but firm 
voice, "I love himself." 

Lee gazed on her earnestly; and to her 
death Rebecca remembered the wild despair 
painted on his face. Gently he approached 
her, and took her hand ; his touch was like 
marble, and contrasted strangely with his 
flushed and burning cheek. 

"Farewell," said he, "last dream of an 
existence that has been all dreams! I never 
loved before — I shall never love again. I have 
often tried to be happy, but in vain; now I 
have not even an illusion left. Farewell to 
hope, to honour, to exertion, to poetry — I bid 
them all farewell, when I say farewell to 
you." 

He dropped the hand which he held — and 
turned to the door, but languidly, like one who 
walks in his sleep. Rebecca saw him again, 
from the window, still moving at the same 
slow, sad pace. She never beheld him more; 
and when she next heard of him, it was to 
learn that he was the inmate of a solitary cell, 
his fine mind bowed and broken by madness. 
Awful to know that your soul may depart 
before yourself! 

A cold east wind brought back upon London 
the smoke of its thousand chimneys. A thick 
vapour filled the chapel, which the waxen 
tapers, lighted though it was noon, served 
rather to show than to dispel ; and Rebecca 
felt her heart sink within her as she took the 
offered hand of the Duke of Buckingham, who 
led her towards the altar. She thought on 
her extreme isolation from all the ordinary ties 
of life: others had parents, friends, and rela- 
tives ; she had none. How utter must be her 
dependence on Aubrey's love ! 

His manner, embarrassed and constrained, 
had nothing in it to reassure her; while Buck- 
ingham's gayety jarred upon her ear, and his 
jest and flattery were equally unacceptable. 

" I have been at merrier funerals," said the 
Duke of Buckingham, as he turned from the 
bridal party : "if the mere semblance of the 
fetters be so melancholy, the Lord have mercy 
upon those who endure them in reality !" 

It was with a mixture of pleasure and pain 
that Rebecca re-entered the home she had left 
under such different circumstances; for De 
Vere had fixed on the old mansion house for 
their future dwelling. 

"For the present, love, we will live in com- 
plete retirement: I care little, while the wonder 
of our marriage," and he hesitated, "is fresh 
in men's minds, to endure the questions of the 
curious, or the comment of the envious." 

Rebecca pressed closer to her heart the arm 
on which she hung; and her silence was more 
eloquent of happiness than any words. I have 
ever remarked, that when Fate has any great 
misfortune in store, it is always preceded by 
a brief peried of calm and sunshine — as if to 
add bitterness of contrast to all other misery. 
It is for the happy to tremble — it is over their 
heads that the thunderbolt is about to burst. 

Rebecca lived for a few months in all the 
deep content of love — every look watched 



220 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



svery thought partaken, her heart was filled 
with thankfulness and affection. 

De Vere would sometimes start when he 
remembered the uncertain tenure of their pre- 
sent state ; but conscience, like a child, is 
soon lulled "to sleep; and habit is our idea of 
eternity. Yet every hour Rebecca became 
dearer to hirn ; and his few and short absences 
only brought him to her side with more perfect 
appreciation and mere apprehensive tender- 
ness." 

He had now been away for nearly a week, 
but was expected home that very evening. 
Who does not know the restlessness of an 
anticipated arrival l Rebecca wandered from 
room to room ; till at last not even the inge- 
nuity of affection could devise any arrangement 
or alteration further, that might catch the eye 
or please the taste of De Vere. It was a lovely 
afternoon, one of those when autumn atones for 
the brevity of its days by their beauty ; and 
she walked out, sometimes absorbed in her 
own thoughts, then again gazing, with a plea- 
sure which half arose from herself, on the 
country round. Some of the trees yet retained 
the deep green of their foliage, others wore the 
brown, purple, and yellow, which, like the 
bright-hued banners of an army, are the heralds 
of destruction. A few late flowers were still 
seen, but their blossoms were fragile and 
scentless ; yet the eye dwelt tenderly upon 
them — they were the last. Rebecca had pro- 
ceeded farther than she had proposed, but the 
sight of a clump of old yews drew her on — 
they grew beside her father's grave. More 
than once she had visited it; and it had cost 
De Vere his worst pang of remorse, when she 
pointed out the low grass mound, and said she 
prayed that her parent's spirit might be glad- 
dened by the knowledge of how happy and 
how beloved was the child he had left a friend- 
less orphan. It may be a superstition, but it 
is a grateful and a kindly one, which deems 
that the righteous dead watch over those they 
cherished in their pilgrimage on earth. Re- 
becca knelt beside the grave, but shrunk back 
— for at that instant a dark shadow fell upon 
it; she looked up, and saw the harsh and 
haggard face of Richard Vernon. 

" Back, lost and guilty one !" said he, 
pushing her aside with no gentle hand; "pol- 
lute not with your wretched presence the 
churchyard of your God, and the grave of your 
father. You mocked at my words when I 
prophesied of shame, and, lo! it has come 
upon you. Away ! — as the servant of Him 
whom you have forgotten, I forbid you to 
remain in this sacred place!" 

Rebecca turned towards him with anger, 
which even her pity could not subdue. 

"I know not," said she coldly, "by what 
right you forbid the wife of a De Vere to ap- 
proach the church his fathers built; but I 
leave it; fori would not further unkindness 
should pass between us." 

'Verily, this audacity passeth belief! I 
know, Rebecca, how you have mingled with 
the light and the profane; I know how, of 
yow own will, you cast in your lot with the 



ungodly; I heard, too, only three days ago, 
in yonder accursed Babylon, how Aubrey de 
Vere had carried off the fair actress to be his 
paramour; — and yet you dare speak across 
your father's grave with a lie in your mouth ! 
Wretched girl, kneel — but in sackcloth and 
ashes — for the sake of him whose dust, is at 
your feet — repent, Rebecca Clinton !" 

" Nay," interrupted his auditor. " call me 
not by a name which I no longer bear. Were 
it only mine own credit that was touched, I 
might patiently abide your words; but I may 
not stay to hear such slander cast upon a true 
and honourable gentleman, upon my hus- 
band." 

Before he could reply, she had passed on. 
His first impulse was to follow her; but as he 
marked her rapid steps, he desisted, and re- 
mained gazing on her lessening figure till lost 
in the distance, with an expression in which 
bitterness and sorrow were singularly blend- 
ed. Rebecca had scarcely reached home, when 
she received an urgent petition from one of 
the servants, that she would visit what the 
doctor, who awaited her arrival, said was his 
death-bed. She was somewhat snrprised at 
the vehement terms in which the request was 
couched, for the man declared he could not 
die in peace till he had seen his mistress. 

" Perhaps," thought she, " he leaves one 
behind him friendless, helpless, even as my 
father left me — such desolation shall fall on 
none that I can aid." 

She entered the large airy room which she 
had herself ordered to be prepared for him 
when first seized, with sickness; and dismiss- 
ing the nurse, took her place by the pillow of 
the dying man. It was the equerry who had 
personated the clergyman at her marriage! 
Short and terrible was the narrative to w r hich 
she had to listen : she spoke not, she moved 
not — but, pale and cold, sunk back in the arm- 
chair. 

" Great God, I have killed her !" shrieked 
the penitent. 

His voice recalled her to herself. She rose, 
and turning to the bed, stretched her hand to- 
wards the emaciated creature who lay there in 
all but the agonies of death: "I forgive you, 
and pray God to forgive yon, too ; make your 
peace with Heaven. May the pardon I yield 
to you be extended also to myself!" 

She went down stairs directly to the la- 
boratory, where DeVere sometimes amused a 
leisure hour with chymical experiments, and 
taking from one of the shelves a small phial, 
hid it in her bosom, and proceeded to her 
chamber. 

" I am going to be fanciful in my dress to- 
night," said she to her attendant. Her long 
dark hair was loosened from its braids into a 
profusion of drooping ringlets; she bound the 
crimson shawl around her temples ; and again 
assumed the embroidered robe in which De 
Vere had first seen her. The toilette finished, 
she flung herself on a pile of rich cushions in 
the library, to await his arrival ; and at that 
instant he entered — having come through tha 
garden on purpose to surprise her. 



the book of beauty 



221 



•» My beautiful masquerader, I must leave 
you often," said he, tenderly, " if* yon are lo 
grow so much more lovely in my absence. " 

And lovely indeed did she look at that mo- 
ment. We have before remarked that the 
Oriental style of dress was peculiarly well 
adapted to the character of her face and figure, 
and the passionate flush of her cheek gave 
even more than their usual brightness to her 
radiant eyes. Aubrey deemed it was delight 
at his return, and hastened to heap before her 
the many precious gifts he had brought. 

" I did not forget my sweet friend in the 
hurry of London. Your throat is the whitest, 
dear one," said he, as he hung round her neck 
a string of precious pearls. 

Supper was now brought in, and Aubrey 
smiled to see how carefully his favourite 
dishes had been provided. 

" I am not hungry," said Rebecca, "but I 
will not talk to you now ;" and taking up her 
lute, she began to play, and sang a few simple 
notes rather than words. 

" You have been librarian, too," exclaimed 
Aubrey: "I see all my scattered volumes 
have been collected : why, what should I do 
without youl" 

"You would miss rael" and laying aside 
the lute, she came and rested her head on his 
shoulder, at the same time taking the phial 
and drinking its contents. 

"Miss you, dearest! — how wretched, how 
inexpressibly wretched should 1 be without 
you!" 

" I am glad of it !" she cried, springing 
from her kneeling and caressing attitude, and 
flinging down the phial, which broke into 
atoms. "Do you see that? its contents were 
poison, and I have drank it — drank it even in 
your very arms! I know all, De Vere — your 
false marriage, your mock priest. You thought 



it but a jest to dishonour and to destroy one 
who trusted you so fondly, so utterly. Go 

i find another to love you as I have done! You 
planned inconstancy from the first, when I 

| most believed in your love. Well, a little 
while, and you are free!" 

She fell back in a paroxysm of bodily 

! agony, and hid her face in the cushiony, but 
De Vere saw her frame writhe with torture. 

1 Suddenly she started up — " I cannot bear it — 
give me water, for the love of heaven !" 
Her exquisite features were distorted, the 

I blue veins were swollen on her forehead, and 

' her livid lips were covered with froth : again 

she dashed herself on the ground, and her 

screams, though smothered, were still audible. 

De Vere hung over her in anguish scarce 

'inferior to her own; his call for assistance 
brought the attendants, and with them the 

• physician, who had just left the chamber of 
death above. 

" It is hopeless !" said he, in answer to 

I Aubrey's frantic questions ; " no skill on earth 

| could counteract a poison so deadly, and 
taken, too, in such quantity." 

Gradually ihe convulsions became less vio- 
lent, and De Vere bore her in his arms to a 
sofa by the open window. The cool air seemed 
to soothe her, and she lay for a few moments 

: perfectly passive : the work of years had been 

; wrought upon her sunk and ghastly features. 
Slowly she raised her head, and put back the 
thick tresses that pressed upon her brow; she 
drank the wine the doctor offered, and her re- 
collection returned. 

" Aubrey," whispered she, and suffered her 
head to rest upon his bosom, " my own, my 
only love, forgive me," — but her voice failed 
as she spoke : again a frightful change passed 
over her face — De Vere held a corse in his 
arms. 



EXPERIMENTS; 

OR, THE LOVER FROM ENNUI. 



Cecil Forrester was heir to many misfor- 
tunes, being handsome, rich, high-born, and 
clever. His father said it was a shame such 
a fine fellow should be coddled — took him out 
to hunt, and gave him port wine after dinner: 
his mother said it was a pity such a sweet boy 
should be spoilt — heaped cushions on his fa- 
vourite sofa, and perfumed for him a cambric 
handkerchief with Pesprit de millejleurs. His 
father died — his mother was inconsolable for 
six months, and then married again. Cecil 
was sent to Eaton, where instead of others in- 
dulging him, he indulged himself. 

His education was finished by terms at col- 
lege and seasons in London; and his twenty- 
second year found him without a pleasure, and 
without a guinea. The next spring he lived 
on ennui and credit. He disliked trouble, be- 
cause he never took it; and he said things 



and people were tiresome and bores, till he 
firmly believed it. His feelings were never 
called forth, his talents never exercised; and 
his natural superiority only served to make 
him discontented. He saw the waste of his 
life, but he lacked motive for change. His 
early habits were those of indolence; and be- 
ing neither poor nor vain, he had no stimulus 
to alter them. He did a great many foolish 
things, regretted them, and did them over 
again. 

One day, after driving in the Park, and 
wondering why so many people drove there, 
he turned homewards to dress for a late dinner 
at the Clarendon. Giving his boy the reins, 
he resigned himself to meditation, — how un- 
pleasant it was for the pedestrians of Picca- 
dilly to hurry through the mud ! — when ha 
was interrupted by the boy's, " Sir, if yov 
t2 



222 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



please," said in a tone of self-exertion, as if 
a great deal of mental energy had been col- 
lected for its utterance ; then, in a deprecatory 
whisper, " you won't collar me and throw me 
out of the cab before I've said half, will 3-ou?" 
" No, I will not," said Cecil. 

To make our story shorter than the minia- 
ture groom's, he learnt that his own property 
in himself was in danger; and that, if the 
patriot's definition of liberty be true — " it is 
like the air we breathe, without it we die"— 
his life was near its termination. A writ was 
issued against him; and, thanks to a douceur 
to his valet, two professional gentlemen, as he 
left his toilet, would deprive his friends at the 
Clarendon of his company. 

" I wish I had spoken to my uncle sooner ; 
but, hang it! it is so unpleasant speakino-: 
I'll write." 

Forrester was j ust now in that part of Picca- 
dilly where the White Horse of our Saxon 
ancestors has degenerated from the banner of 
a sea-king to the sign of a cellar for taking 
places and parcels. Still, even as of yore, it 
hangs c- T er a most migratory multitude. " For 
Putney, ma'am'?" "For Richmond, sir'?" 
One coachman snatches up a child for Turn- 
ham Green, while another pops its mamma off 
to Camberwell. On one side, lemons are 
selling for a shilling a dozen; on the other, 
oranges for sixpence. One man blows a horn 
in your ear, and offers you the Standard ; an- 
other exerts his lungs, and shows you the 
Courier. Pencils are to be had for a penny ; 
and penknives, with from three to six blades 
each, fur eighteen pence a dozen. A fellow 
with a trunk turns its corner on your temples ; 
another deposits a box, with the grocery of a 
family— sugar, soap, candles, and all — on 
your toes. A gigantic gentleman nearly knocks 
you down in his hurry; and an elderly Jew 
slips past you so neatly, that you tumble over 
him before you are aware. Everybody is 
always too late, and therefore everybody is in 
a bustle. Two policemen keep the peace ; 
and half-a-dozen individuals, whose notions 
on the law of property are at variance with 
established principles or prejudices, attend for 
the purpose of breaking it. Add to these some 
females with shawls and sharp elbows ; and 
pattens, whose iron rings are for the benefit of 
foot-passengers. Such is the White Horse 
Cellar, and the pavement from Dover street 
to Albermale street. 

Several coaches seemed to be just setting off. 

" I will leave London at once," said ^For- 
rester. "Do you drive home — you know no- 
thing about me. You are a fine little fellow ; 
I shall not forget you." 

So saying, he threw him two or three sove- 
reigns, and got into the first coach. The boy 
took the money, drove the cabriolet to the 
stable, and ate and drank himself into a fever, 
out of which his mother had to nurse him. 

Cecil opened his eyes on the gray sea-mist 
of a Brighton morning. Summer and Brigh- 
ton ! — the vicinity was dangerous. In all pro- 
bability his tailor would be taking two-penny 
worth of pleasure on the pier ; and if, like 



John Gilpin's wife, " though on pleasure he 
was bent," he should also " have a fruga_ 
mind," and keep an eye to business, that eye 
would inevitably fall on him. However, a 
temporary stay was necessary, for all the per- 
sonal property he possessed was a handker- 
chief. Money supplies every want, and he 
had drawn the last from the banker's the day 
before. He did not mean to have stirred from 
his room, but seeing an acquaintance from the 
window, he resolved to ask him to dinner. 

He knew Ravensdale was in love, therefore 
stupid ; still, any company was better than his 
own. They dined together ; and, as a com- 
panion is generally the straw that decides an 
idle man, he set out with him that evening for 
Hastings. There Mr. Ravensdale expected 
to meet " the beauteous arbiter who held his 
fate ;" but some slight cause of delay had 
prevented, and would prevent for a short time, 
her family's arrival. Cecil quite envied the 
lover his disappointment — it so entirely occu- 
pied him. 

A week passed away while he was making 
up his mind what he should say to his uncle, 
whose heir he was, and whose kindness he 
believed would be very likely to assist him ; 
but long before the week was finished, he was 
quite convinced that Hastings was the most 
tiresome place on the whole sea-coast. Oh, la 
peine forte et dure of idleness ! Blessed is the 
banker's clerk, who on a November morning 
takes his nine-o'clock walk to business under 
a green umbrella, digesting the memory of his 
buttered roll and the anticipation of his desk 
Blessed is the fag of fashions and fancies, 
who unrolls ribands from morn till night at 
Dyde's and Scribe's ! Blessed is Mr. Martin, 
when, transgressing his own act, he urges 
along the heavy animal on which he perambu- 
lates in pursuit of an overladen donkey! 
Blessed were all these in comparison with 
Cecil Forrester, "lord of himself, that heri- 
tage of wo !" 

It was a wet morning, and he loitered at the 
breakfast-table, though he had long finished 
both meal and appetite. At length he rose, 
took two or three turns up and down the room, 
opened a book, then threw it aside : — (by-the- 
by, parents have a great deal to answer for 
who do not early give their children a taste for 
reading — novels.) He next approached the 
window, and proposed to his companion, who 
was letter-writing, to bet on the progress of 
two raindrops. Not having been heard, he 
proceeded with his cane to trace his name on 
the damp glass ; and at last, in desperation, 
exclaimed, " How devilish lucky you are, 
Ravensdale, to be in love ! Nothing like 
love letters for filling up a rainy morning. A 
mistress gives a man such an interest in him 
self! You cannot run your fingers through 
your hair, without a vision of the locke 
wherein one of your curls reposes on the 
fairest neck in the world. An east wind only 
conjures up a host of " sweet anxieties ;" and 
if the worst comes to the worst, you can sit 
down and write sonnets to your inamorata's 
eyebrow. I have made up my mind — I wil 1 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



223 



!ry and fall m love. Well, who is there 
nere ?" 
" Lady de Morne, doing- dolorous and dis- 

■usolate-— only walks in her garden; to be 
«ure, it overlooks the high-road." 

" What, a widow ! warm or cold, which 
you will, from the kiss of a dead man ! I 
should taste clay upon her lips !" 

" Miss Acton, then, the heiress — tittle et 
duke" 

" No ; she belongs to the romantic school, 
and expects you to rise in the morning- to 
bring- her violets with the dew on them ; takes 
country rambles, which would spoil my com- 
plexion ; and moonlight walks, which would 
give me cold. Charles Ellis told me that, in 
a fit of despair, occasioned by a run of ill-luck 
at ccartc, he entered into her service for three 
weeks. He, however, soon found himself 
feverish — lost his appetite — had a hectic 
cough — and the fourth week retired on a con- 
sumption. I do not feel equal to the exertion." 

" Mrs. Ellerby's two daughters." 

" Yes, and never know which is which ! I 
hate people cut out by a pattern. Besides, the 
only papers in the family are pedigrees ; and 
I am not rich enough to keep a cook, a confec- 
tioner, and a wife. Moreover, Mrs. Ellerby, 
being what is called serious, would expect my 
attentions and intentions to be as serious as 
every thing else in the house. No ; I want to 
find some unsophisticated being whose hair 
curls naturally." 

"Now, in pity spare me the description of 
that never-to-be-discovered perfection, an ideal 
mistress ! Be sure you will fall in love with 
the very opposite." 

" I don't care, so long as I could fall in 
love. But the rain is over : you will not ride, 
will you ?" 

Cecil Forrester rode along the beach by 
himself. Most earnestly did he wish that some 
of the young ladies who were sketching " that 
beautiful effect of light on the gray rocks," 
would tumble into the water. He might have 
rushed to the rescue, and so lost his heart in 
the most, approved fashion. Gradually he 
turned into the very road which he had taken 
every day, only because he had taken it first. 
There, as usual, he overtook the same respec- 
table brown coat and horse, and their no less 
respectable proprietor, whom he regularly 
encountered. A sudden shower drove them 
simultaneously under an oak. 

English people, as a foreign traveller men- 
tions in his diary, never speak, excepting in 
eases of fire or murder, unless they are intro- 
duced. The old oak did this kind office for 
the riders. 

" The country wanted rain, sir," observed 
the elderly gentleman. 

Forrester felt that his companion had vio- 
lated every rule of civilized society in thus 
addressing him ; still, he was good-natured, 
and, moreover, was tired of himself. He 
therefore replied — " And we are likely to have 
enough now." 

"Ay, ay; it never rains but it pours. I 



must say I have groat faith in Moore's Alma 
nac ; it said we should have rain a week ago." 

It is needless to detail how acquaintance 
deepened into intimacy. Silence maketh 
many friends. The old gentleman took quite 
a fancy to Cecil, pronounced him such a steady 
young man, and asked him to dinner. 

Forrester went ; his host had two daughters 
— one rather pretty and pensive, the other very 
pretty and lively. 

The next week was quite endurable as to 
length : Cecil copied verses into the eldest 
Miss Temple's album, and held some green 
silk for the younger to wind. 

The Saturday following his introduction, it 
was a beautiful moonlight evening, and Miss 
Temple was walking up and down the lawn ; 
she really looked very well, and Cecil was 
about to join her, when a light step, close be- 
side him, announced her sister. 

"'The moon is t right on Helle's «ave : 
As on that night" of stormy wa'.ei, 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The young, the beautiful, the brave.' 

Even as Love forgot the lover, I have forgot the 
poet — not a line more can I remember; but I 
would wager the purse whose green silk I am 
knitting, and which you helped me to wind, 
against its weight in green grass, that those 
very lines are in Mary's head at ibis minute." 

" Why those lines especially ?" 

" O, dear ! now, cannot you guess ?— why, 
everybody knows !" 

"But as I am not everybody, I shall nol 
know till you tell me." 

" O, but, really I shan't tell you." 

" O, but really you must !" 

" To be sure, there is not a neighbour but 
is aware that she is engaged to such an inte- 
resting young man now in Greece. But, dear, 
dear ! you must have noticed how she coloured 
up when you talked about a turban's suiting 
her style of face. And did ycu observe my 
father's laugh at dinner, tc-da} r , when he 
asked her if she liked turkey." 

" And so Miss Temple has got a lover — and 
I need not ask if you have one also." 

" Not I indeed — dear, if I had a lover one 
week, I should forget him the next !" 

Somehow or other the dialogue ended in 
one or two pretty speeches — the last things in 
the world to particularize. And Forrester went 
home quite convinced that Elizabeth was far 
the prettiest of the two, and bound by promise 
to accompany them the next night to a fancy 
ball in the neighbourhood. 

Now, a fancy ball is bad enough in London, 
where milliners are many, and where theatres 
have costumes that may be borrowed or copied; 
but in the country, where people are left to 
their own devices — truly to them may be ap- 
plied the old poet's account of murderers, 
"their fancies are all frightful." Miss Tem- 
ple, we need scarcely observe, wore a turban, 
and looked as Oriential, at least as un-English, 
as possible. Elizabeth preferred going back 
upon the taste of her grandmothers ; and w T hen 
Cecil first saw her standing in the window 



224 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



with the loose hanging sleeves of former days, 
and floating- draperies of an antique striped 
silk — her pretty arms just bare to the elbow, 
and her fair hair in half-dishevelled curls, — 
he decided, that if you are very young and 
pretty, extravagance in costume carries its 
own excuse. 

To the dance they went : the dancing was 
bad, the music worse, and instead of ice, sago 
was handed round to keep the young people 
from taking cold. Yet Cecil had passed worse 
evenings. We talk of unsophisticated nature 
— I should like to know where it is to be 
found. Elizabeth Temple's hair did curl na- 
turally—she made her own dresses — and for 
accomplishments, played on her grandmother's 
spinnet by ear, knitted purses, and took the 
housekeeping alternate weeks with her sister; 
— yet had she talents for flirtation at least 
equal to those of any young lady whose dress 
and accomplishments are the perfection of 
milliners and May Fair. Cecil was her part- 
ner the most of the evening; and, by a few 
ingenious and invidious parallels, implied not 
expressed, between him and the other cava- 
liers, — that preference of attention, the best 
of feminine flattery, — and a deference to his 
opinion, nicely blended with a self-conscious- 
ness of prettiness, Elizabeth contrived to keep 
him rather pleasantly awake. Mr. Temple's 
house lay in his way home ; and though he 
had already ate supper enough for six months, 
his friends would make him go in for another. 
On his departure, Elizabeth gave him some 
trifling commission at Hastings; and while 
she was writing it down, Forrester, with that 
universal habit of the idle, took up whatever 
happened to be near, in the laudable intention 
of twisting it to pieces. It was the little 
green silk purse, and he looked on it with a 
remembrance of the slender fingers he had 
seen employed in its making. Could he be 
mistaken ? no, he saw the letters distinctly, 
C. F. worked in light brown hair — his own 
initials ; and he now recollected that Miss 
Temple had asked him the other morning what 
was his Christian name ; on hearing which, 
she made the usual remark of young ladies in 
such cases, " Dear, what a beautiful name !" 

Elizabeth, turning round at this minute, 
saw the purse in his hand, and also which of 
the stitches had fixed his attention. Blushing 
even deeper than the occasion required, she 
said in a low but hurried voice, "I really can- 
not have my work spoilt; give me the purse, 
Mr. Forrester." 

"Never!" said Cecil, in what was for him 
a very energetic tone. 

"O, but I must and will have it !" making 
an attempt to snatch it from him — to which his 
only answer was to catch her hand and kiss it. 

"Elizabeth, my dear, Mr. Forrester must 
be tired ; do not detain him with your foolish 
poTr>/nissio T )-," said her father, who advanced, 
ana himself accompanied his guest to the hall, 
taking leave of him with a mysterious look 
of mingled cordiality and compassion. 

The young genth- lan rode home, too tired 
for any thing but S'oep; and when he arose 



the next morning, it was with a conviction 
that light brown hair was " an excellent thing 
in a woman." True, in a fit of absence, w T hile 
debating whether or not he should write to 
his uncle before he rode out, he dropped the 
purse into the fire; nevertheless his vexation 
at the incident was sufficiently flattering to its 
maker. As soon as he had decided that he 
would put off writing till the next day, he 
ordered his horse and rode to Mr. Temple's. 
In the hall he caught a flying glance of Eliza- 
beth, whose fair face was evidently much dis- 
figured with recent crying. Lord Byron 
says, 

" So sweet the tear in beauty's eye, 
Love half regrets to kiss it dry." 

Now we, on the contrary, hold that a good 
fit of crying would, for the time, spoil any 
beauty in the world. 

Cecil entered the parlour somewhat ab- 
ruptly ; Mrs. Temple was saying, " I do so 
pity the poor young man." On what account 
the "poor young man" was pitied, Forrester's 
entrance prevented his learning, for she in- 
stantly broke off her speech in great confusion. 

Mr. Temple paced up and down the room, 
as if he thought exercise a great relief to 
anger. Both received their visiter with even 
more than their usual kindness, but with ob- 
vious and painful embarrassment. Husband 
and wife interchanged looks when the topic 
of the weather was exhausted, each seemingly 
expecting the other to speak. A few minutes 
passed in silence — at length Mr. Temple 
began. 

"I am truly sorry — 

*' My dear," interrupted his wife. 

" I am sure you will be very glad — " 

" Nay," again rejoined the lady, " it is pre- 
suming too much on Mr. Forrester's kindness 
to suppose that he will take an interest in oui 
affairs." 

Mr. Forrester hastened to assure her he took 
the very warmest. 

" My daughter Elizabeth," said the old gen- 
tleman. 

" Good heavens !" thought Cecil, " he is 
not going to ask me what my intentions are! 
I am sure I can't tell him." 

" My daughter Elizabeth," — how the words 
were bolted out ! — " is going to be married." 

" My dear, how could 3^ou be so abrupt ?" 
ejaculated the lady. 

As if to give his visiter time to recover the 
shock, Mr. Temple went on rapidly, " To a 
son of a very old friend of mine — Charles 
Forsyth — you saw him last night — very fine 
young man ; he made her an offer this very 
morning, before breakfast." 

" My love, you need not be so particular." 

Forrester, who, to tell the truth, had no 
| stronger feeling on the subject than surprise — 
! perhaps a little mortification — now offered his 
| congratulations. Not being very desirous of 
j encountering the fair fabricator of the deceiv- 
| ing initials, the betrothed of Mr. Charles For- 
| syth, he took the first opportunity of making 
I his bow and his exit. 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



225 



'* Poor young man, how well he has be- 
naved !" said the mother. 

" I knew he wouldn't take it much to heart," 
answered the father. 

As Cecil passed through the hall, he heard 
Elizabeth's voice tuned to rather a petulant 
key. 

" In spite of all mamma says about feeling, 
and papa about principle, and you with your 
devoted affection to one object, I can't see the 
great harm of a little innocent flirtation — Mr. 
Forrester won't break his heart for passing an 
evening more pleasantly than he would other- 
wise have done; and if I had not flirted with 
him, Charles Forsyth, though he is the son of 
my father's old friend, would not have made 
liis offer these six months — and one cannot 
wait forever, you know." 

"Very true," muttered Cecil Forrester, as 
the hall door was closed after him. That 
evening he wrote to his uncle ; and passed the 
intermediate time in cutting his name on the 
table, and wondering what would be the reply. 
He received an answer by return of post — 
angry, and yet kind, requesting his immediate 
presence in town. He made a farewell call 
at Mr. 'Temple's — saw Elizabeth and Mr. 
Charles Forsyth in an arbour at the end of the 
garden, making love — thought they would 
soon be very tired — and bade the rest of the 
family good-by, who thought he looked pale. 
Mrs. Temple for a fortnight afterwards read 
every article headed " Interesting Suicide," 
in the newspapers; and though they were all 
" interesting," they did not interest her. Cecil 
arrived at his uncle's, who commenced the 
conversation by declaring he would cut him 
off with a shilling, and ended by paying his 
debts and making him an allowance. The 
next week saw two different announcements in 
the Morning Post — one was the marriage of 
Elizabeth Temple to Charles Forsyth, Esq. ; 
the other the departure of Mr. Cecil Forres- 
ter for Naples. 

A friend had offered to take him thither in 
his yacht, and for that reason only he had 
gone. Of course he ascended Vesuvius — vi- 
sited churches, pictures, statues, &c. ; but, 
alas! these are tastes which require cultiva- 
tion — and at present they appeared to Cecil 
in the light of duties. Not speaking the lan- 
guage of the country, he was excluded from 
all enjoyment of Italian society, and English 
he had entered an inward protest against. 
Two friends had refused to cash a draft for 
him : one because he could not, the other be- 
cause he would not — one from inability, hav- 
ing no money to spare ; the other from princi- 
ple, as he made it a rule never to lend. A 
lady, with whom he had been quite Vami de 
famille, with four pretty daughters, had ac- 
tually avoided seeing him in the park before it 
was known that his uncle intended arranging 
his affairs. Cecil was therefore persuaded 
of the heartlessness of artificial society. Still, 
he had no innocent beliefs in rural unsophis- 
tication — Elizabeth Temple had cured him of 
any such vain fancies : he retained a predilec- 
tion for the natural — only he decided that it 

Vol. II.— 29 



was not to be discovered in any civilizec 
country. He used to sit on the seashore, and 
spend the evening poring over some volumes 
of Lord Byron he had found by accident, and 
in throwing pebbles into the sea. A beautiful 
dream of a Circassian had been floating on 
his mind, when the arrival of the Dey of Al- 
giers with his harem at Naples changed his 
re very to absolute reality. 

One fine morning, a whole array of palan- 
quins, the forms within them shrouded from 
human eye, passed him on his ride — the nex 
day the same — the -third the curtains of on& 
slightly moved, a sprig of jasmine was thrown 
out, and the day following one of myrtle. 
That night Cecil read Lord Byron — the Gia- 
our and the Corsair were only interrupted by 
Lalla Rookh. He went to bed, and dreamt 
of the maids 

" Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken shades.' 

The next day he began to study Arabic, and 
to endeavour to find some means of conversing 
with this unknown Houri. To be sure, there 
were curtains, locks, bolts, bars, and cimeters ; 
still, 

" Love will find its way 
Through paths where wolves would fear to prey ; 
And if it dares enough, 'twere hard 
If passion met not some reward :" 

and Cecil succeeded in establishing an inter- 
course with this Haidee of his fancy, by 
means of a petty officer in the Dey's retinue, 
who contrived to bribe one of the slaves in 
immediate attendance on the harem, from 
whom he learnt that she was the last and 
loveliest purchase of his lord. The progress 
of love affairs is usually very rapid, and this 
was no exception to the general rule. A plan 
of escape was soon organized ; her especial 
guardian agreed to faciliate her remaining after 
dusk in the garden, which was bounded by a 
river ; a few planks would form an easy com- 
munication with the water; a boat might be 
stationed there ; and four good rowers would 
convey them in half an hour to a little villa, 
which Cecil, in a week's whim for solitude, 
had rented : once there, no trace would be left 
of their flight, and no fear remain of discovery. 
The night fixed on found them punctual to 
their appointment — so were the slave and the 
beautiful Georgian. The zeal of Sidi Mus- 
tapha, the first agent, was quite wonderful ; 
he sprang up the boards to aid the lady's de- 
scent, and would scarcely allow Cecil to give 
himself any trouble in the matter, till it was 
evident she could not get down without help 
from both. After some effort, she and her 
drapery — the quantity of which seemed enor- 
mous — were deposited in the boat. They 
arrived in silence and safety at the villa: Sidi 
and Forrester supported their prize into the 
saloon, fear seeming to have deprived her of 
the power of motion; and the Algerine has- 
tened to discharge the boatmen with all possi- 
ble caution. Every thing had been prepared ; 
the table was covered with the richest sweet- 
meats, the rarest perfumes, the most aromatic 



226 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



coffee. Cecil's impatience was now at its 
height. 

" Gulnare !" — but she replied not : — " dear 
Gulnare !" 

Suddenly he recollected that she might per- 
haps not understand Arabic — at all events, his 
Arabic. Still, till his interpreter returned, it 
would be but civil to help her off with the 
large blue veil, or mantle, which entirely co- 
vered her. Politely proffering his assistance, 
he removed her veil, and flung it on a chair 
near. 

The scream which followed this act as- 
tonished him far less than the discovery to 
which it led. The lovely Georgian was so 
fat, that it was with the greatest difficulty she 
could stand ; and an exquisitely tattooed wreath 
of hyacinths, of a fine blue, began at her chin, 
meandered over her cheeks, and covered her 
forehead. 

" O !" ejaculated Cecil, "if I had but pro- 
fited by my reading ! Why did I not sooner 
remember the traveller I studied in the days 
of my youth, who said that in the East a 
beauty was a load for a camel !" 

At this moment Mustapha re-entered the 
saloon. 

" Allah, how beautiful ! By the head of 
the prophet, she is arose — a full moon!" 

Cecil sprang forward, with the true Eng- 
lishman's impulse, to knock him down. 111- 
« timed admiration is enough to enrage a saint. 
The shrill cries of the lady, however, diverted 
his attention. 

" Unless you wish me to be deafened out- 
right, do learn the cause of her horrible cla- 
mour." 

"Your highness has taken off her veil." 

"Which, for my own sake, I shall return 
as speedily as possible." 

Without a moment's delay he restored the 
screen and quiet at the same time ; and with 
the aid of Mustapha supported the fair slave 
to a pile of crimson satin cushions, which had 
been collected for her especial use. 

" And now, in the name of the devil, what 
shall I do with her V 

Sidi seemed a little surprised at the question, 
and forthwith began a string of Arabic verses 
about this star of the morning, this pearl of the 
world, this rose of a hundred leaves, which 
the stranger was fortunate enough to possess. 
Well, to make the best of a bad bargain, and 
6hoit of a long story, he married the Georgian 
to Sidi Mustapha. 

After all, Englishmen are patriotic with 
partridges before their eyes; and this little 
adventure gave Cecil an excuse for returning 
to England before September. What is the 
reason that we find it so satisfactory to make 
excuses to ourselves — the only persons in the 
world to whom they must be altogether 
needless?" 

It was the last week in August when he 
reached the abbey, his uncle's seat. How 
advantageously did the luxurious foliage of 
• he thickly leaved woods, as yet untouched by 
one tint of autumn, and the bright green grass 
of the fields, contrast with the parched and 



sultry aspect of the southern summer he had 
left behind! It was long — in youth, every 
thing seems long — since he had felt a sensa- 
tion of pleasure so keen as he experienced 
when the tall oaks of the avenue closed over 
his head. The rooks were gathering to their 
rest, as noisily as children; but the old and 
familiar are ever soothing sounds. In the 
distance he could see the slim and mottled 
deer sauntering lazily along in the full enjoy- 
ment of security ; and the last red flush of 
evening was reflected in a large piece of water, 
which glittered through the dense branches. 

At length he arri/ed in the court, where 
half-a-dozen gray-headed serving men came 
out to meet "Master Cecil," as they persisted 
in calling him. It is very agreeable to have 
people glad to see you, even if there be no 
better reason for their joy than that they knew 
you as a child. A spaniel now put its nose 
into his hand ; but the dog's memory was 
more faithful than that of its master; for the 
visiter had some difficulty in recognising, in 
the heavy and feeble creature that claimed his 
notice, the once slight and agile partner of his 
boyish amusements. 

" My poor Dido ! can this be you 1 ?" 

" All my young mistress's care," said one 
of the servants. 

At this moment the young mistress herself 
appeared, and Cecil found that he had forgot- 
ten her as much as his dog. He had left her 
a pale, sickly, even plain child ; she had 
sprung up into a bright, blushing, and most 
lovely girl. Her flaxen hair had darkened 
into a rich chestnut; and the only trace of 
" little Edith" was in the large blue eyes, 
which remained the same. Cecil was quite 
surprised that she so instantly remembered 
him ; but five years after twenty do not make 
the difference they do before that age. 

Sir Hugh was as glad to see his nephew as 
a gentleman of the old school always is on the 
stage; and in half an hour the trio were com- 
fortably situated in the library — some dinner 
ordered for Cecil — an extra bottle of port for 
the old gentleman — and Edith, seated on a low 
stool at her father's knee, was quite delighted 
when the conversation went back to their 
childish sports, and what a pet the poor little 
delicate child used to be of her cousin's. 

The next month flew away imperceptibly. 
Cecil listened patiently to the politics of the 
Morning Post-^-for Edith read them aloud to 
her father. He also found that he could read 
at his young hostess's work-table ; then he 
was so very useful in the flower garden, which 
was especially hers ; there were, beside, visits 
to the gold and silver pheasants, long rides 
over the heath, long walks through the forest, 
and long evenings, when Sir Hugh sat by the 
fireside and slept, and Edith sung sweet old 
ballads to her harp. The result of all this was 
inevitable : had it been in a melo-drame, the 
young people could not have fallen more des- 
perately in love. Let others talk of the mise- 
ries of the tender passion, Cecil was eloquent 
on its comforts : he had never been so occupied 
or so amused before 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



221 



On the 1st of October, a bright, clear morn- 
ing-, when the few flowers that still linger on 
sunny terrace or southern nook are in all that 
glow of gorgeous colouring which so peculiarly 
belongs to autumn, the young lady of the 
abbey stepped out on the balustrade to pluck 
the last buds of the Provence rose. A few 
late geraniums and myrtles were yet beautiful 
and green; but suddenly Edith turned and 
gathered from a luxurious plant its only cluster 
of orange flowers. They suited well her array, 
for Edith was that day garbed as a bride. 
The glossy brown hair — that golden brown 
which shines on the pheasant's wing — fell in 
large curls from her white wreath, half hidden 
by the long veil; the white satin dress had no 
ornament — nota gem marred its rich simplicity. 
She leant pensively on a corner of the marble 
pilaster: for she stood now on the threshold 
of youth; she was about to put away childish 
things, to take upon her higher duties ; and 
her destiny was given — how utterly ! — into 
the hands of another. Already the shadow of 
love deepened the seriousness of that graceful 
brow\ Still, she was only leaving the home 
of her childhood for a time, not as the young 
bride often leaves that home — forever. To 
wed with Cecil was but giving Sir Hugh 
another child. 

"Come, Edith mine!" said a sweet voice 
at her side ; and the lover led her to her lather. 

In another half-hour the bells were ring-ins" 



cheerfully on the air; and during the many 
years that ihe old abbey was gladdened with 
their mutual happiness, Cecil never feltinclined 
to go to Hastings from ennui, or to Naples as 
an experiment; but found ample employment 
and content around his own home, and by hit 
own hearth. 



SONG. 

Our early years — our early years. 

Recall them not again ; 
The memory of former joy, 

The pang of former pain. 

Where is our childhood 1 Where are they, 

The playmates of the heart, 
Whose first sweet lesson was to love, 

Whose second was to part ] 

The dead are with the past ; for them 

How fruitless our despair ! 
Unkindness, anger, fondness, grief, 

Alike are buried there. 

Alas ! such thoughts can only weep 

The heart's most bitter rain; 
Our early years — our early years, 

Recall them not asain. 



AN EVENING OF LUCY ASHTON'S. 



The autumn wind swung the branches of 
the old trees in the avenue heavily to and fro, 
and howled amid the battlements — now with 
a low moan, like that of deep grief; now with 
a shrill shriek, like that of the sufferer whose 
frame is wrenched by sudden agony. Tt was 
one of those dreary gales which bring thoughts 
of shipwreck, — telling of the tall vessel, with 
her brave crew, tossed on the midnight sea, 
her masts fallen, her sails riven, her guns 
thrown overboard, and the sailors holding a 
fierce revel, to shut out the presence of Death 
riding the black waves around them ; — or of a 
desolate cottage on some lone sea-beach, a 
drifted boat on the rocks, and the bereaved 
widow weeping over the dead. 

Lucy Ashton turned shivering from the 
casement. She had watched the stars one by 
one sink beneath the heavy cloud which, pall- 
like, had spread over the sky till it quenched 
even that last and lovely one with which, in a 
moment of maiden fantasy, she had linked her 
fate. 

" For signs and for seasons are they," said 
the youthful watcher, as she closed the lat- 
tice. My light will soon be hidden, my little 
hour soon past." 

She threw herself into the arm-chair beside 
the hearth, and the lamp fell upon her beauti- 



ful but delicate face, from which the rose had 
long since departed ; the blue veins were sin- 
gularly distinct on the clear temples, and in, 
the eye was that uncertain brightness which 
owes not its lustre to health. Her pale golden 
hair was drawn up in a knot at the top of her 
small and graceful head, and the rich mass 
shone as we fancy shine the bright tresses of 
an angel. The room was large, lofty, and 
comfortless, with cornices of black carved 
oak; in the midst stood a huge purple velvet 
bed, having a heavy bunch of hearselike 
feathers at each corner; the walls were old; 
and the tapestry shook with every current of 
passing air, while the motion gave a mockery 
of life to its gaunt and faded group. The 
subject was mythological — the sacrifice of 
Niobe's children. There were the many 
shapes of death, from the young warrior to 
the laughing child ; but all struck by the same 
inexorable fate. One figure in particular 
caught Lucy's eye ; it was a youthful female, 
and she thought it resembled herself: the out- 
line of the face certainly did, though " the 
gloss had dropped from the golden hair" o*" 
the pictured sufferer. 

"And yet," murmured Lucy, "far happier 
than 1 ! The shaft which struck her in youd 
did its work at once ; but I bear the arrow ic 



228 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



my heart that destroys me not. Well, well, 
its time will come !" 

The flickering light of the enormous chim- 
ney, whose hearth was piled with turf and 
wood, now flung- its long and variable sha- 
dows round the chamber; and the figures on 
the tapestry seemed animate with strange and 
ghastly life. Lucy felt their eyes fix upon her, 
and the thought of death came cold and ter- 
rible. Ay; be resigned, be hopeful, be brave 
as we will, death is an awful thing ! The 
nailing down in that close black coffin — the 
lowering into the darksome grave^ — the damp 
mould, with its fearful dwellers, the slimy 
worm and the loathsome reptile, to be trampled 
upon you — these are the realities of dread and 
disgust ! And then to die in youth — life un- 
known, imenjoyed ; no time to satiate of its 
pleasures, to weary of its troubles, to learn its 
wretchedness — to feel that you wish to live a 
little longer — that you could be happy ! 

" And," added the miserable girl, " to know 
that he loves me — that he will kneel in the 
agony of a last despair by my grave ! But no, 
no; they say he is vowed to another — a tall, 
dark, stately beauty: — what am I, that he 
should be true to me ?" 

Sha wrung her hands, but the paroxysm 
was transitory; and fixing her eyes on the 
burning log, she sat listlessly watching the 
dancing flames that kept struggling through 
the smoke. 

" May I come in, Miss Ashton V said a 
voice at the door; and, without waiting for an 
answer, an old crone entered. She approach- 
ed the hearth, placed in a warm nook a tank- 
aid of mulled wine and a plate of spiced 
apples, drew a low and cushioned settle for- 
wards, seated herself, and whispered in a 
subdued, yet hissing tone, " I thought you 
would be lonely, so I came up for half an 
hour's chat: it is the very night for some of 
your favouri&e stories." 

Lucy started from her recumbent position, 
cast a frightened glance around, and seemed 
for the first time sensible of her companion's 
presence. 

" Ah ! is it you, Dame Alison 1 Sooth it is 
but a dreary evening, and I am glad of a com- 
panion — these old rooms are so gloomy." 

" You may well say so, for they have many 
a gYoomy memory ; the wife has wept for her 
husband, and the mother for her child ; and 
the hand of the son has been against his fa- 
ther, and that of the father against his son. 
Why, look at yonder wainscot ; see you no 
dark stains there 1 ? In this very room — " 

" Not of this room ; tell me nothing of this 
room," half screamed the girl, as she turned 
from the direction in which the nurse pointed. 
" I sleep here ; I should see it every night: — 
tell me of something far, far away." 

" Well, well, dear ; it is only to amuse 
you. It shall not be of this room, nor of this 
house, nor even, or this country ; will that 
please you ?" 

Lucy gave a slight inclination of the head, 
and again fixed her gaze steadily on the bright 
and sparkling fire; meantime the old woman 



took a deep draught from the tankaid, dis« 
posed herself comfortably :n her seat, and 
began her story in that harsh and hissing 
voice which, rivets the hearing whereon it yet 
grates. 

THE OLD WOMAN'S STORY. 

" Many, many years ago there was a fair 
peasant — so fair, that from her childhood all 
her friends prophesied it could lead to no good. 
When she came to sixteen, the Count Ludolf 
thought it was a pity such beauty should he 
wasted, and therefore took possession of it : 
better than the lovely should pine in a castle 
than flourish in a cottage. Her mother died 
broken-hearted ; and her father left the neigh- 
bourhood, with a curse on the disobedient girl 
who had brought desolation to his hearth, and 
shame to his old age. It needs little to tell 
that such a passion grew cold — it were a long 
tale that accounted for the fancies of a young, 
rich, and reckless cavalier ; and, after all, 
nothing changes so soon as love." 

" Love !" murmured Lucy, in a low voice, 
as if unconscious of the interruption : " Love, 
which is our fate, like Fate must be immu- 
table : how can the heart forget its young 
religion ?" 

" Many," pursued the sibyl, " can forget, 
and do and will forget. As for the count, hi 3 
heart was cruel with prosperity, and selfish 
with good fortune ; he had never known sick 
ness which softens — sorrow which brings all 
to its own level — poverty which, however it 
may at last harden the heart, at first teaches us 
our helplessness. What was it to him that 
Bertha had left the home which could never 
receive her again ? What, that for his sake 
she had submitted to the appearance of dis- 
grace which was not in reality hers ? — for the 
peasant girl was proud as the baron; and 
when she stept over her father's threshold, it 
was as his wife. 

" Well, well, he wearied, as men ever 
weary of woman's complaining, however bitter 
may be the injury which has wrung reproach 
from the unwilling lip. Many a sad hour did 
she spend weeping in the lonely tower, which 
had once seemed to her like a palace ; for then 
the radiance of love was around it — and love, 
forsooth, is something like the fairies in our 
own land ; for a time it can make all that is 
base and worthless seem most glittering and 
precious. Once, every night brought the 
ringing horn and eager step of the noble 
hunter ; now the nights passed away too often 
in dreary and unbroken splendour. Yet the 
shining steel of the shield in the hall, and the 
fair current of the mountain spring, showed 
her that her face was lovely as ever. 

" One evening he came to visit her, and his 
manner was soft and his voice w r as low, as in 
the days of old. Alas ! of late she had been 
accustomed to the unkind look and the harsh 
word. 

" ' It is a lovely twilight, my Bertha,' said 
he ; ' help me to unmoor our little bark, and 
we will sail down the river.' " 

" With a light step, and yet lighter heart, 
she descended the rocky stairs, and reached 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



229 



the boat before her companion. The white 
sail was soon spread ; they sprang in ; and the 
sliglu vessel went rapidly through the stream. 
At first the waves were crimson, as if freighted 
with rubies, the last love-gifts of the dying 
sun — for they were sailing on direct to the 
west, which was one flush, like a sea of blush- 
ing wine. Gradually the tints became paler ; 
shades of soft pink just tinged the far-off 
clouds, and a delicate lilac fell on the waters. 
A star or two shone pure and bright in the 
sky, and the only shadows were flung by a 
few wild rose trees that sprung from the clefts 
of the rocks. By degrees the drooping flowers 
disappeared ; the stream grew narrower, and 
the sky became darker; a few soft clouds soon 
gathered into a storm : but Bertha heeded 
them not; she was too earnestly engaged in 
entreating her husband that he would acknow- 
ledge their secret marriage. She spoke of the 
dreary solitude to which she was condemned ; 
of her wasted youth, worn by the fever of con- 
tinual anxiety. Suddenly she stopped in fear 
— it was so gloomy around ; the steep banks 
nearly closed overhead, and the boughs of the 
old pines which stood in some of the tempest- 
cleft hollows met in the air, and cast a dark- 
ness like that of night upon the rapid waters, 
which hurried on as if they distrusted their 
gloomy passage. 

At this moment Bertha's eye caught the 
ghastly paleness of her husband's face, terribly 
distinct : she thought that he feared the rough 
torrent, and for her sake ; tenderly she leant 
towards him — his arm grasped her waist, but 
not in love ; he seized the wretched girl and 
flung her overboard, with the very name of 
God upon her lips, and appealing, too, for his 
sake ! Twice her bright head — Bertha had 
ever gloried in her sunny curls, which now fell 
in wild profusion on her shoulders — twice did 
it emerge from the wave ; her faint hands were 
spread abroad for help ; he shrunk from the 
last glare of her despairing eyes ; then a low 
moan ; a few bubbles of foam rose on the 
stream ; and all was still — but it was the still- 
ness of death. An instant after, the thunder- 
cloud burst above, the peal .reverberated from 
cliff to cliff, the lightning clave the black 
depths of the stream, the billows rose in tu- 
multuous eddies ; but Count Ludolf 's boat 
cut its way through, and the vessel arrived at 
the open river. No trace was there of storm ; 
the dewy wild flowers filled the air with their 
fragrance ; and the moon shone over them 
pure and clear, as if her light had no sympa- 
thy with human sorrow, and shuddered not at 
.mman crime. And why should she 1 We 
might judge her by ourselves ; what care we 
for crime in which we are not involved, and 
for suffering in which we have no part 1 

" The red Avine-cup was drained deep and 
long in Count Ludolf s castle that night ; and 
soon after, its master travelled afar into other 
lands — there was not pleasure enough for him 
at home. He found that bright eyes could 
gladden even the ruins of Rome — but Venice 
became his chosen city. It was as if revelry 
delighted in the contrast which the dark robe, 
Vol. II. 



the gloomy canal, and the death-black gondola, 
offered to the orgies which made joyous hei 
midnights." 

"And did he feel no remorse?" asked 
Lucy. 

"Remorse!" said the crone, with a scorn 
ful laugh ; "remorse is the word for a child, 
or for a fool — the unpunished crime is never 
regretted. We weep over the consequence, not 
over the fault. Count Ludolf soon found 
another love. This time his passion was 
kindled by a picture, but one of a most strange 
and thrilling beauty — a portrait, the only un- 
faded one in a deserted palace situate in the 
eastern lagune. Day after day he went to 
gaze on the exquisite face and the large black 
eyes, till they seemed to answer to his own. 
But the festival of San Marco was no time for 
idle fantasies ; and the count was among the 
gayest of the revellers. Amid the many 
masks which he followed, was one that finally 
riveted his attention. Her light step seemed 
scarcely to touch the ground, and every now 
and then a dark curl or two of raven softness 
escaped the veil ; at last the mask itself slipped 
aside, and he saw the countenance of his beau- 
tiful incognita. He addressed her ; and her 
answers, if brief, were at least encouraging ; 
he followed her to a gondola, which they 
entered together. It stopped at the steps of 
the palace he had supposed deserted. 

" 'Will you come with me ?' said she, in 
a voice whose melancholy was as the lute 
when the night-wind wakens its music; and 
as she stood by the sculptured lions which 
kept the entrance, the moonlight fell on her 
lovely face — lovely as if Titian had painted it. 

" ' Coulcl you doubt ?' said Ludolf, as he 
caught the extended hand ; ' neither heaven 
nor hell should keep me from your side !' 

" And here I cannot choose but laugh at the 
exaggerated phrases of lovers : why, a stone 
wall or a steel chain might have kept him 
away at that very moment ! They passed 
through many a gloomy room, dimly seen in 
the moonshine, till they came to the picture- 
gallery, which was splendidly illuminated — 
and, strange contrast to its usual desolation, 
there was spread a magnificent banquet. The 
waxen tapers burned in their golden candle- 
sticks, the lamps were fed with perfumed oil, 
and many a crystal vase was filled with rare 
flowers, till the atmosphere was heavy with 
fragrance. Piled up, in mother-of-pearl bas- 
kets, the purple grapes had yet the morning 
dew upon them ; and the carved pine reared 
its emerald crest beside peaches, like topazes 
in a sunset. The count and the lady seated 
themselves on a crimson ottoman; one white 
arm, leant negligently, contrasted with the 
warm colour of the velvet ; but extending the 
other towards the table, she took a glass ; at 
her sign the count filled it with wine. 

" ' Will you pledge me V said she, touchino 
the cup with her lips, and passing it to him. 
He drank it — for wine and air seemed alike 
freighted with the odour of her sigh. 

" ' My beauty !' exclaimed Ludolf, detain 
ing the ivory hand. 



230 



MISS LANDON'S WORKS. 



"'Nay, count,' returned the stranger, in 
what sweet and peculiar voice, more like music 
than language — ' I know how lightly you hold 
the lover's vow !' 

" 'I never loved till now !' exclaimed -he, 
impatiently ; ' name, rank, fortune, life, soul, 
are your own.' 

" She drew a ring from her hand, and placed 
it on his, leaving hers in his clasp. ' What 
will you give me in exchange, — this ?' — and 
she took the diamond cross of an order which 
he wore. 

" ' Ay, and by my knightly faith will I, and 
redeem it at your pleasure.' 

" It was her hand which now grasped his ; 
a change passed over her face : ' I thank you, 
my sister-in-death, for your likeness,' said she, 
in an altered voice, turning to where the port- 
rait had hung. For the first time, the count 
observed that the frame was empty. Her 
grasp tightened upon him — it was the bony 
hand of a skeleton. The beauty vanished ; 
the face grew a familiar one — it was that of 
Bertha! The floor became unstable, like 
water; he felt himself sinking rapidly ; again 
he rose to the surface — he knew the gloomy 
pine trees overhead ; the grasp on his hand 
loosened ; he saw the fair head of Bertha gasp 
in its death-agony amid the waters : the blue 
eyes met his ; the stream flung her towards 
him ; her arms closed round his neck with a 
deadly weight; down they sank beneath the 
dark river together — and to eternity." 



THE LAST OF THE ST. AUBYNS. 

And here they met: — where should Love's 

meeting be — 
Love passionate, and spiritual, and deep — 
"Where, but in such a haunted solitude — 
A green and natural temple — fitting shrine 
For vows the stars remember ? Much the 

heart 
Is govern'd by such outward impulses. 
The love whose birth has been in lighted halls, 
That lives on festival and flattery, 
Like them is vain and selfish ; but the love 
"Whose voice has caught from twilight winds 

their tone, 
And gazed alternately on the deep blue 
Of heaven, and that in one dear maiden's 

eyes, 
Is e'en as those divinities of old, 
Whose beauty was a dream of early flowers, 
Of lonely fountains, and of summer nights — 
Poetry and religion blent in one. 

In a fair garden did these lovers meet; 
The elm made leafy arches overhead, 
And every sudden breeze that moved the 

boughs 
Flung down a shower of gold, the alchemy 
Of shining June, whose sunlight fill'd the air. 
Luxuriant as a vine, the honeysuckle 
Grew, till the foliage almost hid the flowers, 
Whose breath betray'd them. There the sun- 
flower stood, 



The golden cornfield of the bee, whose wings 
Sounded like waters near — a lulling sound, 
Soft as the nurse's chant of some old rhyme 
Seems to the weary child ; and by its side 
The white althea grew, whose slender sprays 
Are strung with seed-pearl. Up climb'd the 

sweet pea, 
The butterfly of flowers : — I love it not, 
Though every hue — and it has many tints — 
Are dyed as if the sunset evening clouds 
Had fallen to the earth in sudden rain, 
And left their colours : purple, delicate pink, 
And snowy white, are on thy winglike leaves ; 
But thou art all too forward in thy bloom; 
Thy blossoms are the sun's, and cling to all 
That can support them into open day : 
And then they .die, leaving no root behind. 
The hope and promise of another spring ; 
And no perfume, whose lingering gratitude 
Remains round what upheld its summer's life 
Beautiful parasite ! thou who dost win 
A place with the fair flattery of thy flowers, 
Whose death has naught of memory or of 

hope, 
How many likenesses there are for thee 
'Mid the false loves and friendships of this 

world ! 
Beyond the wooded park spread, where the 

deer 
Slept, 'neath old trees ; and on a glittering 

lake — 
The willows grew around it — was the home 
Of stately swans. The lady of my tale 
Was of an ancient ancestry, and woo'd, 
Half for her wealth and half for her sweet self, 
By the land's chivalry ; but him she loved 
Was not of her degree. Ah ! what cares Love 
For all the poor distinctions wherewith pomp 
Invests its nothingness ? And still he hath 
Scutcheon and herald in the beating heart. 
They loved — they parted ; he to win a 

name 
'Mid the red wars. Great Heaven ! what vain 

beliefs 
Have stirr'd the pulse and led the hopes of 

man! 
As if that honour could be bought by blood, 
And that the fierce right hand was better 

worth 
Than the fine mind, and high and generous 

heart ! — 
Blame not the lovers — 'twas their age's fault, 
And even that I were full loath to blame. 
Perchance our own, which now, quicksighted, 

sees 
The many faults and follies of the past, 
Has a successor in the wheel of time 
To which our errors will be just as clear. 

'Twas pity that they parted. But one week, 
And the stern father died ; none save his 

child— 
'Twas a child's duty, and she wept for him — ■ 
Sorrow'd above the harsh and cold one's 

grave : 
A monument was all his memory. 
The gentle lady was now free to choose, 
And faithfully she kept to her first love. 
The suitor was denied ; and festivals 
Were only graced in quiet courtesy 



THE BOOK OF BEAUTY. 



,31 



By her aweet presence : but the peasant's hut, 
Where want or suffering came, there her low 

voice 
And fairy footstep were familiar things. 
Her lute was a companion, and the wind 
Caught music from her melancholy song ; 
And often, in the garden where they met, 
She read those old and lovelorn histories 
Which, with the poet's aid, wake pleasant 

tears — 
For unreal sorrow is the luxury 
Of youth and hope. 'Twas in this happy 

, time 
The artist took his likeness of her face. 
'Tis a sweet picture. 'Mid the parted locks 
The brow is white and open — it confides 
On the fair future which it dreams ; the hair 
Has sunshine on it ; silken rope and gem 
Are such as suit a lady in the land ; 
A chain hangs from her arm, which might 

have paid 
The ransom of an eastern emir, won 
By some bold ancestor : but in her eyes, 
Her deep, her blue, her melancholy eyes, 
Sorrow doth dimly prophesy itself. 
Nature and Fortune have no unity — 
Or one so young, so good, so kind, so true, * 
Should have been happy. All too soon the 

scroll 
Came o'er the sea which told her lover's fate : 
He fell in battle, as so many fall, 
Unknown, unnamed — his energies, his hopes, 
His bold aspirings, and his proud resolves, 
Alike in vain. She faded from that hour. 
Quiet and voiceless in her grief, 'twas like 
A bird that perishes, the cause unknown ; — 
We see the plumage fade, the bright crest 

droop, 



But reck not of the secret wound within. 
No more they saw hjr, at the evening hour, 
Along the terrace wandering 'mid the flowers, 
The fair exotic favourites shelter'd there ; 
No more her steps rejoiced the aged ear, 
And made the music of the lonely hearth ; 
And soon closed windows, shutting out the 

day, 
Told there was death within that ancien 

house. 
She died with one last wish upon her lips : 
It was accomplish'd. Never more the vault 
Where her forefathers slept received its dead ; 
For she, the last of that old line, slept not 
Within the sculptured chapel of her race. 
They buried her beneath the glad green earth ; 
The sunshine, like a blessing, falling round, 
And kissing off the tears which night had 

wept. 
Those stately walls are levell'd with the 

ground ; 
The yellow corn waves o'er them ; that fair 

park 
Is cover'd now with cottages and fields. 
But in a lonely nook of forest land 
Her grave remains : mere is a mound of 



A broken cross, gray and with moss o'er- 

grown ; 
A little open space is fill'd with flowers — 
Wilding ones, growing amid furze and fern ; 
And brook runs through, which, like a natural 

hymn, 
Sings to the dead : then close the forest trees 
In many and impenetrable brakes. 
Few find the path which winds around the 

tomb 
W T here sleeps the last and loveliest of her line. 



THE END 



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